Kansas City Music Blog

BY ELGIN SMITH

The second night of Widespread Panic's engagement at the Midland Theater definitely started off with more of a well-rounded sound than the first show of the band's two-night stand at the Midland did. The band kicked off last night's first set with "Ain't Life Grand," and I was immediately struck by how it (and the first few numbers) didn't go over the top with rapid-fire guitar solos. Guitarist Jimmy Herring was playing "with" the band, something I felt he elected not to do on Tuesday.

Elgin Smith

Look familiar?

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Most of the first set kept the audience cheering, with only one extended jam. "Up All Night" was a crowd favorite, and the people in last nigh'ts crowd -- greater in number than on Tuesday -- let Panic know how they felt.

Herring sounded great on "Little Lilly," showing a melodic side that I hadn't really heard before. The last selection of the first set was a cover of Taj Mahal's blues staple, "She Caught the Katy." This song has been covered by a ton of people, and Panic definitely gave it more of a rock treatment. To my ears, it just seemed like a Skynyrd-ized version of the song, with a faster tempo and not much feeling. While the crowd seemed to get into it, I've gotta say it didn't even come close to the catchy, walking-bass version that Blues Brothers fans are used to.

BY ELGIN SMITH

After hearing so much about Widespread Panic over the past few years, I decided it was finally time to take the plunge and check the band out in concert. While I knew of Widespread's heroic status in the upper echelons of jam, I had only heard a few songs here and there, and figured that these cats probably saved their best stuff for their live shows.

Unfortunately, the music that I heard during most of last night's show just wasn't that interesting.

Elgin Smith

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The show started with a couple of medium tempo numbers that sounded OK, but after three of them, I was really wondering if the show was going to go anywhere. Guitarist Jimmy Herring was certainly in high gear from the get-go, blasting through a ton of notes on each solo.

However, I soon realized that Panic's livelihood really depends on an aggressive guitarist like Herring, the group's compositions relying on his playing almost to a fault. I'm certainly not saying he isn't a skilled, competent guitar player. However, his hasty, non-melodic riffs just seemed to lack continuity and gave the band a one-dimensional sound. Combine that with John Bell's unclear, waffling vocals, and most of the songs became very predictable.

Percussionist Chico Ortiz could barely be heard, except for one song that featured him on congos, followed by him playing a didgeridoo into a microphone (actually, that was pretty cool).

The first set ended with my impression that they sounded remotely like a diluted, half-speed version of an Allman Brothers song. Not the Allman Brothers Band as a whole (which I'm a huge fan of, and which has produced music which is both interesting and lengthy), just one of their songs. Half speed, over and over.

Ever since Rob Zombie left the Uptown's stage a few minutes after midnight this past Saturday, I've wondered whether I should unburden myself of a decades-old secret in this review. Maybe it was the way Zombie's show itself was sort of confusing -- one minute burning as fast and clean as the hot-rods he sings about, another watching Zombie shrug through a cover of a cover of a Eurythmics song for no discernible reason. Maybe it was all the porn. Rob Zombie has a lot of porn, and he wants to share it with you.

I struggled, but yes, the time has come to admit something. It is a horrible truth.

I made Rob Zombie. I stitched him together in my basement in the late '80s. It's all my fault. And I am not ashamed. 

Jason Harper

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Going into a show aware of an artist's reputation, but completely unfamiliar with any of that artist's material is a double-edged sword. I've not a clue as to how any of Brendan Benson's studio work compared with the live show he and his band put on Saturday night at the Bottleneck. Thus, while being completely ignorant with anything he's done, I'm going into this without any preconceived notions.

Nick Spacek

Brendan Benson

​I can state categorically that every single word of praise I heard from friends was 100 percent deserved by Mr. Benson. In fact, I can think of no higher praise than the fact that I ran into Tim Gutschenritter, owner of the Riot Room. His birthday was at midnight, and rather than hang in Kansas City, he chose to make the drive to Lawrence to see Brendan Benson. If a club owner takes his birthday off to see an artist, it's probably an artist worth seeing.

While the show was decently populated, it didn't seem many people shared Gutschenritter's affinity for Benson. The club was mostly full in the area immediately in front of the stage, but the bleachers were mostly empty, and the booths lining the raised portion along the club's south wall were empty, save for a few.

