CD review: White Rabbits - "Fort Nightly"

New York's White Rabbits sprinkle an awful lot of "oohs" and "aahs" onto the debut LP Fort Nightly. But the six-piece indie act escapes the flak of status-quo pop branding with forays into unstoppable gypsy beats, implications of violence that lurk behind irresistible melodies, smatterings of Afro-pop uplift and an overall knack for writing a frighteningly catchy song. White Rabbits tap into a surprisingly minimalist (there are six guys in the band!) sound that seamlessly floats from spooky to sprightly, most evidently on "While We Go Dancing." The standout opens with a creepy piano tinker, dogged drums, a menacing bassline and a vocalist conjuring his best trembling Jeff Buckley croon. But all that moodiness gets discarded by the chorus - a bona fide dance-inducer that would raise hell at an early '90s Brit pop party. These 11 tracks aren't grandiose spiritual messages beckoning reflections on the meaning of life, but are more about busting a proper hook and coaxing listeners to, forgive me, bust a move. The vibrantly festive "Kid On My Shoulders," peppered with handclaps and pissed-off shouts, winds into a maniacal Man Man singalong in its theatrical finish, an infinite chorus of "We held our tongues throughout it/one day we'll laugh about it." Relentless beats and harmonies continue on "The Plot," which unravels into the resigned lament "But I'm so whoaaooaoaoaoo," and "Navy Wives" and "I Used To Complain Now I Don't," which channel the Afro-pop so in vogue these days (read: Vampire Weekend) with tropical island tribal beats, ska guitar strums and percussive piano accents. Fuck a Disney movie. Following White Rabbits can lead to a merry musical wonderland.

Word abuse: piercing wail

Oh, the "piercing wail" of rock singers, from Karen O of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs to Dolores O' Riordan of the Cranberries. Music writers love to rely on this old standby to relay enchantment with a lingering shriek that's supposedly so strong and compelling, it punctures our ears into bloody oblivion when we hear it. "An intense, piercing wail that soars emotively or shifts, at note's end, to a keen yelp." Let's not get melodramatic, shall we? "His voice ranged from a low, growly monotone to a pained, piercing wail." It. Just. Hurts. So. God. Damn. Much. "Voice swings from piercing wail to brow-furrowing growl." Ow. "Jim James of Kentucky's My Morning Jacket uncorked his trademark piercing wail" as this music writer uncorked his trademark lazy description of James' voice. "A piercing wail that would make Roger Daltrey drop a deuce." Actually, that's pretty funny. Lesson learned? Not yet? Maybe a visual explanation would work better.

This is your music article.

This is your music article on "piercing wail."

Any questions?

Heaven isn't too far away: Primus opening for Radiohead?

Behold a fleshed out Outside Lands lineup, August 22 through 24, yup: The Good: Radiohead, Primus, Beck, Wilco, Dredg, Cold War Kids, Broken Social Scene, Lyrics Born, Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings, M. Ward, The Cool Kids, Two Gallants, Black Mountain, The Coup, Bon Iver The Bad: Jack Johnson The Hippie: Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Ben Harper, Manu Chao, Donavon "Who the hell's this guy?" Frankenreiter, Widespread Panic, Rodrigo Y Gabriela, Steve Winwood, Cafe Tacvba, Regina Spektor, Devendra Banhart, Andrew Bird, Steel Pulse, Galactic's Crescent City Soul Krewe, Drive By Truckers, Alo, Matt Nathanson, Little Brother, Grace Potter & the Nocturnals, The Mother Hips, Sidestepper, Nellie McKay, Goapele, Ivan Neville's Dumpstaphunk, Sean Hayes, The Felice Brothers, Rupa & The April Fishes, Back Door Slam, K'Naan Kinda added a whole buncha nothin' if you ask me - 'cept for Primus etc. No telling which bands play which days, but it's not like that matters because you can't buy single-day tickets anyway. Another Planet Entertainment: Clever little bastards, aren't they - lumping all those bands on the back of Radiohead. Like a West Coast Bonnaroo Birkenstock bonanza with a bit of brilliance thrown in. And what's up with the ticket price, previously announced as $199 on Ticketmaster and now $225? I reiterate: This ain't Coachella.

