Sarah Tomlinson: Blog

2.22.07 Two Gallants // Cold War Kids @ The El Rey Theatre

Here’s an indie rock dream bill, if ever there was one. I’ve pretty much been heads-in-the-freezer obsessed with Two Gallants since their 2004 debut, “The Throes.” Don’t even get me started on that fantasy where the three of us are hoboes who travel around, cooking over a campfire. Then they went and made me cry at SXSW last year -- at an afternoon party, no less -- with those honest, mournful love songs they do so well.

But there were no tears last night. Just rock. The Gallants played as taut and raw as always, bathed in stage light that could best be described as brothel red, which was just right for dustbowl murder ballads like “Las Cruces Jail,” and “Long Summer Day.” New song “The Hand That Held Me Down,” is another dark and lovely meditation on loss that’s more lovelorn than love song.

And quite simply, the Cold War Kids smoked it. The lads were looking new haircut sharp. And their sound was lusher than I’d heard before. Maybe they stepped it up in honor of the room’s swanky stage and chandeliers. But they didn’t play it safe, getting down as joyously as always, bounding around the stage and bouncing off each other like a litter of puppies. “Hospital Beds” achieved dance magic status when a keyed up fan could be seen waving, yes, his crutch in the air. Right on. Right on.

There were crutches at the Short Stop later on, too, even though it was supposed to be a dance party. What’s this, night of the living crutches? Sounds like a spine-tingling horror movie, right? The scary goblin guys are all on crutches, and they chase you very, very slowly. There wasn’t much dancing, although my friend Laurel played some hot rock classics from Steve Miller to Thin Lizzy. Apparently, the requests were rolling in for Prince (Sure) and REO Speedwagon. (Really?) I mean, I love (to) “Take It on the Run,” too. But, seriously, every night? These ironic rock dance parties are getting out of hand. When the once ironic becomes officially hot, we’re going to be left wearing pegged pants and OP sweats again. And, no doubt, my junior high insecurities are stored away in those puppies, potent as moth balls. Yikes! Let’s be multi-genre-ational and embrace it all!

2.22.07 The Wildbirds @ The Echo

Maybe it was all of the Bruce Springsteen and Pretenders I heard around the house growing up, but I will always love the rock, first and foremost, now and forever. Even with so many great new sounds worth getting hot to trot about, I’ll give any ol' rock band a shot, sort of like that sorry, stunted case who hits high school keggers years after graduation.

Recently, that’s meant hearing a bucket of bands weaned on the Johnny Thunders school of rock -- all bluesy guitar and snarling attitude. Some I loved (The Rock ‘n Roll Soldiers, The Black Halos). Others are long gone and forgotten, and good riddance.

But what’s that? A NEW old sound? Yes, indeed. The Wildbirds hit the stage at The Echo on Thursday night replete with an influence that’s heard too little these days: Tom Petty. The sound is a little lighter and more effervescent than the Thunders disciples, built on buoyant baselines made for dancing and infectious melodies just begging to blast from car stereos. Chockablock with mid-‘70s pop rock vim and vigor, the songs have a retro thing going on but manage to be fresh and feisty. Has the band written their “American Girl” or “Refugee” yet? Maybe not. But who has? The songs swing, the guys play their hearts out, and look fab doing it. The quartet hails from Wisconsin, but these are no cheese heads. Think long cool drinks of whiskey, all leather vests, shaggy haircuts and an ease with accessorizing. And what, really, could be more exhilarating than a band of cute, well-clad lads making their stand in the big city? See for yourself; they play the Planetary Group Skewer BBQ on 3.15 at SXSW, and their full-length debut drops in June.

2.23.07 Om @ The Echo

Generally speaking, Friday nights are not my designated time for spiritual uplift and enlightenment. But when such lofty pursuits are delivered on a maelstrom of hypnotic rock heaviness, who can argue? And Om definitely delivered during their set at the Echo last night. The duo features two former members of revered stoner rock pioneers Sleep, and expectations were high, to say the least, going into the show (“They’re the BEST band I’ve seen in FIVE years!,” my friend Zach told me during his DJ set at Cha Cha the night before). And it was epic.

All of those chants singer/bassist Al Cisneros works into his lyrics about potentiality, the expansiveness of the universe, and surpassing the limitations of the physical body must do some kind of strange magic. Because, even without being able to make out the lyrics, and just simply tracing the serpentine patterns of the music, while standing amid a capacity crowd of heavily-bearded heavy rock fans, one of whom felt moved to raise his hands into the air as if tearing the sun from the sky, (which somehow seemed to capture the mood of the music perfectly), while another wasted fan fell down to the ground, heavily, I felt good, light, happy. Om indeed. Word on the street is that Cisneros makes his living teaching chess to children. Those must be some deep kids.