Benson and his band played a solid set that ran just over an hour, playing songs that seemed to draw equally from all of his releases, with a slight emphasis on this year's My Old, Familiar Friend. Benson's vocal delivery style is conversational, taking equal parts Frank Sinatra and Robin Zander of Cheap Trick to create a pop singer that has a little class.

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The band was tight. It's an interesting thing to note that most of the mid-level power-pop acts that tour regularly, like Benson (or any of the mid to late '90s alt-rock acts still plying their trade) tend to have a band that knows how to knock out the songs in a way that makes you forget that they're playing them live. Every guitar lick, drum beat, bass line and vocal aren't a bit out of place, and you could close your eyes and imagine that you're just listening to an album on a gigantic sound system.

In a rare feat of sexiness for the Wayward Blog, we actually have pictures of bona fide good-looking people for you to ogle today. Hollywood, here we come!

These shots were taken at the Rock 'N Fashion party this past Saturday at Crosstown Station, where designers Oblivion, Robert Anthony, Abigail Carolina, Wop on Top, Betsey Johnson, Envolve and Evil Pawn showed their wares alongside performances by Pet Comfort, Action Figure and Heroes and Villains. We don't know who anyone is or what/who they're wearing. It's sexy though. Promise.

Scott Spychalski

Click for more rock and fashion.

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When the headliner bails, it's a crap shoot as to whether or not the show cobbled together from the remnants will be worth a good goddamn or not. When your headliner is a duo as energetic, exciting, and entertaining as the Kentucky-detained King Khan & BBQ Show, any band trying to please the people expecting them is fighting an uphill battle.

Nick Spacek

Those Darlins

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Those Darlins would've been a fantastic opener. As a headliner, they leave a little bit to be desired. I'd not been particularly entertained by their self-titled debut, finding the blend of country and Vivian Girls lo-fi garage a better idea than actuality. On that album, I'd been able to enjoy about one song before getting bored and uninterested. Live, the band was able to hold my attention for about two songs -- three, if you count the solo number crooned by the gentleman sporting an evening gown and five o'clock shadow the rest of the band called "mom."

Part of the problem may have been the fact that Jessi Darlin has a voice that brings to mind someone like Kasey Chambers. That wouldn't be a bad idea if they were playing Kasey Chambers' style of music, keeping everything to a country bomm-chick rhythm. Those Darlins play country-tinged garage at a Ramones pace, however, and yelping that country twang takes the vocal delivery into the realm of Melt Banana annoyance after a little bit.

Now, I don't want that to take away from the fact that the band is an energetic presence on stage. For the crowd that said, "Fuck it. We're seein' a show tonight, I don't care who's playing," the band gave a performance. Bassist Kelley Darlin, clad in leotard and tutu, was bouncing around like a five year old on too much sugar, and the enthusiasm of the band is evident. While the Vivian Girls comparisons pretty much evaporate once the band takes the stage (Those Darlins move around, for one), the band is still lacking some definition in their songs. Everything's played in the same tempo, with one song bleeding into another, to the point where I probably couldn't tell you what songs they played with a lyric sheet and full video of the show.

Let's just put it this way: if you put three attractive young women in tight outfits on stage, and have the rather busty bass player jump up and down for the entire set, and I'm still having trouble finding anything interesting in the band, you might want to mix things up a little bit.

BY IAN HRABE

A year ago, on a whim, I saw Why? play the Jackpot. I never see bands on a whim. In those days, I had to have some sort of investment to fork over ten bucks to see a band, but having nothing else to do, I ended up watching Yoni Wolf put on one of the best shows I'd ever seen.

Ian Hrabe

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It wasn't necessarily the thrill of discovering a new band to obsess over, but it was how the one-man bandleader sold it. Wolf spent most of the set behind a small drum kit in front of the stage and stared out at the audience with a piercing gaze, which contrasted nicely with the humorous stage banter.

This time around, about a year later, Why? has dropped yet another album, Eskimo Snow, which is the furthest Wolf has strayed from the alt-hip-hop he began crafting with cLOUDDEAD in the late 90s.

Based on the nearly sold-out crowd at the Jackpot last night, Why? is huge now. This time around, Wolf was backed by a full band and assumed the role of frontman, delivering his lyrics like an emcee at half speed.

(Video after the jump.)

