Sarah Tomlinson: Blog

2.27 Unbusted @ Silverlake Lounge

It was like Little Boston at the Silverlake Lounge on Tuesday night, when the Unbusted held court with a whole crew of old friends in the house to support them. Bassist Farley Glavin was rocking a green Celtics hoodie and Seb wore his classic Lemonheads muscle T. Joe sported a new haircut, a.k.a. the lesbian shag. “I feel like I should be on the L Word,” he said before taking the stage. These guys have rocked since they were fresh off the boat from Martha’s Vineyard, but with a new practice regimen, new lineup (soon to include Jim Buckey of Eyes Like Knives on guitar) and some new songs sneaking into their set, they're now sounding seriously fierce. The lads looked at ease under the epic Salvation sign that adorns the club’s stage, withstanding some friendly heckling from their peeps in the crowd and getting down to tearing it up. (Now, if they can just have their collective arm twisted into enhancing their live set with, “Carnivore,” one of the best love songs ever written.) Catch them at SXSW at the Fenway Recordings showcase at Red 7 on 2.17. And check out the new, equally great but totally different, (think buoyant sing-a-longs, sexy dance rock numbers, and faux fancy outfits) Unbusted offshoot, The Billionares, who will tour Europe with old friend (the amazing) Willy Mason this spring.

2.28 Georgie James @ Spaceland

The audience may not have gotten the memo, but it was an indie rock dance party when Georgie James took the stage at Spaceland on Wednesday night. This D.C.-based quartet plays songs jammed with enough soulful melodies and Rhodes licks to evoke a little of that old Stevie Wonder magic. Well, if he decided to pack in his whole Motown routine, move to D.C. and put out his records on Dischord. But while the influence of co-founder and former Q And Not U drummer John Davis’ musical past surfaces here, the songs have a more stylish pop sophistication mixed in with their shake it, shake it vibe. This is thanks to the influence of Laura Burhenn, whose sultry vocals are the band’s secret weapon. When paired with Davis, their sunburst harmonies swing. While too many bands view a cute girl on keyboards as a fashion accessory, it’s so refreshing to hear Laura belt it out, not to mention look great doing it (sporting some hot peacock). Just take “Need Your Needs,” which blends shimmery maraca and angular dance rock riffs into something fresh and fabulous. And of course, big shout out to old friend Andrew Black (also of The Explosion), who gets to show off his stylish side here. He handled a mid-set kick drum disaster with aplomb and kept the dance party rolling.

Even the stiffest of the stiff cut loose after the band’s set, when the Club NME resident DJs (Sean a.k.a. Har Mar Superstar with a little help from Fabrizio) took over the decks for a dancetastic set that ran the gamut from Brit pop classics (Pulp’s forever brilliant “Common People”) to real deal dance music, (Beyonce, Outkast, Gnarls Barkley), not the ironic revivalist kind. We were all common people as things got sweaty and Kelly Osborne and Kirsten Dunst worked it alongside Laura Burhenn and Jenny Lewis and the amazingly adorable Australian chanteuse Sia, who has got to be the most dazzling dancer, ever. Like a flapper hopped up on Red Bull, that girl has some serious moves. Sing along and it might just get you through…

3.3 Sonny Von Bulow @ Show Pony

There’s a cute little strip of Echo Park Blvd. (not far off Sunset) that has a happening block party the first Saturday of each month. (Now that I’ve given you the tip, please don’t buy that green silk blouse I have my eye on at Show Pony. Come on, be a pal). The shops and galleries are open late. A pack of stylish art enthusiasts turn out to drink wine, flirt, catch up with acquaintances and dodge the lovely little girl navigating the good times on her tricycle. Among the night’s best destinations was Show Pony (at 1543 Echo Park), which featured a striking art show, “10 Thousand Million Nerve Cells” by Rolin T. Colburn. His intricate drawings and collages were composed of doodles, nerved up line drawings and retro flavored found art, all rendered in sly offbeat ways (on envelopes and sheets of notebook paper) that made them feel like fragile secrets. The store also featured a sweet show by Sonny Von Bulow (i.e. Lincoln Madley from Venice), who whipped up a velvety ‘80s sound (a la lo-fi Roxy Music) with simple, Casio-style samples, a little guitar, and an eccentric stage persona that included sometimes singing with a quilt and (appropriately) a vintage Louis Vuitton scarf over his head. He opened with a spot-on cover of the gorgeous Nick Cave classic “Shivers” (anyone else remember the “Dogs in Space” soundtrack as fondly as I do?), and then made his way through a short set of moody pop ballads, with a few cracked vocals and his overall intensity adding charm.

