THE FIERY FURNACES
2/2/04 Silverlake Lounge

Packed despite the season's heaviest rain, the Fiery Furnaces' local debut had something of the get-on-the-train-now feel of the White Stripes' first shows here. Singer Eleanor Friedberger is already gaining a rep for "withering intensity" -- that's wrong, though she did stare down a fan who attempted to watch the show seated. She's simply an engaged performer, the kind that years of diffident indie-rockers have trained us not to expect. If anything, her multi-instrumentalist brother Matthew cut the stranger figure: expressionless, with a standard-issue Williamsburg fringe cut, but glancing back at bassist Toshi Yano and Dan D'Oca to indicate actual concern with how the music was coming off.

The Friedbergers have real presence; they've also got real songs. They wisely front-loaded the set with the sharpest, most blues-based numbers from their Gallowsbird's Bark. "Crystal Clear" and "I'm Gonna Run" are a hair precious on record, with their glancing references to off-track betting and the Millennium Dome, but here, in jittery two-guitar arrangements, they read as observant slices of boho exasperation. (Are these songs really "the blues"? No. Are Dylan's?) The pace slackened when Matthew switched to electric piano midset; the unreleased "Chris Michaels," on which the siblings traded verses, seemed aimless on first hearing.

But even this valley had its peaks, notably another new song concerning an abduction fantasy, which morphed into a streamlined cover of the oft-recorded "I Wish I Was Single Again," a public-domain chestnut of indeterminate authorship ("He beat me and mauled me/And threatened to scald me"). The encore was among the more uncomfortable in memory: There was no notable ovation, but no one moved an inch. So the pair returned, bandless, for three numbers in the guitar/vocal format of their first New York shows. After the somber and decidedly unprecious "Rub-Alcohol Blues," they stopped -- then the crowd wanted more. - Franklin Bruno, LA WEEKLY

KRISTIN HERSH in 50 FOOT WAVE
1/27/04 Silverlake Lounge

"I am very, very shy. I am nice, but I'm shy, and when I'm not doing my job, I hate it. Singer-songwriter Kristin Hersh startles me with this admission, partly because it comes well into an interview so congenial and relaxed, it feels more like having coffee and catching up with a long-lost pal. But I am surprised more because shy is not the word that sprang to mind the previous Tuesday night, when the erstwhile leader of pioneering college-rock band Throwing Muses blissfully hollered her way through a thunderous set by her new trio, 50 Foot Wave, at the Fold at the Silverlake Lounge. - LA CITY BEAT

Read the article: http://www.lacitybeat.com/article.php?id=625&IssueNum=34

RICHARD BUCKNER
1/21/04 Silverlake Lounge

After a few minutes of tweaking his levels, Buckner began to whisper a song so softly that many in the audience took a minute to realize the show had started. After that minute, however, the low guttural refrain had crept through the crowd and was now standing in between us all, making us feel physically closer to Buckner than anyone actually was. With this simple magic, Buckner pinned the audience to the floor for the next 90 minutes. There is something singular about Buckner's performanc. Stripped of all theatrics and affectation, he sings his songs without whimsy, condemnation, regret or rancor. It is in this way, perhaps, that he can stir such emotions in his audience. By the end of the set, we'd had conversations with God, our mothers, our lovers and the road. Stories and sentiments that could not be overlooked, propelled into the audience by a man with a smoky voice and an acoustic guitar. - MUSICSPORK