The ticket admonished: "8 p.m. sharp." And at 7:58 last night, the lights inside the Midland dimmed, and a low-voltage current of recorded flamenco music swept six musicians and three singers onto the stage. Then Leonard Cohen bounded out -- bounded, like someone on his way to high-five Scottie Pippen and Michael Jordan. The first song: "Dance Me to the End of Love." Mission accomplished.

Scott Spychalski

Leonard Cohen, opening with "Dance Me to the End of Love"

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The 75-year-old poet and songwriter spent three and a half hours (less an intermission) dancing an enraptured crowd to the farthest reaches of ... well, if not love, then whatever it is that animates his graceful ballads of devotion and dissipation. All night he prowled the stage with feline grace -- crouching fast in supplication to his own lyrics, twisting upward on his toes when the beat kicked in, doffing his narrow-brimmed fedora in courtly deference to his backing singers, locking his knees together in mock-Jagger sexual panic. To call him merely spry would do a disservice to senior water-aerobics classes everywhere. What should have looked like Abe Vigoda auditioning for the Backstreet Boys was closer to seeing Michael Jackson moonwalk for the first time. No one who was there will forget it.

BY IAN HRABE

Right before Dirty Projectors went on, I overheard someone on the balcony talking about the Talking Heads concert film Stop Making Sense. Talking Heads come up a lot when people talk about Dirty Projectors, enough that now they are being heralded as the heir apparent to art pop. And with good reason, too.

Ian Hrabe

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Like Heads frontman David Byrne, Dave Longstreth works with complex song structures and experimental-leaning arrangements to craft what are essentially artsy pop songs. After toiling away for years and touting a discography featuring a "glitch opera" about Don Henley and a reworking of Black Flag's Damaged LP from memory, Longstreth has achieved his magnum opus with Dirty Projectors latest record, Bitte Orca, and brought almost all of those songs with him to the Granada last night.

One element of Dirty Projectors sound that makes them so unique is Longstreth's guitar work, and after watching him play I realized how he achieves this: He approaches the guitar like someone who has never seen one in use. He'd modified a right handed Stratocaster so it appeared as if he was playing the guitar upside down, which only added to the effect. On top of this, both of his hands looked like those of someone pretending to play the guitar. His fingers were all over the place, yet somehow every note fit perfectly, like in a John Coltrane sax solo.

Was it a testament to Snoop Dogg's market value or to a hunger for '90s nostalgia that there was an hourlong wait to get into the VooDoo Lounge at Harrah's Casino Friday night?

Of course, the wand-equipped security probably had a lot to do with the wait time, but the place was packed. And smoky. And rowdy as hell. By the time I finally got in, around 9:30 (after arriving at 8 and killing time on the casino floor while the line died down), I witnessed security guards gently escorting out a girl for being too wasted to carry on.

Snoop Dogg's strangely named Wonderland High School Tour was a freakin' ruckus. Midway through the second-on-the-bill, damn-near show-stealing set from Method Man & Redman, I ran into an acquaintance who announced, "I already have crazy stories from tonight!"

Actually, it kind of was like a high school party.

Scott Spychalski

Click for slide show.

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As Valient Thorr set up before their set at the Jackpot Friday night, my friends Jason and Mike stood in front of the stage chanting the following: "P-A-R-T-Y, WE DON'T NEED NO ALIBI! WE PARTY! HEY, HEY, WE PARTY!"

Nick Spacek

​Sadly, it didn't catch on, but one can dream of an entire bar, packed with Thorriors chanting that, and it makes for warm fuzzies. As it is, however, Valient Thorr doesn't inspire half-assedness when it comes to an audience. The crowd at the Jackpot was throwing fists in the air, clapping in time, and headbanging.

Nick Spacek

​And when I say "headbanging," I mean headbanging: long hair flying and heads whipping from side to side like the front row of the audience had practiced beforehand. It was the sort of behavior which one never sees anymore, and right in line with what Valient Himself said as he introduced Immortalizer's "I Hope the Ghosts of the Dead Haunt Yr Soul Forever": "Don't let them think that rocking isn't your fucking priority."

The audience was only giving back what it was getting, too. Valient Thorr puts on a show. Valient's between-song banter is ten times crazier than anything you might find Paul Stanley say on any KISS live album. Plus, the band managed to play with such fervor that a few songs I'd initially dismissed -- particularly "Infinite Lives," a song that compares the war in Iraq to a video game -- were given a lot more energy and breadth, leading me to see them in a new light.