After that, it was on to the MOCA Members’ Opening of the new exhibition “WACK! Art and the Feminist Revolution” at the MOCA, which featured Le Tigre’s JD Samson and Johanna Fateman on the decks. They kept the crowd moving (in spite of the awkwardness of trying to dance on asphalt in heels) with their own high spirited dance moves and a playful set of classics and newbies (from “Like a Prayer” to “My Neck, My Back.”) The night also featured some truly fantastic people watching – who was that art house Heidi in the strange homemade ensemble, and how about that woman in the black square pasties and white lipstick? Amazing!

And from there, on to the Happy Hour party at the Museum of Natural History, which was not exactly happening by midnight (maybe due to the lack of parking because of the next day’s LA Marathon). But it was a truly inspired party location. You can’t beat dancing to Peter Bjorn and John amid taxidermied rhinos and giraffes while a person in a full body ape costume strolls by.

P.S. A shout out to my friend Steffie, who was my tour guide for the night: check out her LA Weekly's Style Council blog, including her write-up of my T. Rex-themed birthday show.

3.4 Fuckwolf // Dani Wind @ The Echo

So, normally experimental noise and avant garde indie rock shows aren’t necessarily my jam. I can intellectually understand why the music is interesting and novel and good, but I just don’t feel it. I’m a wuss. I like lyrics. I like sexy little bump and grinds. I like big meaty riffs. I like maraca. But I’m also as susceptible to peer pressure as the next wuss, and I’d heard that San Francisco’s Fuckwolf were cool (plus, it must be said, I love the name – who can argue with Fuckwolf? Where do you even go from there?) and Montreal’s Dani Wind is gaining buzz as a loveable eccentric with a fresh new (and yes, loveably weird) sound. And so I found myself at Part Time Punks, the Echo’s regular Sunday night hang, to check out the fuss. And Fuckwolf were great. Their set had a loose swing. And while they unleashed a sonic maelstrom that drew on the likes of sock hop guitar sounds, jazzy bass lines and swirls of space aged sound effects, the band was tight enough to make it all coalesce into riveting, melodically engaging soundscapes that, yes, you could dance to.

Dani Wind has definitely earned her stripes as a one-of-a-kind performer, with wild, arty costumes and a sugar rush stage presence that makes Karen O look like Celine Dion. For my real deal -- cross your Ts and dot your Is -- review, check out this week’s LA Record.

3.5 Great Northern @ The Viper Room

It’s been chic of late for new bands to draw on the atmospheric sounds of ‘80s New Wavers from The Smiths and U2 (ah, remember when?) to The Cure and Siouxsie and the Banshees. But too many bands inspired by this time go for style over substance. And while I love a guy in a rumpled dress shirt and pegged pants as much (or maybe even more than) the next girl, and it’s always hot to see some theatricality in the ladies’ style and makeup, you simply can’t sing along to a snappy stage look. There have got to be some songs.

So it’s refreshing to discover the Los Angeles-based quartet Great Northern, which features two former members of Earlimart. They fuse chiming synths and swooning guy-girl vocals into rousing songs that manage to be both stylish and emotive. Plus, they've got enough crunchy guitar and nimble beats to keep things on the rock tip. Their debut album “Trading Twilight for Daylight” (Eenie Meenie) drops on May 15th. It will be fey for some people’s tastes, but you can’t please everyone. Nor should you try. And it abounds with what is, quite simply, some fine sophisticated pop music. How does it translate live? Although the band was plagued with technical difficulties, and the sound never quite smoothed itself out enough to properly showcase their songs, they delivered a dynamic set. It ranged from the epic, sleigh bell-sheathed ballad “Low Is a Height,” which showcased the rich patina of Rachel Stolte’s vocals (who, it must be said, sported a truly rad 80’s throwback shirt dress/vest ensemble), to the harder-rocking swing of “The Middle,” which had a sunny melodiousness that resembled a distant descendent of The Beatles. And while the band was visibly frustrated by the gnarly sound situation, they kept it fun, sharing smiles and displaying the kind of playful, prank-infused camaraderie that can keep a band from imploding during times of stress and the kind of nonstop touring required of up-and-comers.