DEERHOOF, VIVA K., EVENING
5/23/03 Derby

Rock is the new dance is the new swing, apparently. It's been 15 months since the Derby relegated the dwindling lindy-hop crowd to the back bar every night but Monday; tonight, Scott Sterling's Fold annexed even that space. The occasion: a screening of Our Time, a well-meaning documentary by Piper Ferguson and Ravi Dhar (also guitarist of the middle-billed Viva K.) that oversells the current Brooklyn-centric garage and electroclash scenes via generous live footage and numbingly repetitive interviews. (Can you say Williamsburg? Can you say it again?) The filmmakers want to make a case for the political urgency of this crop of bands, but inclusions as bland as the Realistics or as witless as W.I.T. don't help. As for the 3-D portion of the lineup: Evening, featured briefly in the film, are a Bay Area five-piece with a tightly coiled rhythm section, a Fender RhodesÐpounding front man and a thorough familiarity with Interpol's effects-box settings. Locals Viva K. were more substantial, despite the so-old-it's-new-again combination of programmed rhythms and Dhar's muscular guitar. (Remember Blackbird?) Except for Love Everybody, their songs were driven less by hooks than by Scott Zweizen's lively bass parts and the compelling presence of singer Christine Evans, a rail-thin, full-throated cross between Karens Carpenter and O. In this fashion-forward company, Deerhoof's near groovelessness was downright invigorating. Bent pop material like Dummy Discards a Heart from their recent Apple O' was transformed into something much further out, thanks to the CreamÐmeetsÐRed Krayola interaction among guitarists John Dietrich and Chris Cohen and drummer Greg Saunier, an inspired, almost overpowering player. These three did most of the heavy lifting, but Japanese-born bassist Satomi Matsuzaki defused their muso machismo in disconcerting ways, as when a lengthy passage of Nels ClineÐworthy instrumental improv was cut off cold by Matsuzaki's stratospheric second-language chirp: Bunny bunny bunny bunny bunny. Franklin Bruno - LA WEEKLY

NEKO CASE
5/20/03 Derby

It wasn't the recent will-she-or-won't-she-pose-for-Playboy rumors that made people press like carnival rubes against the stage, gawking at the attractive enough Neko Case. Besides, beauty's a curse, as she warned on Pretty Girls ( around curves so comely and sinister, they blame it on you, pretty girl). I love her voice, folks kept saying mantralike, almost apologetically, as if to explain why they'd been dragged out of bed or away from other things. You could bask in a voice that big and radiant, and it was especially suited to the room, arcing unbroken along the curving wooden spine of the Derby's inside-the-whale ceiling. Between songs, Case came off as pleasantly self-deprecating, apologizing for sounding like one of those husbandless trolls in their 30s, after a series of sharp asides about friends having babies. She lauded upright bassist Tom V. Ray's ZZ-length beard, and wrestled throughout the set with her stubborn tenor guitar's tuning. These guitars are mad at me, she explained. They've been in the closet a while, and they're having their way. The voice justified all minor distractions, though, coiling up languidly in the arms of the Sylvia & Wood standard Look for Me (I'll Be Around) and trailing off celestially desolate among Jon Rauhouse's pedal-steel shivers on Hank Williams' Alone and Forsaken. While Case imbued these and other writers' tunes Ñ including a contrastingly ebullient version of Bob Dylan's Bucket of Rain Ñ with a modern kind of Patsy Cline/Dusty Springfield charisma, the former punk rocker was most affecting on fervently delivered, multilayered original ballads like Blacklisted and Deep Red Bells. Even with a voice that can fill canyons, it was the somber way she delivered those chilling, more personal words that later carved trails in the memory. (Falling James) - LA WEEKLY

BEDROOM WALLS
5/28/03 Derby

Bedroom Walls describe their music as Romanticore Ñ approximating (among other things) "the last paragraph of The Great Gatsby . . . knowing your ex-girlfriend is happier now . . . sighing too loudly and too often." What sets it apart from typical diary-rock is that this is also music about joy. Joy is a difficult thing to write toward. Joy isn't mere happiness, nor is it ecstasy. Joy may be pleasure you don't earn, simply allow yourself to experience; it's about surrender. Coming back again to the band's mission statement Ñ "knowing your ex-girlfriend is happier now" Ñ this joy is sad and kind of beautiful, the ability to shrug it off. What's familiar is the willingness to be absurd, refusing to let your intelligence become a burden. Because joy is absurd, joy's all about enjoying things more than you should, be they cigarettes, wind or bedroom walls. Even music. Perhaps especially music. Music has to be liked a bit too much. Bedroom Walls make that easy, playing songs with awkward perfection; music to dance to like an idiot, in your room alone, or in the opulently lit Derby. How to convey the music? It's shamelessly melodic, kind of ambient, kind of spaced-out, surprisingly clever. It's like your little sister on drugs, insouciant and a bit off-the-wall. It's all these things, but it's precisely them; this is a personality carefully crafted and practiced. However, pop skill doesn't preclude the need to rock out. It's just that when Bedroom Walls do, they caution the crowd they're about to do so. As exquisite and polite as any dandy. (Russel Swensen) - LA Weekly