Word abuse: visceral

Visceral: Yet another fatigued term infecting music writing that's intended to exaggerate how intense a band sounds. "A gutsy, visceral love song." Wow. Listen to this one and your spleen will twinge in ecstasy. "Play a visceral brand of alternative rock." Ooh. So deep, so deep. Sign me up. "Her penchant for visceral music." "An unyielding, visceral roar of passion." "Fits of visceral tension." "Pure visceral punk rock excitement!" C'mon folks - let's give our insides a break and think of another means to convey a song's ferocity. So unless your large intestine begins to uncoil whenever you hear Kurt Cobain's "piercing wail" (see "Word abuse" March 27 entry), please proceed with caution. Thank you. Thank you so goddamn much.

...And justice for all ... independent record stores

Record Store Day. And I thought the holiday people had thought of everything by now. Independent brick and mortar music retailers came up with this one in the wake of digital everything but the kitchen sink. (Conspiracy theory # 1: The plan was hatched in cahoots with exhausted record company execs trying to not go the way of school teachers in California.) Poor economy. So on April 19, all us music fanatics are supposed to scamper down to our favorite local record store to celebrate "the culture and unique place that they occupy both in their local communities and nationally." Ummmm. OK. And none other than Metallica will honor this special day with an "exclusive" signing at Rasputin's in Mountain View. Mountain View? Why Mountain View? Kinda random that they opted to travel to a town in the nucleus of suburbia that, to my knowledge, they have nothing to do with rather than, say, something closer to their East Bay roots. (Conspiracy theory #2: Could Metallica be ... dredging up the muck of the Napster feud with a dig to the digimusic industry aimed square at the genitals of Silicon Valley? But back to Record Store Day - that k'ching you hear upon first learning of this jubilant event? Aint nothin' but the sweet sound of Hallmark a' calling.

"Happy Record Store Day, slacker best friend!

Here's wishing for even more time to waste hanging out at Amoeba, where we disillusion ourselves into thinking our penchant for obscure klezmer art punk rap somehow makes us cooler than others who are actually contributing something valuable to this world.

Love,

pretentious music snob”

What in the world? Outside Lands Fest tix $199!

So Radiohead's inclusion in the Outside Lands Festival, the San Francisco megaconcert happening August 22-24 at Sharon Meadow in Golden Gate Park, makes my attendance nonnegotiable, nevermind the involvement of decaf rock 'n' roll surfers or Tom Petty. But $199 for tix? This aint Coachella, kids. I best be seein' some primetime lineup additions before I spoon over half my rent for a three day concert that'll only be cool for two hours; or at least have the option to buy a single day ticket. Look out for this great mystery to be solved come March 30 when tix go on sale. And betcha $1,000 that Underworld will make an appearance.

Word abuse: lush

Music writers, repeat after me: I will not use lush to describe sumptuous abundance. I will not use lush to describe sumptuous abundance. I will not use lush to describe sumptuous abundance. Now continue this mantra until it soaks into the cobwebbed crevices of your brain and your underworked cerebellum rouses from its comatose slumber. Seriously: Unless you're referring to four '90s Brit shoegazers or a stinking drunk B-side player, you need to bury the word "lush" in a time capsule, dig a hole 7 feet under and let this overused adjective hibernate for a good coupla decades. This one-syllable cliche has invariably become the go-to word for lazy scribes to suggest the fullness of a band's sound. I conducted a highly scientific study of modern music magazines published in the United States and found that "lush" makes an appearance in 7 out of 10 album reviews. Ouch. Really - a plethora of alternatives will spice up your writing, and Thesaurus.com conveniently offers innumerable ways to avoid this victim of vocabulary apathy.