This show also marked my first trip to the Viper Room. And as a onetime River Phoenix obsessive (let’s not even touch how watching “Stand By Me” over and over again at age 12 likely scarred my psychosexual makeup), I have to say the experience made me sad. It just seemed like such a woefully ironic place for a major talent to get snuffed out. So go watch “The Thing Called Love,” (which features River doing his own singing), and celebrate the good ol’ days when River was still among us, Sandra Bullock and Dermot Mulroney were up-and-comers themselves, and romantic comedies could still get away with being sweet and a little edgy.

2.7 Bright Eyes @ The El Rey

They love him so, so much. And they know it will make him hate them. But they can’t help themselves. Sort of like playing chicken, or those poor folk who drunk dial their exes, even though they know each late night phone call is one more strike against them. So it is with the super fans drawn to heckle Bright Eyes during his live performances. As the night progresses, the tension mounts. What will they say? How stupid will it be? And then, it comes: I like your hair! I want to have your babies! Each volley making the sensitive songsmith shrink a little bit more inside of his skin. At one point during his show at the El Rey, Oberst’s longtime friend Jake Bellows of brilliant indie rock outfit Neva Dinova (his “A Picture in Pocket” is one of those sexy, perfect songs) even stepped up to the mic to offer a little small talk about the fact that they’d just flown into town and were feeling tired, to ease the mood as tuning commenced and the weighted silence hung heavy. There was also a rumor circulating that a particularly gnarly stalker was feared to be in the house, causing security to be extra vigilant. Indie rock ain't what it used to be.

But these few tense moments, and the truly horrendous house sound aside, Oberst showed himself to have left his enfant terrible past far behind him during a kinetic 90-minute set that featured the kind of winning mix of old and new that reminds what a powerful catalog he has amassed in his decade as a songwriter. And yes, the crowd even let him get in a little banter of his own. He was backed by a seven-piece band, also including old friends Mike Mogis and a guest turn on several songs by M. Ward, that had the full, imposing sound of an inde rock orchestra. Songs like “Four Winds,” from his 2007 EP of the same name, and the new song he previewed from his upcoming album, “Caldugga,” which had the fervor of a gypsy lament, suggest that he has managed to gain maturity without giving up intensity. Oh, and his new shoulder-length do is quite fetching, too. Well, you were desperate to know, weren't you?! I know, I'm a fool to do your dirty work. Oh yeah.

3.12 El Perro del Mar @ ExPlex

How lovely and rare. It’s not until you hear a talent like El Perro del Mar perform live that accolades like chanteuse and songbird are actually imbued with meaning. She made the cavernous (and super sexy) new ExPlex space under The Echo feel intimate and continental as she unleashed her beautiful, soulful voice on the room with about as much seeming effort as the rest of us were exerting while breathing. El Perro del Mar is actually lone (Swedish) singer/songwriter Sarah Assbring, who looked pretty and retro, in the loveliest, most Euro way, in a girlish dress and black leggings. During the show, she was backed by three well dressed lads in black suits and skinny ties, complete with white flowers in their button holes, on guitar bass and organ (and sweet backing harmonies on the gorgeous celebration “I Found a Reason.”) She can make mournful swing, and even render heartache as hopeful. But while the slightly mod arrangements were delicate and lovely, she was never more moving than when singing with just her guitar, as she tackled Gordon Lightfoot’s “I’m Not Sayin." Her version clearly paid homage to Nico, who previously covered the song. And yet, hers was rendered without any tragedy or weight, leaving just the purity and loveliness, which was apt, as that was the overwhelming mood of her entire set.