GREEN AND YELLOW TV, THE 88, GLISS
4/03/03 Silverlake Lounge

Salvation. That's the word appearing over the stage at the Silver Lake Lounge. And that's what you'll find at the Fold: Salvation from all the I-wanna-sound-like-everyone-else music out there. Especially if you were there April 3rd to see The Green and Yellow TV, The 88, and Gliss. These three bands call Silver Lake home, and portend a bright future for the music scene here. Bright, powerful, indie-pop, that is. Silver Lake has a long history as an incubator of innovative musical acts, and these bands prove that tradition is not letting up. Those who arrived early were treated to an excellent set by Gliss . A relatively new band, they performed with a class and confidence that is not often seen in an opening act. Martin Klingman's vocals weaved in and out of catchy guitar riffs, as he switched between guitar and keyboards .. Setting up stage, The 88 had the appearance of a lounge act. A five-piece in suits and ties, they hit the stage running with their powerful, catchy brand of sophisticated power-pop tunes. Harmonies from the entire band backed the Bud-Holly-esque singer's dynamic vocals. They were tight, together, and very entertaining. The only people having more fun than those in the nearly-full venue were those on the stage. The 88's songs ranged from pop harmonies to wanna-move-your-body grooves to the outright zany and fun. The powerful beats from Green and Yellow TV drummer Dusty, and booming bass left one's head nodding to the beat involuntarily. Brandon from The 88 added to the band's flavor, playing guest percussion through the set. Todd O'Keefe's down-to-earth melodies and pumping guitar suggest influences of indie favorites such as Pavement or even psychedelic classics like the Beatles. The opening harmonies of "The Moon Hoax," or the catchy chorus of mp3.com download favorite "That Says It All" leave one with the feeling that this band will go places. This was a great night, with a line-up of bands that are unlikely to disappoint. The Silver Lake Scene is alive and well. With venues willing to play such great, local, up-and-coming artists, there is much to be heard in Northeast Los Angeles.
- Stephen Messer -Northeast Observer

4/04/03
METRIC have finished their record and it's real good and coming out in June on Enjoy Records.

GWENDOLYN has a new record called 'Dew' and it's beautiful and strange and there's a record release at the Derby on the 27th April.

03/29/03
Brian from the band IRVING separated his shoulder.

During their March residency at the Fold in Silverlake Lounge, The HIGH SPEED SCENE signed a big old contract with the Neptunes' Star Trak label and are gonna make a big old record. Stay tough, boys.

MIDNIGHT MOVIES are gonna be interviewed and perform live in studio on KCRW's Newground show with Chris Douridas. It is supposed to air on Saturday, April 12th or the 19th at 12p on 89.9 FM.

METRIC
2/05/03 Silverlake Lounge

"Welcome to the Metric anti-vanity show," announced the group's lead singer Emily Haines. "We're Metric, and the smoke machine is off. I brought something to read if anyone wants to, a little bit from Einstein." The group launched into a set filled with wordy, new wave-style rock songs. Haines' voice had a post-coital allure, though her lyrics had more to do with the complications that enter relationships after the sex has stopped. The songs were propulsive, effective and unadorned. James Shaw's guitar work was free of tricks. The rhythm section's parts were inherited, not invented. ... Haines' voice is a fabulous instrument -- one moment smoky and redolent like Portishead's Beth Gibbons, the next girly and vacant.... "Dead disco! Dead funk! Dead rock & roll!" she screamed as the band's final rave-up climaxed. " - Alec Hanley Bemis, LA WEEKLY