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…

3.5 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.

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!

3.22 Dragonforce // Killswitch Engage @ The Wiltern

Sort of like the UN, but dressed in leather, and wielding the loveliest rock locks this side of the late ‘80s, Dragonforce is an international heavy metal experience like no other. You kind of just have to see it to believe it; or at least to fully appreciate their epic onslaught. Featuring members from South Africa, France, Hong Kong, England, and the Ukraine, the London-based band is a tour de force of anthemic, over-the-top speed metal. Combining crystalline keyboards and heroic vocals with mind-bogglingly rapid fire drumming, the songs are not only fast and ferocious, but also, actually kind of pretty. As they warmed up the capacity crowd for headliners Killswitch Engage, singer ZP Threat leapt about the stage like a movie pirate while conducting the audience’s fervent response, as his backing band high kicked and hair flipped up a storm. Wow.

Headliners Killswitch Engage also delivered a rousing, highly visual show, thanks to a dramatic light show and the ease with which frontman Howard Jones held down the stage and moved between demonically deep verses and soaring, almost operatic choruses while his band unleashed a taut hard rock assault behind him. Sure, emo’s not for everyone, and not all emo is for me, but as I said during the show, I actually really like AFI, and these guys are a lot cooler than AFI, so I feel pretty good about backing them.

4.2 Ratatat @ The Henry Fonda

The Brooklyn-based duo Ratatat proves you don’t need a bunch of band members, or even any lyrics, to create gorgeous, cinematic soundscapes. And the fans at their sold out Henry Fonda show proved really drunk people never dance as well as they think they do. But, aside from the elbow wielding, drink spilling, stumble king who terrorized audience members on the right side of the stage, most of the night’s uber enthusiastic fans only added to the heady, highly charged sensory experience. In fact, those who were moved to Russian folk dance, unleash Indian war cries, and shake their arms in the air like they’d wandered into a rave sometime in 1989 and just found their way out, all added their own special something to the show. Enhanced by fog, lights, and a shifting video background, the band crafted an uplifting, multidimensional experience heightened immensely by the effect that made it look like Mike Stroud’s enormous, hair-flipping, guitar-shredding shadow was going to stride off the stage and stomp the audience like a giant rock ‘n’ roll King Kong. Controlling the night’s mood with pitch perfect precision, the band shifted from subtle and moving to the kind of pure rock onslaught built on monster riffs and killer attitude. The whole experience was so transcendent that I found myself wishing for a way to recreate it, all of the time, forever. And I knew that the CD alone would never generate quite the same impact. So after the show, I invited the lads in the band to help me establish what I’m calling the Ratatat Room; you know, a space in my future house where I can open the door 24-hours-a-day and get Ratatated by the band’s live show. “You mean we’d be like interns?” joked Mike Stroud. “No, you’d have interns!” I said. Dare to dream, right?

4.3 Andrew W.K. @ Safari Sam’s

To be fair, Andrew W.K. did preface his show with an exposition about how, if you really want to party, you don’t prepare anything in advance. But the kick off to his heroically titled "High-Way Party Cruiser Tour," seemed, well, sort of baffling, and at times, even aggravating, at least as far as parties go. It makes sense that the guy whose party animal persona may be one of the most brilliant performance art conquests, ever, would crave a little reinvention. Let’s just say it’s still a work in progress.

Andrew W.K. took the stage dressed much as always, in white jeans and T-shirt (the better to get filthy in). He then treated the crowd to a good 20 minutes of keyboard noodling, accompanied by a guitar, and a guy with an oscillator to manipulate the sound of his playing. It was kind of psychedelic, but it was also kind of free jazz. And he just might be a genius. Right when I heard someone in the crowd say, “I give him 10 more minutes and then I’m out of here,” he turned it around. And how. He pulled a CD of his songs from a plastic grocery bag, brought out another guitar player, and sang and played keyboard along to recorded versions of his hits. And it was just the show everyone came to see: Sticking his microphone in his pants, he banged merrily on his keyboard, and belted out his beloved party anthems. Keyed up fans stormed the stage to sing along, mug it up, and then leap out into the audience for a little good old fashioned crowd surfing. Between songs, he delivered a pep talk about building good feelings together that was loveably new agey, but also somehow well suited to his power to the (party) people ethos.

The performance was part of uber popular weekly dance night Check Yo’ Ponytail. And the stylish kids on the scene who’d come early to catch the rowdy, glow-stick enhanced performance by Seattle’s power pop outfit The Lashes, smoke cigarettes and flirt on the club’s outside patio, and dance to ‘80s classics, seemed content that they’d gotten their party on. And yes, they did have a little help from Andrew W.K.