Standing at the front of the stage before Old Crow Medicine Show went on, I counted the following: 3 banjos, 3 acoustic guitars, 3 fiddles, 1 electric guitar, 1 electric bass, 1 stand-up bass, 1 organ, and 1 drum kit. That's a lot of instrumentation. Specifically, that's a lot of stringed instrumentation, and it's those strings that hamstrung OCMS over the course of their two sets at Liberty Hall last night.

Nick Spacek

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Thanks to the frantic playing Willie Watson exhibited, he broke something like six or seven strings throughout the show. The first couple of times, it was somewhat amusing, in a "man, those cats can PLAY!" sort of thing, but as their first set progressed, it got to killing any momentum the band might've had.

The first of the two sets yielded a lot of problems for me beyond the broken strings. First of all, the band couldn't lay all the mishaps on Watson. Rather than building energy with a series of energetic tunes, and then bringing it down with a slower number, the whole set went fast song, slow song, fast song, slow song, not allowing any sort of energy to get built up.

Nick Spacek

​And, really -- it's on the fast songs where Old Crow Medicine Show shines. Ketch Secor and Watson can harmonize like nobody's business, and when Gill Landry joins in (especially on something like "Big Time In The Jungle"), those three-part harmonies are just gorgeous. But when Morgan Jahnig really gets to let loose on the upright bass during the faster numbers, the whole band's sound gets a little more rhythm and low end. Really good country numbers, like George Jones' "White Lightning" or anything Johnny Cash and the Tennessee Three did, have a country rhythm created with a double-slap on the bass -- basically, every good country song sounds like it was set to the beat of a train. Old Crow sorely lacks that rhythm.

With fiery vocals, spunky 'tude and faux-angsty pop-punk sound, singer Hayley Williams, her band boys -- Josh Farro, Jeremy Davis, Zac Farro and Taylor York -- and her famously brightly-dyed hair have been inspiring precious pink-haired teenagers under their now-famous moniker of Paramore since 2004.

Scott Spychalski

Click for more Paramore pics.

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Tempering the punch of their punk influences with their openly Christian beliefs and down-home Southern charm, Paramore has perfected its own bizarre concoction of religion, angst and pop, creating the perfect punk indulgence for mainstream teenagers.

Musically, Paramore is sheer teen scenester bliss (think Panic! at the Disco and Motion City Soundtrack); but politically, Paramore is candy-coated good clean fun, all wrapped up in a shiny pink-and-black bow that leaves a nation full of faintly (only faintly) rebellious tweens salivating for more.

And so, after successfully duking it out with a nasty case of laryngitis earlier this fall, Williams and the boys are back on the road supporting their newest album, Brand New Eyes--and if last night's show at the Uptown is any indication, they are tearing that shit up.

Even though the Bouncing Souls hail from New Jersey, they're still Yankees' fans. So, the Souls playing the night the Yankees win the World Series makes for a pretty cheery band. The close and cozy environs of the Riot Room helped a lot, too. Unfortunately, the show wasn't a sell-out, even moving from the Beaumont, and the show became 21 and up with the move, as well.

Nick Spacek

Pete Steinkopf of the Bouncing Souls

​One can't help but wonder if the reason the Bouncing Souls were playing such a small venue was due to the fact that Paramore was right down the street at the Uptown. Paramore, despite their rather recent appearance in the pop-punk scene, are fucking HUGE, and probably poached the entire all-ages contingent that would have otherwise attended the Souls show, especially considering the all-ages appeal of Broadway Calls and Bayside.

Enthusiastic fans probably helped the band be in such a good mood, too -- standing in front meant that you were apt to get knocked horizontal, and possibly have your knees banged up and lacerated to the point of hobbling to your car and rueing everytime you have to work the clutch on the drive home. Look at that setlist, though: the Souls' first five songs alone were worth the knee damage.

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The whole band was tight as hell. It was my third time seeing them this year, so I wasn't nearly as jazzed as I might have been. The set they played was pretty similar to their Warped Tour set, which was basically just a condensed version of the set I saw them play at Red 7 during SXSW back in March. The show's good, but I remember why it'd been 11 years since I saw them last.

When a band's been around as long as the Bouncing Souls, they get tight, and they put on a great show, but it's just a variation on a theme. With some exceptions, you know that the Bouncing Souls are going to play a similar show every time you see them. They'll come out to "Born to Run," do the acoustic version of "Hybrid Moments," and play the hits. You'll get a couple new ones, and then they're gone.