DEVENDRA BANHART
1/17/03 Silverlake Lounge

As the bearded, black-haired Banhart removed his brown cloche hat and sat Indian-style on an Oriental rug in the middle of the stage, one feared we were in for more posturing. But obviously he is committed to the wigged-out path: He would retain the cross-legged pose for the rest of his performance; a front row of about 20 audience members did the same. This was but the first sign of his power as a performer; his eccentricities had already charmed us. At 11:30, Banhart took out his guitar, asked for a glass of red wine, closed his eyes and began picking out small acoustic figures. When he opened his mouth, he unleashed a beautiful warble that brought to mind 1) black female blues singers from scratchy old 78s; 2) Ravi Shankar; 3) your best-ever psychedelic experience; 4) the blind-man charms of Jose Feliciano, Andre Bocelli and Ray Charles; and 5) a wizened Chinese scholar yawning as he schooled you in the Tao of folk rock. Banhart's lyrics were so freeform as to be almost indescribable, but I'll never forget his couplets about the guy who put ovaries in his mouth so his dogs wouldn't die, or the moment he sang, "My friends are useless hens/they don't lay anymore." A half-hour later, after nine brilliantly inchoate songs and fragments, Banhart was gone.
- Alec Hanley Bemis, LA WEEKLY

THE MUSIC (U.K.)
shot a video at The Fold in Silverlake Lounge on November 16, 2002
here it is

NEKO CASE
11/13/02 Derby

On Blacklisted, Neko Case's breakthrough third solo album, you are struck first by the voice. Think Patsy Cline meets Nick Cave -- beautiful and sad, drenched in reverb, haunted but not unhappy. Case sounds like a wild horse; she is untamed but vital. One might come to a few conclusions about the singer, that she is a bohemian girl, a blowsy drunk, a fun companion for a road trip. After an opening set by old-timey indie rockers Jim Jenny and the Pinetops (think O Brother, Where Art Thou? in thrift-store T-shirts), Case emerged onto the Derby's small stage wearing a formfitting black outfit and a plush cheetah-print hat over a mane of rich red hair thick enough for a shampoo commercial. She removed the hat, and on came Her Boyfriends, a backup band consisting of multi-instrumentalist Jon Rauhouse on banjo, guitar and pedal steel and Tom V. Ray on standup bass. The former had the look of a record geek, the latter of a hillbilly lawn dwarf -- complete with fuzzy beard and corduroy jacket in need of elbow patches. Case's songs focused on emotion and atmosphere. Between the resonance of her voice and the ethereal hum and twang of the minimal backing band, you felt pulled in multiple directions. One minute you were floating, the next you were smashed upon the rocks. The songs never resolve, and in many respects they're a mess: one part Americana, one part overwrought torch song, and -- in a cover of Aretha Franklin's "Runnin' Out of Fools" -- classic R&B. Case definitely lacks the discipline and grace that proper training brings. Still, though you may not remember her particular melodies, there's an abiding beauty you can't forget. It's high drama all around, punctuated by vivid non sequiturs. "It looks a lot like engine oil and tastes like being poor and small and Popsicles in summer," she sang in "Deep Red Bells." With Case it's that time of the month all month long: Everything might go horribly wrong, but the depth of feeling makes it so all right that you're willing to ride that roller-coaster valentine for the rest of your life. "Your heart is so trite and so innocent while your flimsy blue gown's tied around you, around curves so comely and sinister," she sings in "Pretty Girls." Then she reveals what she's all worked up about: "They blame it on you pretty girls." Alec Hanley Bemis - LA WEEKLY

THE POLYPHONIC SPREE
10/02/02 Derby

When Tripping Daisy guitarist Wes Berggren overdosed in 1999, it seemed another talented team would never reach their full potential. But, far from rolling over into obscurity, the Daisy boys returned with Polyphonic Spree, a superambitious, 25-piece coed ensemble who joyously deliver an unholy "Did I dream that?" crossbreed of '60s Brit-pop and boisterous Southern evangelism. Since being the talk of this year's SXSW conference, this Dallas band/cult have been riding the critical wave into packed clubs, and their first California appearance at a sold-out Derby was suitably humming with anticipation. Having processed through the crowd, the white-robed Spree took their places on a busy stage while front man Tim DeLaughter's unmiked opening speech reduced the crowd to a whisper. While Polyphonic's songwriting, though accomplished, is no revolution -- rollicking Sgt. Pepper's romps driven by throbbing bass, horn fanfares and perky keys -- it's the delivery that's so remarkable. Though in essence a fleshed-out rock band, the Spree's 10-strong chorus croons a mostly lyricless angelic backdrop crisscrossed by flute, harp and theremin, weaving breezy, psychedelic threads into crushing crescendos -- a '70s movie soundtrack made flesh. Watching Polyphonic Spree is like witnessing Tommy unfold in real time, at club level, and credit is due to DeLaughter and co. for not restricting their vision to conventional pop parameters and doing whatever it takes to create the sounds in their heads despite the obvious logistical nightmares. Polyphonic Spree are inspiring to the point of being subversive, more genuinely dangerous than any detuned angst merchants could ever be. Their pogoing, hand-wringing, arms-aloft ecstasy makes them the sect everyone wants to join -- and let's hope this is drug-induced, 'cause the alternative is truly terrifying. After Polyphonic Spree, how can we ever return to just four guys with guitars again? Paul Rogers - LA WEEKLY