4.4 The Little Ones @ The Troubadour

How cute are The Little Ones? First off, you’ve got to love a band so full of good feeling that one of their songs features back up singing that’s nothing more than laughter. In fact, on the “Sounds Like” section of their you-know-what profile, they give a shout out to laughter, as well as lobster, tiki shacks, juggling, and smiles. They might also have included piñatas, carnivals, and candied apples; anything that makes life just a little better simply by being. The LA-based quintet looked like they were having the time of their lives as they delivered a set of stylish and heartfelt indie pop for a nearly sold out room. Singer/guitarist Ed Reyes beamed beatifically as his proud parents videotaped from the balcony and a bearded Keanu Reeves watched from the back of the bar. According to the band’s mantra, Uncle Lee’s Rule of Feet, a new song is only worthy of being a Little Ones track if, and only if, each of the band member’s feet can shuffle along to it. The statute has served them well, because the new song the band debuted last night was yet another percussion-fueled, dance inducing blast of sweetly sophisticated pop.

4.6 The Thermals @ EXPLX

It’s so unbelievably great when good things happen to nice people. And so it was extra special to see the enormous crowd of sweaty, bouncy, sing-a-long-happy kids rocking their hearts out to The Thermals at EXPLX on Friday night. Playing as a three piece, the band delivered a taut, high energy set full of banter (singer/guitarist Hutch Harris would be a prime contender for the role of lead funnyman in any Seinfeld-style sitcom about the real life adventures of an indie rock almost star). “How’s my hair?” he joked midway through the set, playing up his anti-diva aura. And even when a security guard sternly emerged to sit on the edge of the stage and keep the kids inline, he had a quip to keep the mood light. “Fight nice,” he said. Not that there was much need to worry. The fans were too busy dancing and grinning to offer up much in the way of a real mosh pit anyhow. The songs may have a stripped down punk fever and smart, socially conscious lyrics, but are more ebullient than angry, and everyone there (including the band) seemed happy to rock it out, rather than get too agro. See, it can pay to be nice! (Let's hope there are no skeletons in this band's closet -- tabloid payoffs, Satanic rituals aimed at spurring record sales -- boy would my face be red).

4.6 David Vandervelde @ 6th & Alameda

I know it’s irksome, how music fans in the know get so smug and gloaty about that time they caught some once-in-a-lifetime moment that will go down in the annals of rock history, FOREVER, like the time Nirvana played at a taco stand for just them and the counter person, who watched Mexican soap operas the whole time.

And yet, it must be done: Seeing David Vandervelde play on a giant half pipe in the heart of downtown LA on Friday night had the distinct aura of one of those magical musical moments. Having missed his industry-heavy set at Spaceland (this young lad is officially hot stuff, and then some), I headed downtown to see him play an impromptu set at an art space at 6th and Alameda (recent host to the stellar LA Record party featuring the Melvins and Darker My Love. What?! This was before I even started writing for LA Record, so I’m not at all biased; well, maybe just a little), where they will apparently be having free shows all summer.

Vandervelde and crew (his bassist and drummer) promptly set up and got down to it, as a good-sized crowd milled about smoking their lungs out and eating popsicles. Man can he sing, especially given what you would imagine was a less than pro stage setup, (although, to give credit where it's due, when he blew out all of the microphones partway through his set, the sound person got him up and running again quickly). He delivered songs in that cool, earnest way he has from his Secretly Canadian debut, “The Moonstation House Band,” which somehow manages to conjure both Marc Bolan and Graham Parsons. The songs are at once sexy and stylish, while also having enough raw country twang and indie edge to make them sound like totally fresh offerings. And, unbelievably, he began recording them when he was just 19 (rock trivia moment: the album features string arrangements by David “Beck’s dad” Campbell, who has also worked with Elton John and Leonard Cohen). The night's highlight was a wild and intense reworking of Cocksucker Blues made all the more apocalyptic by the explosions erupting on the screen behind him, as the amazing ‘70s sci fi classic “Death Race 2000” (starring a baby faced Sly Stallone as Machine Gun Joe Viterbo) was being screened. Seriously gorgeous music with a dark edge of danger from a young musician who couldn’t be sweeter or funnier (hearing him sing some of his original racy raps over drinks and dancing was a serious moment of its own). Gush much? Who me?

4.27 – 4.29 Coachella

Six hours is a long time to spend in the car, especially when completing a drive that should only take two. But welcome to the first feat of endurance associated with the Coachella music festival, held each year at the Empire Polo Field in Indio. While the event is remarkably well organized and environmentally conscious, and even the port-a-potties mostly held up all weekend, there’s just something about drawing 60,000 people to the desert and encouraging them to dance wildly and consume bounteous amounts of alcohol in 110 degree heat that is bound to make for a few rocky moments.