REVIEW BY IAN HRABE

I distinctly remember seeing Pedro the Lion CDs at the Christian bookstore in Olathe when I was a kid. My grandma used to take us there. I thought it was a cool band name, though I had no interest in music at the time.

illustration by Ian Hrabe

​Ten or so years later, finding David Bazan's latest release, Curse Your Branches, at a Christian bookstore might constitute blasphemy. Though his music and style have remained quite similar, lyrically Bazan has gone from folding his faith and beliefs into his music to having a serious bone to pick with God. And Branches is his best, most vital sounding release since 2002's Control.

Despite this self-inflicted fall from grace, he hasn't lost any fans. If anything, he's gained some, given that Friday's show at the Jackpot was packed arm to arm: a sea of flannel and beards as far as the eye could see.

The opener, Seattle's Say Hi (née Say Hi To Your Mom), played some really decent, catchy indie-rock. Their songs ran on a little long and had a tendency to repeat choruses over and over again, but the hooks were good enough to keep the songs from getting too stale. The bassist and singer/guitarist also played in Bazan's band of hired hands, contributing to the overall beardiness of the backing band.

I was miserable for most of last night's KRBZ's Buzz Halloweenie Roast at the Beaumont. I felt like an alley cat -- friendless, weatherbeaten, a scavenging creature of the night. I had a bad cold coming on (whose intensification today accounts for the lateness of this review) and, what's worse, I had a rock in my shoe. There's nothing like a bad cold and a rock in your shoe to remind you that the life of a man is "solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short."

Scott Spychalski

Click on Adam Lee for more Halloweenie pics.

Because the mini-fest started so early, I missed two of the most buzzed-about bands: Missourah-bred indie darlings White Rabbits and the soul-funk-slaying Black Joe Lewis, who had horns, apparently. I missed the horns!

Lots of people were in costume. My costume: Anti-Social Bastard.

Yes, for the better part of three hours, I was feeling like a scornful wretch -- and it was no one's fault, really. I do not blame the Buzz, nor the Beaumont (though admittedly it's not a good venue to be depressed in) nor any band, woman or beast. My heroes Adam and Johnny of Adam Lee and the Dead Horse Sound Company (pictured above) couldn't cheer me up after I ran into them, all smiles and fancy suits after their mega-early 5:30 gig. It was just that kind of night.

And then Jet came on.

More on that in a minute.

Scott Spychalski

Click on Raveonettes Sharin Foo for more 'weenie.

First: the Raveonettes. This Danish band, comprised at its core of chesspiece-matched duo Sune Rose Wagner and Sharin Foo, plays the kind of music that sounds good if you've been smoking cigarettes and fucking all weekend. (I imagine it's even better if you replace the cigs with ganja, but I'm not much for the herb, so I wouldn't know.) It's mellow but distorted, smooth but frazzled, catchy but angsty. And its inner, echoing heart-shaped box contains sweet pop rocks, just like the group's main sonic influence. Unfortunately, PA problems -- which seemed to be connected to the way the half-acoustic/half-digital drumset was rigged, resulting in staticky bass drum sounds -- plagued their set. That would become a nightlong theme for the Back Yard stage, where the big bands on the night's lineup played.

To flip someone off in Ireland and the UK, you make the V-sign and hold it out palm inwards. Usually, the index and middle finger are closer together than, say, in the gesture you would make ordering two gyros at the falafel truck.

This version of the bird ("the two-fingered salute" as they call it) was designed and put into order by Parliament specifically and for no other reason than to enable Shane MacGowan to flip you off every time he takes a drag from his cigarette on stage. It's a fact. Look it up. And while you're at it, pogue mahone.

Scott Spychalski

Shane MacGowan

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The Pogues played their first-ever KC gig last night at the Midland, and everything was in order. The boys were musically tight, Shane was figuratively tight, the mood in the not-quite-full auditorium was festive -- perhaps too festive if you happened to be in the mosh pit down front -- and the best Irish band in existence (sorry, Bono) delivered the perfect set of silliness, sentimentality and rhythms to smash a beer tray over your head to.

The Queers show at the Jackpot was a little light. Light in attendance, light in original material -- just pretty much a lightweight show all around. Now, it's not as if pop-punk is plunging the depths of human experience for lyrical content. There were more than a few songs about girls Friday night.