09/06/02

a message from meltazose: >start transmission hello. i have been programmed to fill you in. as you know, autolux has not been playing shows in the last couple of months. there are a couple of reasons for this. reason number one: autolux has just signed to a new label that The Coen Brothers and T-Bone Burnett started. it is called DMZ and is distributed by Columbia records. autolux has been writing and shall be going into a studio in late October to start recording a full length record. reason number two: on may 31st, 2002 autolux opened for elvis costello at the kodak theater in los angeles. directly following the show, carla fell and broke her elbow. it was severe enough to warrant having surgery a few days later. she now has 8 titanium screws in her elbow. permanently. the doctor who operated (Dr. John Itamura) is a futuristic man of great skill. he repaired her elbow. carla had to refrain from playing drums for 2 months (hence, no autolux shows) but is now past the mental and psychological anguish, fully recovered and playing every day. i have enclosed a link to the x-ray of her repaired elbow. http://www.autolux.net/elbowmadness.html if you have any questions you can contact Robert Densworth at rdensworth@earthlink.net thank you. Meltazose Robotic Luminoid, Achaian Series 2L >end transmission

JONATHAN RICHMAN
8/22/02 Silverlake Lounge

Nailed above the stage of the Silverlake Lounge is a sign that says "SALVATION," made up of many tiny white lights. It floats above performers' heads like a thought bubble, a halo, an annotation. Jonathan Richman's three-night, sold-out stand at the 100-something-capacity club was a match made in a special kind of heaven where seedy evenings come to innocent ends. The venue does double duty most weeks. On Fridays and Saturdays it's a gay bar that targets the Latino demographic and plays host to mariachi bands and drag queens. A succession of indie up-and-comers and the occasional alt-rock star fill the place (or don't) during the week. But Richman's set allowed you to imagine a club that could unify the two scenes, creating an ideal Tijuana of the mind -- a TJ where the donkeys aren't spray-painted like zebras so frat boys can take their pictures next to them, and where the whores would be loved, truly loved, by fragile Johns named Jonathan. Preceding "El Joven Se Estremece" ("The Youth Trembles"), a song about a young man's fears upon his first visit to a bordello, an audience member asked Richman if he knew the Spanish term for prostitute. "Puta," he replied. "But I'm not going to need that word." The 18-song, hourlong set was filled with the eccentric staples that have earned Richman his intense cult following: the songs sung in Spanish and Hebrew as a kind of sideways tribute to French chanson singers such as Charles Aznavour and Edith Piaf; the ballads about affections lived through the body of an adult, but viewed with the glee of a kindergartner; the ragtag collection of idols (Pablo Picasso, Velvet Underground, Harpo Marx) to whom he dedicates his songs; amplification levels set so low that he'll be able to rock & roll tinnitus-free into his latter years. "Just because we're getting older doesn't mean we have to close up shop," he sang in the evening's first song. Richman's between-song banter highlighted his precious, Luddite world-view. Early in his set, he relayed a message from one of the 50 people lined up outside the club, hoping to get in. "Nate, your friend Dan tried to make it, but he couldn't come," Richman told the audience member. "He's gonna send you a note tomorrow. Some kind of mail." (E-mail, Jonathan. It's called e-mail.) The Silverlake Lounge was the perfect home for Richman's music. You could get close enough to see his sad, Margaret KeaneÐ meetsÐvan Gogh eyes, and the sordid yet virtuous vibe made crowd-pleasers like "I Was Dancing at the Lesbian Bar" extra vivid. "In the first bar, things were stop and stare," sang Jonathan, his adenoidal croon overpowering drummer Tommy Larkins' disco beat, "but in this bar, things were laissez faire." Right then Richman unslung his acoustic, unleashing a hip-grinding dance solo. Alec Hanley Bemis [LA Weekly]

