“Yeah, so if it's sad/ Well you still gotta live till ya die/ Man, everyone's chewin’ the apple you got in your eye/ It's like at the circus/ When you get lost in the crowd/ You’re happy but nervous/ Definite sign that you've lost it/ There was a guy in the seat next to mine/ Watching the girls when the cops made us stand in line”—Another excursion into sublime melancholy from your friends at The Flaming Lips; this one is from an album called Transmissions From the Satellite Heart.
A week hardly passes around here without me being asked if I was at this show or that. I’m a-gonna say yes to all of that—whilst casting about with an insouciant demeanor—because if I don’t, you might get scared that I am out drifting amongst the clouds generated by the pleasing plethora of recorded sounds bombarding my brain every blessed minute of the day. Why I even carry headphones around in the manner of the next generation, just to keep the flow flowing.
But it ain’t that simple, even if your letters and comments suggest otherwise. Number one, being a rock and roll music critic requires some degree of aloofness. Just ask anyone who I’ve interviewed how easy it is for me to feign sleepy indifference all Gen X style, yo.
That said, there was a point in my life where I went to every blessed show that appeared, that I got wind of on specially designed hipster-matic radar designed by Michael Henningsen himself. Then I got married, then I developed a life-threatening auto-immune disease, then I turned 50 years old. And then I figured out how to come and go, unseen by the very forces I sought to understand. Hint: If you wanna know if I was at your show, ask the bouncer if a very fat gentleman, preceded by an entourage—casting flower petals and hummingbird feathers before his pathway—stopped by at this or that rock club, if even for a minute at the very beginning or the very end of any show. I also like hanging out backstage, it’s where I am the most comfortable.
Now that such mysteries are out of the way, here are my picks for this week’s totally awesome live music scene in El Duque. I hope to see you out there. Oh, the glowing eyes peeking out from behind the curtain is another indicator, kids.
The Flaming Lips: “Chewin’ The Apple Of Your Eye”
Here’s my Ian Moore story. Dude is playing at the venerable Launchpad (618 Central Ave. SW) on Thursday, July 12 if you wanna go, by the way. First off you oughta know that Moore is a bluesman of some reknown; after working and touring with Joe Ely’s band, Moore grew wings while attending UT Ausin and became one of the scene’s most recognizable members on account of his fine guitar playing. His early work showed a mastery of the electric blues genre; after he busted out of Tejas, he demonstrated facility and brilliance in a variety of brave, guitar-based musical expeditions. It would be an understatement to say Moore is one of the hardest working humans in the music biz. Anywho, back in the aughts, Moore used to make a habit of gigging in Burque and one of his biggest fans was the calendars editor at Weekly Alibi. Every damn time Moore came to town, she went hollering through the office about how everyone should go. The one time I took her up on those advices, it changed my life in a way that only good music and great company can. 9pm • $12 • 21+.
Ian Moore: “Muddy Jesus”
courtesy of the artist
Here is an experiment I would like to try, dear readers and supporters of my infinitely fucked up vision of the music world. Please send me, in 200 words or less, an intuitively understanding, perhaps even understated but still deeply resonating description of the musical phenomenon known as dubstep. Even if you feel like the explanation might be tedious, or worse yet, offensive, give it a go mates, because I am done trying to relate such sacredly unrepeatable subtleties to a universe that is still more obsessed with how Geezer Butler took it down a step and a half for “Lord of This World.” Ahem. In any case, go check out for realz, UK style, Jamaican-influenced, but wholly bass-tastic electronic tuneage this Friday, July 13, at Sunshine Theater (120 Central Ave. SW). Monxx, a gentleman DJ from Peterborough in Old Blighty will be at the controls and glitchingly, thunderously headed for the heart of the sun, as it were. Boom. 8pm • $20 • 16+.
Peanut Butter Wolf
courtesy of the artist
Wow, with all this talk of alternate identities and transdimensional spaces encouraged by and created in conjuntion with la musíca, I almost forgot to tell you all aout Christopher George Manak. This cat is better known as Peanut Butter Wolf; he’ll be appearing at Sister (407 Central Ave. NW) on Saturday, July 14. And no, homies he isn’t some fellow you’ll find hanging out in front of the super mercado, me entiendes? In actuality, Peanut Butter Wolf is among the progenitors of hip-hop nation and came up In San Jose, a town in Califas, sabes? His main claim to fame is a super-fine album called My Vinyl Weighs a Ton. In case you have yet to dig this most holy of hip-hop relics from the edge of the millennium, I suggest you tune up with any of the 24 tracks contained therein, but personally favor “Definition of Ill,” “Ten Minutes Left” and the fucking epic closer, “Hawaii 5000.” This is an important show, maybe even big enough to get me away from a Saturday night practice session with Satie. 8pm • $10 advance, $15 door • 21+.