Show review: Worker Bee @ a warehouse in Oakland 3/7/08

"Say it aint so, Joe." Friday night at 10:30 I got the call. "Worker Bee's playing this warehouse party in Oakland. Hurry, I think they're gonna start soon." How do I love a Worker Bee show; let me count the ways. I'm there. So I bolted from my Inner Sunset sanctuary in San Francisco and rushed across the Bay Bridge in record time. I strolled into the festivities to the sight of kooks, everywhere: artsy people, stripe-attired hipster people, hairy, hairy flower children people, enthusiastic bohemian girl people salsa dancing with enthusiastic gay boy people; and a whole shitload of drunk people. Apparently this happening sprang from the Murmur celebration, the openings of Oakland art galleries on first Fridays of the month. And the band serenading my arrival wasn't Worker Bee, but a Latin-tinged gypsy band that seemed the true hodgepodge - both extremely diverse in age and nationality. After a bit of beer and lot of gawking, I sought the comfort of the great outdoors as my excitement built for the beloved San Jose foursome I came to see. The guys in the band, some drinking and otherwise just hanging out, seemed to be waiting for their set, too. And await we did. As I stood on 24th Street partaking in those fresh Oakland street smells, some performance art guy served up a reputedly mesmerizing set in the warehouse. And more time passed as a Heart cover band convinced most of the art party lushes that heaven was indeed adorned in spilled potato chip bowls, empty beer bottles and the holiest of holy hymns, "Barracuda." Turns out I showed up two hours early, with Worker Bee setting up around 1 a.m. By this time, most party-goers filed out front to cap the raucous Heartfest with a cigarette-soaked lungkillingfest. Worker Bee launched into their first song, sounded good, to a sparse frontage of faces in a room once overflowing with bodies. Weird, what happened next. Maybe it was bad juju, or a full moon clouding the night. During Worker Bee's second song, guitarist/vocalist Evan sounded, um, off, with other members smiling at him and signaling that he was in the wrong fret. At this point, they stopped and then restarted the song. Then some really tall drunk (high?) guy in the audience went all bull-in-China-shop and fell back-first into a glass table, unbroken but scarred. And the band played on, but then Evan's guitar cord frustratingly unplugged and he rushed to reconnect it. The show didn't go on for much longer. Soon Evan abruptly disconnected his guitar and walked into the bedroom next to the "stage" area where band equipment cases were housed. Thinking Evan was simply going to change his guitar, I waited, hearing the clicks of the guitar case latches from the next room. But out came Evan empty handed, continuing to put away his gear as other band members stood surprised. Show over. Flabbergasted, I tried to focus on anything but the awkward stage area. I've heard of shows ending prematurely because of riots or manic singer tantrums, but I've never personally been to concert that ended so suddenly. Despite the trek across the Bay and the long wait, I wasn't about to complain about a free show - but it was disappointing. I hate to see something overcome the spirit of a good band. There's a smidgen of selfishness in wanting to hear more songs from a band that clearly isn't enjoying the show. I never want fakery, though - better to burn out than fade away? No matter what the reason, it's disheartening to see people you have faith in give up. And I'm sure there's more to the story than what I saw from an audience perspective. Maybe it was just bad juju. Here's hoping for a smoother set next go 'round.

Well what do you know? 'Nevermind' cover baby's all growns up

To continue this week's Nirvana theme and, ya know, the inevitable tradition of human bodies following through with the life cycle, PopPhoto.com recently spotlighted a shot of L.A. high schooler Spencer Elden a.k.a. the naked baby swimming on the cover of Nirvana's 1991 opus "Nevermind." Ummm - does anyone really care what that kid looks like now? Then nevermind. Just be glad some ambitious photog refrained from attempting a modern day "reimagining" with the same cast of character(s). No offense, Spence.

Film review: "Kurt Cobain: About a Son"