DNTEL, ATHALIA, BEDROOM WALLS
7/26/02 Derby

Quite an eclectic night of music at the Derby. Arriving 10-ish, we caught the tail end of Bedroom Walls' set, which closed with a darn good rendition of "The Killing Moon" by the Bunnymen -- you just never get sick of hearing that song. The vocals were right on the money, bendy lilts and all, and the audience was impressed, though slightly hyperactive. Following Bedroom Walls' set was Athalia. Now there were some good moments here: juicy, dissonant then melodic guitar sounds suggestive of Slint, interesting beats and solid song structures. It was definitely above average, but there wasn't quite enough to sink one's teeth into. Dntel: Boy, Jimmy Tamborello has elevated the art of listening. Nearly a third of the crowd sat cross-legged on the Derby's floor, quietly watching Dntel's intricate set, which was enhanced with beautiful projected visuals. The instrument setup included a Gretsch played with a bow, two G4s, an accordion and what looked like the electrical workings of a NASA control panel. One song in particular started off with a melody line similar to "But Not Tonight" by Depeche Mode coupled with quiet vocals and effects that eventually built into a cacophony of thumping drum & bass beats and guitar. Tamborello's facial expressions often insinuated that he was scrambling looking for the correct knob to turn or line to sing, but every note, beat and visual element flowed with perfect synchronicity. Until Sigur R--s come back to town, Dntel will more than ably fill the need for shoegazy electronic pop in Los Angeles. - Tatiana Simonian [LA Weekly]

THE KILLS
07/18/02 Silverlake Lounge

The Kills are a duo, a self-proclaimed lawless, left-field Bonnie and Clyde of rock & roll. The British dude (code name: Hotel) triggers the drum machine, plays droning, bug-eyed Velvets-blues guitar and sings in a monotone. The American chick (code name: VV) plays guitar sometimes, hangs her long hair like a lampshade across her face, and sings like Chrissie Hynde crossed with PJ Harvey and Royal Trux's Jennifer Herema: sass and bourbon, croons and sighs. They've played together for less than a year and already have several songs that sound like deserved radio hits: hot stuff with grooves, builds and explosive choruses. Live, VV and Hotel play like one of the great rock & roll couples -- locking stares, making motions and sounds charged with private meaning, etc. -- but even Ike and Tina (and Neil and Jennifer, Iggy and Bowie, Kurt 'n' Courtney) never performed regularly as a duo. The Kills do this, taking the stakes higher, making everything that much edgier, pushing the audience into voyeur territory. Watching the Kills bumping and grinding for each other with such joy and abandon, I felt like one of those fans at Toronto's baseball stadium who a few years ago were treated to a midgame sex show by a couple going at it in their private hotel room above the SkyDome's outfield fence, unaware that the entire stadium could see what they were doing. Those fans didn't avert their eyes: They cheered. It didn't matter how many times they'd done it, or seen it -- good sex was still something to be celebrated. - Jay Babcock [LA Weekly]