Having survived the first feat, and then wrestled with a broken lock box and dug up the keys to our rental house from under a dirty pile of rocks, my friend Laurel and I opted for a much needed sit down before hitting the grounds. Wine was drunk. Food was eaten. The Palm Springs modern design of our weekend abode was admired. Restored, we drove to the grounds in time to catch Bjork close out the night’s music. She lived up to her reputation as a riveting, theatrical performer, and then some, holding down the ginormous main stage with help from her magical voice and pixie charisma, as well as a mini orchestrate that added up to a magnificent stage show. With the white beams of light that shoot up into the sky around the field to dramatic effect, and a nearly full moon as accompaniments, her set was atmospheric and divine. Although we missed their sets, word was that The Jesus and Mary Chain and Interpol also killed it. In the artists' area, members of the latter band unwound with ping pong and beers while Carlos D’s Italian greyhound leapt about. After a ridiculous post-show rendezvous of Chinese fire drill proportions that involved spending 45 minutes in the parking lot while a very drunk girl we’d only just met shouted into her cell phone at a very drunk friend who couldn’t seem to understand a word she said, while searching for directions to a party at Frank Sinatra’s house, and several false starts that had my passengers disco napping in the back as the car leading our beleaguered posse somehow couldn’t follow the directions or their own GPS system, we made it to the onetime hacienda of Old Blue Eyes himself, only to be denied entrance. Laurel and other members of our crew hopped the fence, while someone else sweet talked the security guards into opening the gate for us. Once inside, we saw that the pool was in fact shaped like a piano and drank free Belvedere vodka. The allure of an enormous Belvedere bottle proved too strong to resist for Spank Rock’s Naeem, and he resembled a figure from the zodiac (the vodka bearer, anyone?) as he poured its contents into the pool. After being shut down by a sassy, Spanish-accented hostess who told him he was not making off with her vibrator (the bottle), he solaced himself by jumping into the pool with Sean (a.k.a. Har Mar Superstar), who, no surprise, opted to swim in the nude. At that point, the party was cleared out by security, and exiting seemed advisable.

Day two quickly grew as hot as Hades, and so I opted to enjoy several traditional heat beaters – napping, swimming in our rental house’s partially shaded pool, and trawling the aisles of the heavily air conditioned grocery store in search of tequila and corn chips for later that night. We finally braved the 110 degree heat in the late afternoon. I saw Peter, Bjorn and John play a remarkably peppy and charming set featuring guest vocalist Bebban from the Shout Out Louds on their breakout single, "Young Folks." As always, she looked gorgeous and cool as an iced martini while the rest of us sweated and hallucinated in the heat. I caught a bit of Andrew Bird’s wild violin playing on the way to see The Decemberists, who were as whimsical and inspired as always. Their set's highlight definitely came during “The Mariner’s Revenge Song,” when the stage was stormed by a giant canvas whale, manned by three people, which attacked Colin Meloy as he sang about surviving the belly of the whale. After that, I headed back to the shade in the VIP area near the main stage for The Kings of Leon’s smoldering set. Nonplussed and as full of swagger as always, the Followill family killed it during a set that featured songs from their three albums, including the perfectly sultry rocker “On Call” from their latest. The stage’s huge video screens were put to particularly captivating use as the camera crew caught close ups of drummer Nathan blowing bubbles with his gum while casually wielding his sticks, interspersed with shots of the lads’ dancing feet in their tight as sin stretch jeans and pointy boots. This was also around the time my friend Rebecca spotted a severely inebriated Paris Hilton being pretty much carried around the VIP area by a team of friends. Hasn’t that girl learned to hold her cosmos yet?! As the sun sunk against the desert landscape, the mood was perfect for the Arcade Fire to deliver their set of atmospheric, highly emotive indie rock. While those disappointed by the band’s sophomore album grumbled that their set dragged, it was a gorgeous moment.

At night’s end, we engaged in the weekend’s pastime of trailer hopping: This involves taking over the elaborately decorated artist trailers left unoccupied by those bands forced to catch a flight directly after their set and pilfering them for leftover snacks and drinks. The Decemberists were kind enough to leave behind several bottles of wine, a bucket of beer, and some hummus and chips. Rumor has it that Rufus Wainwright took all of the decorations out of his trailer (since other trailers featured, paper hearts, Cabbage Patch dolls and My Little Ponys, among other goodies, we can only imagine what kind of score he made off with), except for a stuffed animal, which was left in the microwave. From there, the party moved to the grass outside Peter, Bjorn & John’s trailer, where the Swedish flew fast as members of the Teddybears stopped by to hang out. And from there, we headed to our rental house, where we hosted friends, made guacamole, and had drinks out by the pool. I ended the night with a soak in the hot tub as the sun came up. Spoiled? Who me?