"Corn on the cops! Corn on the cops! The cops are coming! They're going to kill you!" An eight-year-old towhead boy, underweight and exploding with energy as only a future Ritalin candidate could, scampered about the bland streets of Aberdeen, Wash., heaving soda cans full of rocks at patrolling police cars. Typical suburban kid in search of alleviating a little boredom, really, but not an image one would readily associate with a man included on those cheesy Forever 27 posters of rock ‘n’ roll stars who died in their prime. Ooh, it makes you wonder: Jimi Hendrix’s first whimsical life experience coming not with lysergic acid diethylamide but with the tooth fairy, or a young Jim Morrison looking to Winnie the Pooh as an early literary guide rather than William Blake. Just imagine, rock icons as people, too. We learn a lot about Kurt Cobain in the 2007 documentary “Kurt Cobain: About A Son,” where St. Kurt, suicide poster child reigning atop his pedestal of "changing music for eternity" is placed back within the realm of humanity through words spoken by Kurt, himself. The film pairs audio interviews conducted over 25 hours with journalist Michael Azerrad, who wrote Nirvana biography “Come As You Are,” with modern footage of spots Kurt frequented in his abbreviated lifetime - homes, hangouts and workplaces in Aberdeen, Olympia and Seattle: the road he traversed to reach his house; the view of Lake Washington from his kitchen; the bridge he purportedly slept under during a stint of homelessness; and in the background, the bands that shaped his own musical vision. We discover that the perennially pissed off junkie who lamented his own success was also surprisingly humorous, abnormally sensitive and saddled with traumatic childhood memories that haunted him until April 5, 1994, when he pointed a shotgun into his mouth and pulled the trigger. Kurt’s words mostly overshadow the film's visuals; unlabeled, seemingly random buildings, roads and people tend to fade into the background, which is fortunate especially when confronted with cheesy portraits of "the common man" whose facial imperfections are intended to be moving in their utter humanity but instead seem more of an awkward distraction. The film features moments as powerful and as overwhelming as the music Kurt created. In one of the most striking quotes, he declares his personal life "nobody's goddamn business. Fuck them. They don't need to know everything about me." Yet gaining insight into his personal life is the whole point of the book he authorized, and also the crux of this movie. It all helps the equation make sense - how someone who's supposed to have everything (and we all know millions of dollars and a complete lack of privacy is everything) could murder himself. Not too many know about Kurt's affinity for turtles. The thick shells covering their spines, which some think to be protective barriers, are actually so delicate so as to make them more vulnerable to harm.

Worker Bee buzzz

Just as the woolly mammoth roamed vast tundra in the good ol' days, ages have passed since Worker Bee a.k.a. "the San Jose Fab Four" posted new material on their Myspace page. Or maybe I'm just impatient. But "Looking Good"(do not insert "the band is looking good" joke-on-the-cob here) is now available for all Internet users to enjoy. So brew some Kambutcha, close your eyes and open your ears. And say thank you.

It's true - goths really do love White Denim

Sandwiched between two bands dedicated to all things funereal - one local, goth noisebodies dressed in black and big-show jitters; the other, hyped shoegazers from New York - White Denim took to the stage of the Bottom of the Hill on February 29 as some sort of anti-death entity; a life giver among ulti-depressants; an anti-depressant, if you will. Oh, I will. For a garage band that rocks the '60s hard soul - and whose mustachioed guitarist/vocalist James Petralli is prone to wah wah faces as he plays - it didn't take long for the Austin, Texas, trio to pull every black wearer, whose makeup, outfits and hairstyles entailed every bit of an art project, under their spell. In fact, White Denim's second-slot set just about stole the show from headliners Holy Fuck - no shit. The bare bones guitar-bass-drums instrumentation and catchy but gritty sound - kinda like the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion - may not break new ground. But White Denim boasts seeds of true rock 'n' roll spirit and a commanding live presence that breathes life into listeners. By the second song, the crowd was shouting "You got soul!" Songs unfurl in screaming punk energy, the soul-infused vocals strong and tending to linger, and the overall sound touched with just enough chaotic experimention (Petralli worked the fretboard in seemingly random ways at times) to fall into the indie realm rather than the spectrum of really impressive bar bands. With an egalitarian, working class air about them -the three guys constantly aimed the audience's eyes to the often overlooked bass player - and their funky post-punk taste of songs, White Denim also recall '80s SoCal pioneers The Minutemen. And now the band whose members so readily recognize one another are receiving oodles of outside attention, already creating quite the stir in their hometown and, having just completed their first ever stop in California, are ready to move on to other places. Many places. - peep these upcoming tour dates:

Mar 6 2008 8:00P	Terminal 5	New York, New York
Mar 12 2008 1:00P	SXSW	Austin, Texas
Mar 13 2008 1:00P	SXSW	Austin, Texas
Mar 14 2008 1:00P	SXSW	Austin, Texas
Mar 15 2008 1:00P	SXSW	Austin, Texas
Apr 1 2008 8:00P	The Buffalo Bar (Artrocker)	London
Apr 2 2008 8:00P	Scruffy Bird @ The Pleasure Unit	London
Apr 3 2008 8:00P	Dirty Boots @ Bloomsbury Bowling	London
Apr 4 2008 8:00P	The Barfly	London
Apr 7 2008 8:00P	La Maroquinerie	Paris
Apr 10 2008 8:00P	First Avenue	Minneapolis, Minnesota
Apr 11 2008 8:00P	Metro / Smart Bar	Chicago, Illinois
Apr 14 2008 8:00P	Opera House	Toronto, Ontario
Apr 15 2008 8:00P	Cabaret Music Hall	Montreal, Quebec
Apr 16 2008 8:00P	Higher Ground	South Burlington, Vermont
Apr 17 2008 8:00P	Paradise Rock Club	Boston, Massachusetts
Apr 18 2008 8:00P	Fillmore @ Irving Plaza	New York, New York
Apr 19 2008 8:00P	Music Hall of Williamsburg	Brooklyn, New York
Apr 22 2008 8:00P	First Unitarian Church	Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Apr 23 2008 8:00P	9:30 Club	Washington DC, Washington DC
Apr 24 2008 8:00P	Local 506	Chapel Hill, North Carolina
Apr 25 2008 8:00P	The Earl	Atlanta, Georgia
Apr 26 2008 8:00P	Cafe Eleven	St. Augustine, Florida
Apr 28 2008 8:00P	The Social	Orlando, Florida
Apr 29 2008 8:00P	Common Grounds	Gainsville, Florida
Apr 30 2008 8:00P	Bottletree	Birmingham, Alabama
May 2 2008 8:00P	Antones	AUSTIN, Texas
May 3 2008 8:00P	Hailey’s	Denton, Texas
May 6 2008 8:00P	Club Congress	Tucson, Arizona
May 7 2008 8:00P	The Casbah	San Diego, California
May 8 2008 8:00P	Troubadour	Los Angeles, California
May 9 2008 8:00P	Troubadour	Los Angeles, California
May 10 2008 8:00P	The Fillmore	San Francisco, California
May 12 2008 8:00P	WOW Hall	Eugene, Oregon
May 13 2008 8:00P	Richards on Richards	Vancouver, British Columbia
May 14 2008 8:00P	Showbox	Seattle, Washington
May 16 2008 8:00P	In The Venue	Salt Lake City, Utah
May 17 2008 8:00P	Bluebird	Denver, Colorado

May 10, woot.

CD review: Form and Fate "Recirc" EP

Form and Fate - Recirc Recorded and mixed by Form and Fate with Brian Bickerton, Ben Browning and Kevin McAuliffe Mastered by Adam Myatt at Sharkbite Studios in Oakland, CA

Post-rock bands never let a lack of words hinder a sonic journey of emotional catharsis. On the EP Recirc, San Francisco’s Form and Fate, a primarily instrumental quintet, guides listeners through its bleakest moments with five melancholy songs that reach for the core.

Their epic compositions build from restrained to bursting and make imminent comparisons to stars of the style like Explosions in the Sky and Mogwai, with differences that are hard to pinpoint. But the band does right by the genre. With three guitarists to buoy the bass and drums, Form and Fate employs multiple melodic layers to drive songs to climax.

“Nobody ever told me the airlock would unlock” a faraway voice murmurs on opener “Airlock,” one of two tracks with vocals. The song settles into a dreamy groove before feedback sets the stage for a thundering unravel. The meditative repetition of the funereal “He Grows” is a controlled exercise in subtlety that bleeds into the somber reflection of “Magnets in My Bones.” “Masking,” the unmistakable standout of the album, pairs comforting guitar riffs with distant vocals seemingly recorded in an era gone by. With a heavy and soul-elevating pinnacle coupled with the revelation “sunsets can only be admired through a rusty, wired fence,” the band affirms that sadness has its place and makes happiness feel even better. Form and Fate ostensibly concludes the trip underwater on “No Really, You Should Be Stopping” with a soothing tremolo picking pattern that conjures a peaceful glide through a pure, tropical sea.

Strong musicianship and well-crafted emotive outbursts makes Recirc an enjoyable and qualified shepherd for these troubled times. (500 Records/ Three Ring Records)

www.myspace.com/formandfate

-Julia Cooper

Published in April 2008 issue of West Coast Performer