MIKE STINSON
7/14/02 Derby

A couple of weeks back, we caught a last-minute set by singer/songwriter Mike Stinson at the Derby in Los Angeles and were duly impressed when we bought his debut album Jack of All Heartache, on his own Big Ol' Records imprint. Stinson is still pretty much a local phenomenon on the L.A. country-rock scene. A Virginia native, he moved to Southern California 11 years ago and played in what he calls "country-fried rock bands" like the High Horses and the Second Fiddles before striking out on his own about a year ago. A regular performer at the Derby and Culver City's Cinema Bar, he first set up shop at the Silverlake Lounge, which he describes as "kind of a trashy beer joint, [so] my music fits very well there." Fit well, it does. Stinson is a class-A songwriter in the old-fangled honky-tonk mode; he cites role models as varied as Willie Nelson, Merle Haggard, George Jones, and Ray Price alongside such adept rock songwriters as Neil Young and Bob Dylan. Naturally, as he lives in L.A., Gram Parsons has a key position in his style. His bottle-full-o'-heartbreak tunes owe a clear debt to the late Flying Burrito Brothers maestro; physically, Stinson resembles a pug-dog version of Parsons. Stinson is a formidable songsmith, and there's nary a clinker among the nine originals on his album. The title cut, "Late Great Golden State," and "When My Angel Gets High" lead the pack qualitatively. He is backed on the album and live by a top-flight band fronted by guitarist Tony Gilkyson, a do-anything picker best-known for his stint in X. "We did a couple of coffeehouse things acoustically," Stinson says of Gilkyson. "He volunteered his band to back me up and do some proper gigs. It was 'instant band.' He's an absolutely perfect compliment." - Billboard Magazine, by Chris Morris

LIFT TO EXPERIENCE
6/29/02 Silver Lake Lounge, 6/30/02 Derby

Talk about cojones: These boys opened with "Kashmir." Is there really anything to add? Okay, here: A guitar-bass-drums trio from Denton, Texas, going onstage at 7:15 p.m. on a Saturday night; that stage being in a small, hole-in-the-hood Silver Lake bar not particularly suited to magnificence; playing to a hundred or so folks -- some club regulars, some bar regulars, some AA-meeting-next-door spillover, some just curious, almost none familiar with the band. Think about it a sec: choosing to cover Led Zeppelin, the most popular rock & roll band of all time -- and not just any song by that band, but "Kashmir," for crissakes, easily Zep's most massive, exotic track -- and not just cover it in the middle of the set, or as an encore, but as an opener, as something you're gonna have to try and follow. And it's a genius move. If you're a (relatively) young band playing to an unfamiliar, alien (and jaded L.A.) audience, opening your set with "Kashmir" certainly gets attention. And if you can seam it into an instrumental cover of one of your own songs -- as LtE did the first night, seguing into "Just Was Told" -- you're showing a staggering amount of confidence and ambition. Then again, it's not likely you'd have a problem getting a response in the first place, looking how you do: that is, with a horned bull skull stage center, a Texas flag draped over the bass amp; Josh (The Bear) Browning -- a bass throbber of burly frame, serious beardage and eyes-closed concentration; Andy Young, a drummer with the build of the sturdiest steak house either side of the Rio Grande, leaning forward on the stool Keith MoonÐlike, switching between mallets, drumsticks and handclaps, cymbals in perpetual perpendicularity; and Josh T. Pearson, a gangly, scraggly-haired guitarist-vocalist in biker Nudiewear and bracelets, wearing a cowboy hat ringed by thorns. And then there's your music, introduced periodically as being from your album, which is about the final battle between Good and Evil that will occur in the Promised Land, which, you remind us, is actually Texas. Cue guffaw track from the local agnostics, followed by open-mouthed, slow-headbanging awe, as they realize you artist-mystics mean it in the deepest way. The rhythm is muscular, spacious, dynamic; the guitar is meditative, gossamer drone parted by noise mass and riff shapes; and the vocals, when they finally come, are uniquely full and rich -- triumphant yet resigned -- sung in a beautiful voice of steady comfort. When you open that Saturday-night show at that little bar on Sunset, you're standing below a neon sign that says "Salvation." You can't lose. By the time you finish Sunday night's Derby show with an epic rendition of your debut, double-disc concept album's 10-minute-plus apoclimactic closer "Into the Storm," you've made a missionary-zealot pout of everyone. After all, you are the most exciting, fully formed art-rock band to bow since Sigur R--s. You're the kind of band that can follow Zeppelin. by Jay Babcock [LA Weekly]