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 14

Off the airplane (following a flight that offered the trip’s first ultra rock hair sighting: The Melvins) and out into the melee. While eating a veggie burger standing up at a lunch counter, I spied Martha Wainwright strolling down 6th Street (I love Martha!) and then headed in to catch LA’s The Deadly Syndrome kick off the showcase being held by Dim Mak Records, which recently signed them. Their trademark cardboard ghost cutouts, with which they adorn stages when they play, made the trek to Texas intact. And the band sounded better than ever – tighter and looser all at once, the obvious yield of much practice and greater confidence. They unleashed a spirited jubilee of ghost songs and modern fables set to winsomely raucous indie rock with just a touch of the blues, a la The Cold War Kids. They were followed by another LA-based band, Oh No! Oh My!, who are also getting majorly hyped these days. Musically, their songs are well-crafted, catchy indie rock romps, but lyrically, they’re just a little too hokey-jokey for me.

Next up was the Frenchkiss showcase at the bar behind Red Eyed Fly, which has the rustic charm of a tree house. Milwaukee-based three-piece Call Me Lightning delivered a taut, sexy set of hard hitting rock. But the night’s real sensation was the Fatal Flying Guilloteens, who pulled out all the stops during their sweat-drenched, humor-laced set. Trading instruments as easily as other bands share beers, the quartet boasts three natural frontmen, who displayed sharp wits, wild vocals, and the kind of disregard for their own physical safety that always makes for an interesting show. They taunted any bloggers in the audience to “blog the shit” out of their show and mistakenly identify them as being from Canada, since that’s really hip right now, and they really want to quit their day jobs. So here you go guys: You may be from Houston, but you still played a holy shit (!) show.

Things got into full swing early on Friday, with the New West Records mid-afternoon party offering a set by Tim Easton, along with the lure of free tacos and beer. A California-based singer-songwriter with wry charm and an unabashed political consciousness, Easton tackles big subjects in his songs, but does so with humor and heart. Although he often plays acoustic sets with just his guitar for accompaniment, he had a full band behind him in Texas. And, backed by a sheer rock wall on the outdoor stage at Club de Ville, it was loud, loud, loud. Luckily, the songs were as good as the set was earsplitting, and Easton was clearly having a great time as he regaled the crowd with the stories behind his songs and bits of the wisdom he’s accumulated on the road.

Over at the Fader party, an old warehouse had been converted into a full-on Levi’s store aimed at taking advantage of those rock fans addled by music, sun, and free Southern Comfort. It was complete with racks of expensive denim and bored looking employees. After having safely navigated the retail flytrap and the rooms of Adult Swim related activities, which had the labyrinth-like feel of a small town haunted house, the stage (and free booze) beckoned. This is where I stumbled, quite innocently, on one of the absolute best things I saw all weekend: Atlanta’s psych punk band The Black Lips. Although their bass player was in Mexico (they never explained why; he just was), they delivered a riotous blast of blues punk that managed to be totally raw and completely catchy. Looking disheveled and blissed out, one guitarist spit up in the air and caught it in his mouth, only moments later to be found making out with the other guitar player. The spectacle was sensational, but the songs were even better. “Do You Really Wanna Hold My Dirty Hand,” is a new rock classic.

En route to the next show, I caught The Winterkids blasting out their high energy, snotty-sweet Brit rock. Getting swept up in the moment, I tried to force entry into the show by claiming I was on the list for the party. Of course I wasn’t, and my ruse was quickly squashed. So I had to be solaced by how delicious they sounded from the street, and the knowledge that I'd see them the next day.

Next up, I was reunited with my travel buddies: I found The Melvins holding court before a mass of devoted fans, as they played from the stage overlooking the giant field (sort of a minipaloooza) behind Stubb’s. As always, they showed themselves to be patriarchs of hard rock, delivering heroic rock anthems with the utmost cool.

Next door at Red Eyed Fly, Dead Meadow could be found weaving a psychedelic rock haze over attendees at the Little Radio Party. The sexy, sinuous side of their songs comes out when played live, and their set had style and depth.

Over at The Jackelope, which boasted black velvet paintings of old school pinups and other perfect dive bar décor, things seemed to grind to a halt somewhere in the mid-afternoon. Maybe it was the long hours of drinking everyone had already put in, or the heat that started to build inside the club as it got increasingly packed. But finally, after nearly an hour wait, Valient Thorr kung-fued away any crankiness that might have accumulated with their set of pedal to the metal rock, laced with just enough over the top hard rock schmaltz and attitude. Sporting long red hair, a long red beard, and wrestling shoes, singer Herbie Abernethy (i.e. Valient Himself) looked like the modern day Viking of the band’s title. But, as the “Highway to Swell” patch on his denim vest suggests, he’s way more prankster than gangster.