Sunday got off to an even lazier start, but we did get to drop in on a photo shoot for Filter magazine featuring Shaun Ryder of the Happy Mondays, which was being masterminded by killer rock photographer Piper Ferguson. I even got the Brit pop legend a beer! From there, Laurel showed me around her old stomping grounds in downtown Palm Springs. So cute! They have misting fountains above the sidewalk to cool pedestrians as they walk between the main street’s many patio-adorned restaurants. And there’s tons of old school kitsch still reigning in its full glory. We had our first solid meal of the weekend at a Mexican restaurant and then hit the grounds. Crowded House sounded fantastic and vibrant as they played old favorites and new material to a mass of exhausted and drunken, but still resilient, festival goers. Maybe I was just worn down by this point, or the Rage Against the Machine fans can’t hold their liquor quite like they used to, but the vibe was particularly drunk and surreal on Sunday night. Lily Allen was clearly having a good ol’ time, as she apologized at one point during her set because the weed she had smoked was making her forget some of the lyrics. But she was all cool sass in a white dress as she entertained fans with help from a horn section that looked pinched from her local junior high school. Brooklyn-based indie dance innovators Ratatat created sensory magic and whipped up a full on dance frenzy, in spite of playing with a stripped down version of their normal stage show. Backed by a simple white sheet, on which images and shadows of the band were projected, the duo (plus a touring keyboardist) delivered an ecstatic set of all instrumental dance pop gems. The audience was a sea of bobbing heads and waving arms. Karma reigned down on one particularly inebriated young woman who pushed to the front of the platform at the side of the stage, irritating everyone with her flying elbows and the way in which her shirtless beau was energetically grinding her from behind. She was so excited (and, did I mention, drunk?) that she pushed her way past the front and right over the edge, falling into the space between the platform and the stage. (She was OK, so it’s alright to laugh.) Rage Against the Machine sounded as taut and on point as always during their reunion set, as they rallied their devoted fans to end the night (and the weekend) on a high energy note. I had met two young men from Iceland earlier in the week, who flew to California just to see the reunited Rage, if that gives you an idea of how excited people were for this one. In the artist area, the Kings of Leon had taken over Damien Rice’s vacated trailer and singer Caleb laughed about the fact that everyone had told him the close-ups of their dancing feet were the highlight of their set.

As we walked towards the exit, I spotted a super dapper Perry Farrell on his way back towards the artists' area. As the acting Patron Saint of summer festivals, he seemed like a good note on which to wind down the weekend. The drive back to Los Angeles only took two hours, but it felt like six, which sort of brought everything around full circle, wouldn't you say?

6.11 Juliette Lewis and the Licks @ Spaceland
Burning Brides @ The Echo

Either everyone in the city of Los Angeles has spring fever, or local music fans are all about supporting their hometown heroes, because the rock clubs were jumping last night. In fact, it was a total madhouse at Spaceland. There was a line down the block for the early set by Juliette Lewis and The Licks, which was a major change from the first time I saw her play to 100 obsessed Natural Born Killers fans back in Boston a few years ago – not a socially suave crowd, let me tell you. This show was the band's only LA appearance in several years, and people were clearly hungry for it. After a pre-show party to celebrate the release of the band’s sophomore album “Four on the Floor,” (due out July 24), Juliette took the stage looking like a post-apocalyptic Indian princess in skin tight black vinyl pants and a headdress adorned with brightly hued feathers. From there, it was all thrashing hair, sweat, and attitude as she and the band powered through a taut set that found her holding down the stage with that wild, Iggy Pop-patented mix of athleticism and sex appeal. She’s taken a lot of flack since starting the band, which she addressed by teasing guitarist Todd Morse about how no one takes him seriously on guitar because he used to sell insurance door to door (I think we all know what that’s a metaphor for, unless he did really sell insurance door to door, in which case, that could have been the start of a porno or something, seriously, because he is cute). It’s true that some of the band’s early songs had a slick radio rock sound that was a little generic, but they’ve obviously dug deep while writing the new material and there’s plenty to like now. They play a fierce live show. And the lady has pipes. She can belt it out, even on the ballads. Not that there were many slow songs. It was all meaty AC/DC-sized riffs and wild yawls on new songs like the sexed up come on, “Hot Kiss” and the sinuous rocker, “Purgatory Blues.” Also new, “Death of a Whore” has an old-timey swing that makes for a fun romp, even though it’s about as dark as a song gets.