THE RATTLESNAKES
6/27/02 Silverlake Lounge

These days, when someone tells you that a band is from "out of town," they may just mean Corona, as was the case with the Rattlesnakes' show at the Fold. The band even made do without a tour bus or roadies, amazing for such a long journey from their foreign Inland Empire terrain. They invaded the strange, exotic land of L.A., and kicked more than a little ass. The distortion was up and the sweat was flowing. Onstage, the Rattlesnakes seemed more genuinely charismatic and electrifying than most so-called rock & roll combos around. From their unison choral shouts and solid, grooving bass lines to singer Nathan's Tasmanian devil?like stage movements, the band was on fire. While it's certainly possible to say that the Rattlesnakes' music has hints of the solid '70s rock sound currently enjoying a revival, it'd be just as possible to reach further back and say that the honesty the Rattlesnakes bring to their music reminds one of the time when rock & roll was new, threatening and nearly illegal. In a time when many rock bands have dissected music into a cold science with the clear intent of striking it rich, the Rattlesnakes are shakin' the system, raising the volume, and sweating all over you in the process. by Tatiana Simonian [LA Weekly]

THE RATTLESNAKES
CRACK (WE ARE ROCK), BRAD LANER, KID606, SEKSU ROBA
5/17/02 Derby

Crack (We Are Rock) charmed tonight's Gauloise-smoking fobs right out of their ennui-filled poses and onto the dance floor. Looking all of 12 years old in their matching white sleeveless gowns, Crack's leading ladies intoned fem-bot lyrics over keyboard riffs and drum machines "manned" by two faceless guys in back. I later asked the band if it was the droid-drones who composed the songs. "Oh, we're just front women -- we couldn't possibly have written any of the music." Never expect a straight answer from a San Francisco band. Schlubbily dressed in everyday jeans and button-down shirt, Electric Company's Brad Laner layered reams of texture into grating-lovely-intriguing things. One of L.A.'s more far-reaching noise/sound/rock weirdos, Laner seems to take a lot of cues from television, as vaguely familiar theme songs and scores got clusterfucked every which way but loose -- just don't call it "explorations in pure sound" or collage or shit like that, 'cause there was definitely a narrative at work here. This assertion was later confirmed with sober fans, so you know it's not the Dextromathorphan talking. There's a new paradigm for entertainers: Stand still, like a post, and avoid eye contact with the audience. Sounds dull? We defy you not to become transfixed by San Diego's Kid606 (22-year-old Miguel Depedro), the most accomplished digital-punk in the U.S. With face aglow from his dual PowerBooks, Depedro soon developed rosy medallions on his cheeks, giving 110 percent to a drill & bass-gabber-techstep onslaught cut with enough cheese-pop to keep the mix humorous and grooving. Feeling us out before launching into the encore, he asked, "Hard stuff? Soft stuff?" This kid may be more programmer than rock star, but at the end of the day even laptop-geeks are crowd pleasers. Kevin Lee, a.k.a. Seksu Roba, does the bachelor-pad thing as well as any keen disciple of Esquivel, but this Crippled Dick recording artist invests his fluffly lounge chic with hip-swiveling heft. Tonight he got sci-fi on us with woozy theremin while sidekick Lunna Menoh -- in a satin majorette's leotard -- spun a mean baton. To play percussion, Lee even brought aboard a pneumatically controlled tin man (!). It was no Neil Peart, but it easily kept better time than those animatronic players at Chucky Cheez.

"When was the last time you had to buy advance tickets to see a local band play your neighborhood? That's the case in Silverlake, where people clamor to see Autolux, the freshest thing to have come out of L.A. in far too long. Drummer Carla Azar, guitarist Greg Edwards and bassist Eugene Goreshter all have well-rounded histories with stints in bands like Ednaswap, Failure and Maids of Gravity. As Autolux, they deliver post-psyche-delic noise-pop that's positively captivating. Don't let California slide into the ocean without first witnessing this trio's vibrant squall first-hand."  
Jason Pettigrew - Alternative Press

VENDETTA RED, who have a show upcoming at SIlverlake Lounge on February 20th, 2002 with 400 BLOWS and LIVING THINGS, just inked some deal repotedly in the 3 million dollar to 5 million dollar range with Epic...They will be providing the drink tickets on February 20th....

Apparently, the B.R.M.C. set opening for Oasis (this is getting wierd) at Royal Albert Hall had to be cut just a bit short to make time for a set from Richard Ashcroft.