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Still, the Queers were touring with yet another drummer, meaning they're not exactly long on material. Their drummer on this tour is Dusty Watson of Agent Orange, which is cool as fuck, but the Queers were limited to the songs he'd learned. Everyone got to hear the hits: "Ursula Finally Has Tits," "Yeah, Well, Whatever," "Kicked Out of the Webelos," et al. However, their were four covers: "The Kids Are Alright," "Wipeout," "Rock 'n' Roll Radio," and "Jumpin' Jack Flash." For a touring band, with nearly twenty years' worth of back catalog, that's a little much. The kids were down with it, but when a full fifth of a standard-bearer band's set is covers, you can't help but wonder if that's why there were only 40 or 50 kids there on a Friday night, rather than the LHS vs. Free State varsity football game.

REVIEW BY IAN HRABE

I turn around to find Karl Blau sitting at the bar folding oragami. He looks absolutely insane. His hair is teased up into some kind of mullet mohawk with two pigtails coming out of the back. He's also extremely tall and wearing a Marty McFly vest, which makes the effect extra weird.

Ian Hrabe

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He also seems like the nicest guy ever, and though there was hardly anyone at the Jackpot, that didn't stop him from putting on anything less than an excellent performance.

Baby Birds Don't Drink Milk opened, and as their set tends to shapeshift from gig to gig, I was curious to see if they'd play up their pop elements (as the headliners are both bands are signed to the well-known indie-pop label K Records) or go in a completely different direction entirely. They chose the latter, and delivered 25 minutes of mostly ambient drone with a cover of Nirvana's "Something in the Way" somewhere in the middle. They incorporated a keyboard in place of a second guitar and a synthesizer, and for the first time the Animal Collective influence that has always been present with this band had practically vanished.

I'm posting this rather late today because, well, that's what going out all three nights of the weekend does to a body. And because I saw so much music this weekend, I'm not even gonna try to make this a shapely piece of writing. Here's what I saw, y'all.

FRIDAY
Son Venezuela at Power & Light: The district was by no means packed. It was a cold, sorta wet night, and Son Venezuela ain't exactly Blues Traveler or the Bravery. We perched on one of the staircases and watched as the area's hardest-gigging salsa bands kept a good 20 or so couples hot-stepping on the pavement in front of the stage non-stop. Seriously, those people could move. Ladies in tight dresses and high heels twisted and spun and popped their knees at the behests of graceful men in leather jackets and slacks. Talk about a following; it's no wonder Son Venezuela always wins the Latin category in our Pitch Music Awards. On the big screen overhead, the New York Yankees beat The The Angels Angels in game one of the ALCS. Shout out to two-for-one Fridays at the Bulldog.

Jason Harper

Hidden Pictures. P.S. My camera is seriously on its last legs.

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Popfreeradio's Third Birthday at the Riot Room: I don't listen to Popfreeradio much at all, but I'm gonna start. Founded and largely operated by affable, walking-Kevin-Smith-movie-character Chronic the Hedgehog (aka Justin Bale), the online station attracts thousands of listeners a day. Maybe tens of thousands. I can't remember the figure Chronic told me inside at the Riot Room bar, but it was surprising. Meanwhile, FM continues to become more and more sterile and obsolete.

Hidden Pictures was the first band I caught when I arrived around 9. They were outside on the unheated patio. Fronted by frequent Pitch contributor Richard Gintowt and his fair lady, Michelle Sanders, the band doesn't get a lot of press - an unfortunate and direct result of Frer Gintowt's affiliation with our paper. But it definitely deserves a lot more listeners. The group crafts tight, sweet compositions with a sense of melody so strong it comes off as effortless. The sound is mellow rock in the vein of Travis or the Long Winters, and the Pics are definitely a step up from most local bands in terms of songcraft. Remarkably solid.

Jason Harper

The best shot I got of the Dead Girls.

​Up next, Lawrence band the Dead Girls made a crack about the unused patio heaters and surged into power-rock guitar awesomeness. For its upcoming Halloween show, the band is playing the entire soundtrack to the movie Adventureland, a comp that includes "Modern Love" by David Bowie, "Rock Me Amadeus" by Falco and "Just Like Heaven" by the Cure. It's a coming-of-age '80s soundtrack to match Dazed and Confused's Me Decade menu. It was during a cover of "Breakin' the Law," however, that the weekend's Ultimate Rock Moment occurred: a police helicopter that had been hovering overhead zoned in and shined its spotlight on the patio. Everyone flipped 'em off.