For real people, stop being too cool for school. She can rock. I mean, it was cool enough for Michael Rapaport, who was in the house, chewing gum as only he can chew gum, with an entourage of guys who looked straight out of Southie. It took every ounce of restraint I had to hold back from assailing him with “What we need are models. Big ones.” (Go see “Beautiful Girls.” Right now. So unbelievably good.)

As the Licks fans trickled out, the Deadly Syndrome/Brothers and Sisters/Wounded Cougar fans came pouring in for week two of the Deadly Syndrome’s month-long residency. Love ‘em, love ‘em, love ‘em. The eight-piece, Austin-based Brothers and Sisters mellowed the mood with their sweet, slide guitar-laced country rock ballads.

It was on at the Echo, too, where The Burning Brides were holding down the second night of their month long residency for a crowded house. The shows celebrate the release of their third album, “Hang Love.” As always, these guys delivered an airtight set of ferocious hard rock. Fronted by one of rock’s hottest couples, Dimitri and Melanie Coats, (Remember that old saying – they who rock together, stay together? No? Really? Yeah, well there should be a saying.), the band has serious chemistry on stage, even more so now that they’ve added more guy-girl harmonies. The album boasts a bunch of badass moody rockers, especially “San Diego” and “She Comes to Me.” The band played under one of the best stage projections ever – a rotating cast of classic album covers, from T. Rex’s “Electric Warrior,” (of course) to, appropriately, a couple of Burning Brides albums.

As I’ve been a little remiss in updating my b-l-o-g lately, what with all of the work I’ve been doing on my b-o-o-k, (which will be done this summer, for real; I’m sick of feeling like the girl who cried book; no, really, I wrote a book. I did. Can you read it? Well, I know it’s been six years, but it’s not quite done yet. Almost. Almost done.), this seems like the perfect place to segue into the killer set that the Burning Brides played while opening for Wolfmother at the Grove of Anaheim in (you guessed it, Anaheim) last month. It was cool to see them holding down the big stage, and they rocked the crowd, which is saying something, since this was one of the rowdiest, drunkest audiences I’ve seen, ever. (And I've covered the Dropkick Murphys' St. Patrick Day shows in Boston, so I know of what I speak.) When the sweaty men who push past you coming out of the mosh pit smell like sweat AND puke, you know it’s not good.

Wolfmother were on that night too, unleashing their epic rock anthems with aplomb. Singer/guitarist Andrew Stockdale rocked his falsetto and one of those over-the-top double-necked guitars (as well as an intense selection of flying Vs, SGs, and the like). No guitar was quite as impressive, though, as the wall of air guitar playing fans who could not quite kick the sensation that they were playing Guitar Hero when the band tore through “Woman.” And bassist/organist Chris Ross displayed some serious moves. Don’t tell him I said this, but he’s sort of got this Gary Glitter thing going on that’s truly amazing. The lads in the band are starting to look a little wilted after something like two solid years of touring, but it was good to catch them before they take a hiatus to write their next album, which we can only hope will rock even half as hard as their debut.

For a little taste of the local Anaheim flavor, check out this photo that my friend Laurel snagged of one of the band's female fans. White pumps. Hot!

6.20 The White Stripes @ Icky Thump Records

“I feel like I’m at my friend’s bah mitzvah, and The White Stripes got paid a million dollars to play,” my friend Brett said as we stood, waiting eagerly and sweating profusely, in the old Tower Records store at the heart of the Sunset Strip. It had been temporarily repurposed into Icky Thump Records, in order to sell copies of the new White Stripes album when it dropped on Tuesday (the store even opened at midnight, old school style, recalling the days when eager fans still queued up to buy those most coveted new releases like “Appetite for Destruction”), and to host an exclusive show by the rock duo. The atmosphere was pretty sexy for a bah mitzvah, though, and it definitely felt more like a rock show, what with the way the seriously bland store, with its dropped ceilings and boxy, vacant vibe, had been done up with red light gels, and the foxy young minxes in vintage cigarette girl garb circulated, pedaling limited edition buttons.