Bias alert: Then it was over to catch my old friends in (ex) Boston-based alt-country outfit Frank Smith, many of whom have just relocated to Austin. Their earnest indie rock ballads and heartfelt twang sounded right at home under the big skies of Texas, as they played an early evening set in open air. And it was so, so good to see all of the old peeps.

Among the friends in the Boston contingent were the members of the always excellent Dead Trees (formerly Furvis) who were on tour with Albert Hammond Jr. prior to SXSW. We headed over to the Blender Bar at the Ritz to catch his set as part of the Scratchie/New Line Records showcase. This also meant seeing his newest label mates, Office, who played stylish New Wave flavored rock, which was pretty enough to listen to, but lacked real distinction. Especially when compared to the indie pop gems unfurled by New York City-based Robbers on High Street, who played right after them. Those guys can croon. And rock. It’s a winning combo.

Mid-show, I ducked upstairs to the Blender Balcony to see my friend Laurel’s showcase for her label Cold Sweat. I caught enough of Dead Child (featuring David Pajo of Slint) to discover that they are epic indeed. He may be an indie rock innovator, but he's on the metal tip now. And they played it loud.

Then it was back downstairs to catch Albert Hammond Jr., who definitely has a Strokes thing going on (well, duh). But his songs are well-written enough to stand on their own, and he has an amazing guitar sound (thanks in part to Steve Schiltz of Longwave), so it ain’t nothing to be ashamed of. A good note to end the night on.

Well, that’s not exactly true. But since this batch of SXSW coverage has already taken longer than the actual festival lasted, let’s go ahead and get this sucker wrapped up already. So, here’s what the people want, anyhow: The highlights!

Bias alert: Tulsa features two of my dear friends from Boston. But it doesn't really matter, as I'd only heard a few of their songs before, and their afternoon set at Side Bar was still transcendent. The band's singer/guitarist Carter Tanton sings and plays his heart out, delivering lyrics with raw edges of honesty and sweet surprises over barbed washes of guitar, while Marc Pinansky lightens the proceedings with rich undercurrents of Rhodes organ and his silky harmonies. Plus, a taut, compelling rhythm section. It rocks, but it’s tender and sophisticated, too –- this is some real deal rock ‘n’ roll.

My friend Peter (of stellar Boston-based indie rock band Age Rings) was positively raving about his old friends in Edmonton’s indie dance outfit Shout out out out out. And for good reason: They are truly something else. Featuring three bassists, two drummers, no guitars, and an assortment of keyboards, samplers, and other electronic gizmos, they unleash a full-on indie pop onslaught, complete with bountiful high kicks and bouncing. The music is wacky and original, but highly danceable. And their joyous stage presence, funny banter about debt and life’s other inevitabilities, and song titles like “Chicken Soup for the Fuck You,” added up to a full on happening.

Midway through a cross-Atlantic melt down rumored to be set off by a recent breakup, Amy Winehouse made it through one of the few performances that she didn’t cancel on her current tour, playing before an eager crowd at the Fader Party. And while her personal life and liver may be in tatters, her pipes were in great form. Backed only by an acoustic guitar, she still held the audience rapt, with little more stagecraft than her beehive, as she belted out one old timey gospel blues song after another. And her oh-so-good single “Rehab” gets credit as one of the three songs that was stuck in my head at the end of this weekend of musical madness.

I love, love, love The Pierces’ new record, "Thirteen Tales of Love and Revenge," (see my review in the next issue of Preen), so their weak set was particularly disappointing. Their voices are as pretty as they are, but their vocals alone weren’t enough to anchor the set. Recorded, the songs are still super catchy (and sexy), though.

A nighttime set by Valient Thorr found the guys inflaming the crowd with their wild, sweat-drenched antics and power to the people rallying cry. And in one of the weekend’s most epic moments, they were joined for their final song by none other than the MC5's Wayne “Kick Out the Jams” Kramer on guitar. He paid tribute to the lads by donning one of their Valient Thorr-adorned denim vests at the end of their set. This was the weekend's "my plane ticket just paid for itself" moment.