REVIEW BY IAN HRABE

Olympia, Washington's Mirah is my favorite female vocalist, and I am constantly surprised that she has somehow managed to stay out of the mainstream. Especially when so many artists wearing an "indie" tag are being commodified.

illustration by Ian Hrabe

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Yet I still find it strange that she can barely draw 50 people to the Jackpot Music Hall on a Saturday night. Perhaps it was for the best. Each and everybody in attendance was loyal and respectful, making made for one of the best audiences I've been a part of in a long while.

Despite the hushed tones of Mirah's delicately arranged indie-pop songs, the only chatter to be heard was people saying, Oh my God, I love this song, plus the faint murmur of audience members singing along. It was an intimate affair, adhering to the DIY aesthetic K Records is known for, which only served to show why Mirah is pretty much the best thing K has going these days.

REVIEW BY ELGIN SMITH

There are few things to say about Miles Davis' 1959 album Kind of Blue that haven't been said already. Phrases like "historically significant," "most influential," and "jazz masterpiece" seem to show up no matter where you look. While endorsements like these certainly don't come easily, they really do seem applicable when considering the quality of the album's music and the superior musicians that recorded it.

Unfortunately, the members of the sextet that recorded the album have not been as timeless as the music they produced. John Coltrane, Cannonball Adderley, Bill Evans, Wynton Kelly, Paul Chambers, Miles Davis -- all have died since the album's release. The only direct living link to Kind of Blue is drummer Jimmy Cobb.

Elgin Smith

Currently touring as Jimmy Cobb's So What Band, his current gig is the Kind of Blue 50th Anniversary Tour, which stopped at the Gem Theater Saturday night as part of the American Jazz Museum's Jammin' at the Gem Series. The group's performance was nothing short of stellar, offering viewers a rare glimpse at someone who was a direct contributor to one of the best jazz records of all-time.

It was a cold, misty night in Kansas City. A mass of people descended on the glowing orb of the Sprint Center to see a Rock Band with a capital "R" play spacious rock epics inside said arena. The Rock Band in question gave a high-quality, by-the-book performance with no surprises that surely satisfied fans but might not have won over many new ones.

Scott Spychalski

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Now a short background: Kings of Leon is made up of three evangelical preacher's sons and their cousin. They go by their middle names, though why is unclear. They were named Best International Band at this year's Brit Awards, and also took home the Best International Album. Chumbawamba once made a political statement at the Brit Awards by dumping a bucket of ice water on the Labour Party cabinet minister, though why is unclear.

Yes, last night Kings of Leon both looked and played the part of an arena rock band. (Ivan) Nathan Followill, sporting a tank top and a hair-metal haircut, provided relentless percussion. (Michael) Jared Followill, donning a hairdo that would make Pete Wentz jealous, completed the strong rhythm section with smooth, melodic bass lines. Thankfully, I was close enough to see the faces of intense concentration that cousin (Cameron) Matthew Followill made during his reverb-laced guitar solos.

Scott Spychalski

Apparently, VIPs can smoke in Sprint Center.

Last night's Metalocalypse show was so good we feel bad for anyone who couldn't go. So for those of you unable to attend, here's a small taste of what it was like. If anyone knows if the dude with the broken leg is all right, let us know.

You know you're a fan of a band when one of the members can take a mid-set break to use the rest room and it doesn't bother you. Such was the case when Teenage Bottlerocket played the Record Bar on Friday night.

Nick Spacek

Teenage Bottlerocket's Ray Carlisle

​However, considering Ray cut his finger and bled all over the fretboard, and the show kept going, you'd be willing to cut the band a little slack, too. Hell, the band cranked out all 19 songs on the setlist, along with a spot-on cover of Poison's "Talk Dirty to Me," along with their own "So Cool" as an encore.

The two halves of the set (pre- and post-Kody bathroom break) both started out with a string of songs that was just unbeatable. "Skate or Die" into "Radio" into "Bigger than KISS"? "Bottlerocket" into "Welcome to the Nuthouse" into "She's Not the One" into "Bloodbath at Burger King"? Yes, yes, yes -- more please -- yes. Ray's bouncing all over the stage like his shoes are tricked out with pogo sticks, with Kody and Miguel on either side of him knocking out bass lines and guitar riffs like sentinels of pop-punk, while Brandon pounds the skins and calls out the "1234!"s.