When the band finally took the stage, the crowd’s anticipation crescendoed, as everyone pushed forward and started to move. Meg and Jack were dressed down, compared to the elaborate costumes they sport on the cover of their new album, and the whole night had an intimate, basement show feel. They played much of their new album, as well as oldies but goodies like “Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground,” which found the crowd singing all of the verses, and a gorgeous, punked up version of “Hotel Yorba.” Plus there were classic covers like “Jolene,” on which Jack howled. The interplay between Jack and Meg was a thing of subtle beauty. Jack prowled the stage, moving between several microphones, sweating and wringing the most remarkable highs and lows out of his voice, and the most delicious blues licks out of his guitar, but always stopping from time to time at the microphone near Meg’s drum set, to commune with his big sister, as he still calls her. A charming master of ceremony, Jack was gracious and funny, thanking everyone for being there, especially the fans who had camped out for tickets, and who were apparently sent pizzas by the band (now that’s classy). And with his smooth voice and fervent tone, he sounded like a Pentecostal preacher, as he had the crowd say Amen, not only for the wonder of tangible, non-disposable music, but also for Meg, of course.

But when the band tore through a ferocious version of “Seven Nation Army” during their encore, it was a reminder that, spectacle aside, the duo is responsible for some of the most authentic and ambitious rock ‘n’ roll this side of the ‘60s. And that was the perfect note on which to end a celebration of their latest record, which is at once as fierce and tender as anything they’ve released.

And a note for those concertgoers who like to be in on the latest trends (wave a cell phone, not a lighter, etc., etc.), apparently young bucks no longer hoist their ladies onto their shoulders during concerts, so that the girls can get a prime view (and flash the band, of course; this show was on the Sunset Strip). Now, they sort of grab them under their rib cage, as if they’re pulling them out of a burning car, and hold them aloft for as long as they can, so the girls can see over the heads of those in front of them. It’s not quite as sexy, but it seems to get the job done.

I gotta part ways with Morrissey on this one...there's nothing lovelier than seeing deserving friends get recognized for their talent and heart. I was thrilled to watch The Dead Trees (nee Furvis) get pressed to sign CDs following their opening set for local soon-to-be-favorites Little Joy (featuring Fab from the Strokes). It was so good to see the lads from my days back in Boston looking good (with an assortment of dapper tour facial hair) and sounding even better during a short but spirited set that showed off songs from their amazing new album, "King of Rosa." I felt like the ghost of late- nights-past, sneaking up on them without warning, but it was a very happy reunion.

Here's some indie rock insider knowledge for the nerds out there: Todd from the Dead Trees once did a guest turn as the bassist for that other Strokes' side project fronted by Albert Hammond Jr. That band featured Longwave frontman Steve, who was also in attendance at the Troubadour, and who I happen to be interviewing tomorrow evening for The Boston Globe. I've known Steve long enough to have a story about drinking tequila with him the night they got dropped by their label (it happens to the best of us), and it was great to catch up and wage that age-old debate: NYC vs LA.

But our focus was soon hijacked by the amazing Little Joy set, which featured guest turns from all of the Dead Trees on just about every song. The Little Joy album is one of my top five favorites of the year, and they killed it with joyous (adjective intended; pun unfortunate) renditions of their Bossa Nova-flavored indie rock, which I adore for being so refreshingly uninterested in being too cool for school. Highlights included the introduction Fab's bandmate (and girlfriend) Binki Shapiro gave to the song "Unattainable" she wrote for him, which made him beam like a goon and stick a shiny pink heart in the middle of his forehead, and their inspired cover of one of my favorite songs ever, "Eat at Home," from Paul McCartney's entirely perfect album "Ram." They ended their set with album track "Brand New Start," which is a perfect love song; sweet and a little old fashioned, with just enough of a sexy swing.

Then it was off to the East Side bar Little Joy that first inspired the band's name for last call, more catchup conversation and a few games of pool. Little Joy (the band, not the bar) will be taking the Dead Trees to Europe in January, which is amazing for them, but I'm already looking forward to their next visit to Los Angeles.

When the cherry cigar-smoking security guard outside the Legion Hall in Highland Park on Friday night asked if I had ID, I momentarily feared I was going to be deemed too old for the lo fi debauch inside. But the show, which I was invited to by my amazing writerly friend Jen Sincero of "Don't Sleep with Your Drummer" fame (www.jensincero.com), was a fundraiser for an Internet radio site called Kill Radio, so it was a good mixed crowd (i.e. I clearly wasn't the only one feeling nostalgic). It's not that I miss the faint smell of mildew or the crummy house sound, but the sense of possibility, that those in attendance might have stumbled upon a little bit of magic.

In this case, the something special was being thrown down by a local garage rock quartet called Spider Problem. Raw, raucous, and helmed by a frontwoman who actually managed to make rock seem dangerous again, the band played the kind of set that's truly refreshing -- funny, dirty and dangerous. Now that yoga is the new Starbucks, her waterfall back bends were less spectacular than they might have once been (even that most sexy and serpentine of frontmen, Iggy Pop, would probably seem stiff and stilted after the number of people I've seen doing yoga at parties; well, this is California), but the overall effect was delightfully demented as she rambled nonsense between songs, wrung a symphony of emotion from her one mighty note, and repeatedly dropped, slid and crumbled to the ground, often taking her guitar player with her.