They may come from the inauspiciously named hometown of Peaslake, in the UK, but the Winterkids have the style and moves of city scenesters. And, most importantly, they’ve got the songs to back it all up. Singer James Snider vamps and shakes it with the best of them, preening and prancing around the stage, adding even more charm to the band’s already winsome pop rock anthems. “Tape It” is a delicious dance floor ode, and although it's presumably dedicated to television addiction, it's just good enough to inspire a new generation of kids to set their TiVos and hit the town.

Across the street at the NY2LONDON party being thrown by my friends at +1 Publicity, which was, hands down, the best soiree of the weekend, it was a nonstop block of stellar indie rock fueled with free Bloody Mary’s, Heineken, and (swanky to the last) Fiji water. Michigan’s Thunderbirds Are Now! delivered a driving set of atmospheric, lo-fi rock that sounded sort of like emo indie (but not bad, really!) They were super engaging and good, and one of their singers sounds just like a girl sometimes, which makes for fun neck craning during their set. (There’s really no lady up there?!) New York City’s Takka Takka were my SXSW surprise –- the band I’d never heard of before who impressed me the most. Sporting white shades and boy-next-door charm, singer Gabe Levine wooed the audience with a set of loose and lovely indie rock that contained traces of Pavement and the Modern Lovers. The Fratellis deserve each and every ounce of the hype they’re getting. Although they played a stripped down set featuring only singer John Fratelli and another guitarist, their songs are so massively catchy that it was completely riveting. And they get credit for the second of the three songs that was stuck in my head at weekend's end (the sexy roustabout “Creepin Up the Backstairs”). And I couldn’t even see how much Master Fratelli resembles the late great sovereign of my heart – Marc Bolan of T. Rex. Now that I've seen the photos, I'm really smitten.

My friend Carter is all about Vancouver's Ladyhawk (I remember seeing him walking on air after he first caught them live back at the Middle East in Boston), so I had to follow his orders to check them out. And they delivered. The opposite of too cool for school, they gave up some earnest, feel good, think good, indie rock with plenty of witty banter between songs. They even had a Leprechaun piñata in honor of St. Patrick’s Day, which almost decapitated an unsuspecting audience member when they hurled it into the crowd, but did yield candy.

Playing some of the most authentic garage rock this side of the ‘60s, The Strange Boys from Dallas have the look, the sound, and the songs. Singer Ryan Sambol is all long eyelashes and pouting lips on the outside, but inside, he possesses the kind of murky whine that makes the band’s sound truly transcendent, rather than merely retro.

Bias Alert: They’re old friends and they played my birthday party in January. But it must be said: Former Bostonians, and current Silver Lakers, the Unbusted, are rocking harder these days than they have ever rocked before. In fact, they rocked harder than just about anyone else who set out to rock at SXSW this year. All that recent practice means they’re tight enough to play loose, and the new songs are sexy and heartfelt, reminding that rock can be tough and funny and full of great riffs all at once. In fact, one of their new numbers was the third song stuck in my head at the end of the weekend. Will someone please give these guys whatever they ask for?

Speaking of taut, ambitious rock, The Whigs from Athens, Georgia delivered a set of smart, sweaty rock ‘n’ roll at the Blender Bar on Saturday night. They sure make a lot of noise for a trio, and their songs are super catchy.

And then it was time for the night’s big attraction (at least for me), and the final band I saw at SXSW. While everyone else was scratching each other’s eyes out trying to get in to see The Stooges, I caught a rare performance by another group of garage rock innovators, The Saints from Australia. Their first two albums, “I’m Stranded” and “Eternally Yours” remain benchmarks of rowdy, romantic rock ‘n’ roll. Their new material doesn’t quite capture the old magic, but hearing “Stranded” played live was a truly miraculous experience.

And, last but not least, there was the weekend’s real highlight, the $40 rickshaw ride to the final Vice party. Our sweet, very determined driver pedaled us across the river, off-road over the grass, and miles further than he should have felt obligated to, while my friend Lisa and I giggled like banshees in the back of his carriage. Of course, once we arrived at our destination, we learned that the party location was literally crumbling around guests, and that the Black Lips were going to be playing under a pedestrian bridge instead. So them! We hit the Pure Volume party instead for, of all the things you really don't need at 3:30 a.m. after a weekend of drinking, Red Bull and vodka, and then called it a year. Until 2008!