Yes, the music Teenage Bottlerocket plays isn't exactly going to win any awards for new, creative ways to write songs. Considering the majority of the words to "She's Not the One" are, in fact, "she's not the one" sung with a variety of different emphases, you oughtn't be surprised that you could probably learn the words to most Teenage Bottlerocket songs halfway through their performance of them. They're just so damned catchy, though. I'm a sucker for whoa-ohs and the like, and the guys in Teenage Bottlerocket have pretty much become the forerunners of the new pop-punk vanguard because they know how to make songs that use those catchy lyrics and whoa-ohs to their full advantage.

The talented Ms. Wiebe already covered Brand New's Uptown Theater performance from last night, so I'm going to focus on the opening acts -- Manchester Orchestra and Sybris.

Sybris was a four piece that sounded like Bjork fronting every mid-to-late '90s post-hardcore band ever. Lead singer and frontwoman Angela Mullenhour had a speaking voice like any regular woman from the midwest, only to sing in a croon that also at times brought to mind Regina Spektor. The band itself took a lot of musical cues from the shoegaze indie rock of an act like Hum. The vocal stylings started to grate after a bit, but it was certainly refreshing to hear a band that wasn't fronted by a dude with a poor singing voice.

Don Vancleave

Manchester Orchestra

​The poor singing voice was actually the milieu of the Manchester Orchestra's Robert McDowell. I liked everything else about the band: the songs that sounded like an entire set of Ozma's "Battlescars" or Weezer's "Only In Dreams," the occasional forays into drop-D tuning that gave the act an occasionally ominous rumbling, and Andy Hull's frantic bobbing as he rocked out keyboard parts or worked double drum parts in sync with Jeremiah Edmond.

McDowell, though, I can live without. It didn't help that the early part of the band's set was plagued with minor feedback issues, but his voice was that "singer who can't really sing" style unfortunately common in the emo-indie world (see also: Piebald's Travis Shettel). If I could've dropped him out of the mix, I would have enjoyed the set far more.

As it was, the venue was packed, and the kids went berserk for all the bands, with enthusiasm ratcheting up steadily as the night wore on. I was there from shortly after the doors opened until halfway through Brand New's set, and I've never seen so many kids singing along for so long. There was a point where the kids were actually getting the words out before Jesse Lacey.

Because I was at the library trying to learn how to be a better writer, I missed anything that happened before Brand New performed at the Uptown Theater last night. But four-and-a-half hours inside an overpacked theater with emo kids probably would have been too much, anyway. The room smelled like gym socks.

In the moments before Brand New played, a wave of impatience swept through the sweaty swarm on the floor, which viewed from the balcony, seemed to move as one big organism rather than a thousand young people about to undergo a cathartic rock experience.

Crystal K. Wiebe

All those Monet-like dots are emokid heads.

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Brand New kicked off promptly at 9:40 p.m., emerging against a blank backdrop that in color and texture reminded me of suede. Backlit, the band remained in the shadows, green lasers seemed shoot out from the disco ball above the stage and the bassline began for "You Won't Know." As singer Jesse Lacey picked up the lyrics, every voice in the room seemed to chant "hey, hey, hey" along with him.

Review and photos by Elgin Smith

I will admit that I felt a little out of place without some glow sticks at Tuesday's Sound Tribe Sector 9 show in Lawrence. The group's combination of electronica and jam-band styles attracts those who enjoy brandishing them, and last night's audience was an interesting stoner-meets-raver experience, a mix of two types of people you might not think would have a whole lot in common. Judging by what I saw last night, however, they certainly do agree on Sound Tribe Sector 9.
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With a sell-out crowd packed like sardines into Liberty Hall, STS9 opened the show with "Abcees." The spacey, echo-heavy tones sounded good but not great. Having learned more about the group from friends and on the Web than by actually hearing their material, I wasn't thrilled from the start. However, the grooves soon got a little more solid with "F Word", and the crowd's appreciation was obvious. After a couple selections that were on the more techno side of the band's repertoire, the funk arrived with "Ramone & Emiglio." This was the first time the band really impressed me, with guitar and bass lines interwoven from the get-go. Because every member of the band except the drummer comes equipped with his own laptop and midi keyboard (besides his regular instrument), I had to wonder if the band relied more on programming than live playing. This track definitely convinced me otherwise.