Spider Problem (http://www.myspace.com/spiderproblem). Wow. Playing at a house party near you.

By Sarah Tomlinson,
Globe Correspondent / February 20, 2009

LOS ANGELES - The rapt crowd at the Troubadour watches Juana Molina's every move on Tuesday night, almost as if she were a magician performing sleights of hand. They sway to the bossa nova-flavored rhythms of her lush, giddy indie rock songs and sing along to the Spanish lyrics.

Wearing a black skirt and tank top, the wiry Argentine singer-songwriter has the poise of a music teacher on recital day - albeit one with a ferocious core. It is remarkable how effortlessly Molina unleashes so much music - a sonic collage of guitar, keyboard, and voice she creates with the help of two loop machines. The sound is even fuller now that she's being backed by a band for the first time.

The drummer and bassist are part of the tour in support of Molina's fourth album, "Un Dia," which comes to the Brattle Theatre on Thursday. And she's beginning to see the advantages of being part of a band.

"The dynamics are more controllable when you play with more people," Molina says over a cup of Earl Gray and a pastry before the show. "Because I can just build things all of the sudden, or have more impact with certain sounds."

Molina, 47, estimates it would require more than a dozen musicians and four singers to play her songs as they are recorded - just her, the instruments, and the loop machine in her home studio in Buenos Aires - and she fears such a large band would actually give the audience a less intense experience, lacking the synergy that can occur between a few tightly focused musicians. No two performances are exactly alike anyway, she says, so she strives to create something more ephemeral and, ultimately, more true when she performs. "What I really try to do is to keep the spirit of the songs," she says. "Some things on the record are things that I don't know how I did. Maybe a better musician would just repeat it exactly. But sometimes I can't. Sometimes it's a combination of a late finger, and another one that was ahead."

Molina didn't record "Un Dia," which follows three critically lauded releases - her 2003 debut, "Segundo"; 2004's "Tres Cosas"; and 2006's "Son" - with the idea of performing the songs with a band. Rather, she approached the songwriting process just as she has all her music since giving up a career as a television star to pursue her first love. She worked on the material slowly, over time, letting ideas blossom and mature. "Some songs grow," she says. "Some songs die. You need to let them go for a bit."

Once it came time to tour, though, she decided she wanted to do something different and invited two musicians to join her.

As a songwriter, Molina is both a practical craftsman and an openhearted dreamer. For longtime fan Andy Cabic of San Francisco-based indie rock band Vetiver, which often swapped songs with Molina when they toured Europe in 2007, it is this mix of intelligence and emotion that gives her songs power. "She has it all," he says by phone amid preparations for a European tour. "I know that she is very conscious of the rationale and reason behind her approach. But when you're in the middle of hearing it all, it's very fluid and full of feeling."

Molina's songs come to fruition in a deeply personal way. And although she is thrilled to be playing shows with other musicians, she does not expect to bring collaborators into her songwriting and recording process anytime soon. "It's better in the way that I have no witnesses, so I am totally free," she says. "I don't avoid doing things that I could regret, because there's no one there. And, if I don't like them, I just get rid of them, and no one will know, ever, about them."

© Copyright 2009 Globe Newspaper Company.

A new year. A new decade. A new economy. At least that's what they're telling us. Read my thoughts on the matter on The Huffington Post. Yes, I'm very excited to be writing for Ms. Huffington and co. Become a Fan. What the hey, right? My mom is.

In other news, ALL ABOUT ME, I just gave a reading at the enchanting Tavin Boutique in the Echo Park neighborhood of Los Angeles as part of a delicious new salon called Little Birds. The night was co-founded by my friend Steffie Nelson. And I debuted an excerpt from my new novel-in-progress, "The Year of Mr. Nobody," in which our heroine Stella follows Keith Richards and the lads to Marrakesh in the spring of '67. Debauch ensues. You wouldn't expect anything less, would you? Get a wrap up of the reading.

The book I co-wrote with actor Todd Bridges, "Killing Willis," comes out on March 16, 2010. And let me just tell you, it's juicy. Pre-order it on Amazon. What the hey, right? My mom did.

Other than that, I'm working on some exciting projects, if I do say so myself, including a TV pilot, feature film (rom com, of course), and a revision of my second novel, "Sizzle."

And currently obsessing about the new season of "Big Love" (Mormon rock rocks!), music by Band of Skulls, and the chocolate hazelnut fudge flavor of Coconut Bliss "nice" cream.