“Hear ye, hear ye! From deadhead hippies to electro pop hipsters,” screeched the harlequin gliding on rainbow roller skates, “come one, come all.” And did they ever! Over 50,000 audiophiles packed into San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park for Outside Lands Festival to sample a delectable smorgasbord of rock immortals, indie stalwarts, and rookie sensations. Directions? No need, just follow that sweet, pungent aroma!

Kicking off Saturday afternoon at the Panhandle Stage (sound and lighting 100% powered by the sun), country/folk quartet Dawes treated the festival’s early attendees to golden harmonies and delicate, bluegrass finger picking reminiscent of Jorma Kaukonen.  Up-tempo rocker “When You Call My Name” featured frontman Taylor Goldsmith’s focused stare and paint chipped Fender. On “That Western Skyline,” a country ballad mourning geographic transience and the curse of bad luck, Goldsmith belted a gospel infused: “But I watch her father preach on Sundays / And all the hymnals of my heart.”

Following a short round of introductions, Dawes jumped into “How Far We’ve Come,” a folk-rock number off their forthcoming LP. Puckering his lips as if he chomped into a ripe lemon, drummer Griffin Goldsmith showcased his emerging vocal prowess, harmonizing with his older brother Taylor and keyboardist Alex Casnoff to usher memories of Crosby, Stills and Nash: “California’s greenest parts / I reach out for my brother / To see how far he’s come.” New ditty “Fire Away” harnessed Taylor’s smoldering, molten guitar skills. Riding rave reviews of their performances at Lollapalooza and Barnstormer, Dawes attribute their success to enhanced comfort on stage, refined instrumental chops, and solidified three part harmonies since recruiting Casnoff.

Red faced, veins straining against his forehead on “When My Time Comes,” Taylor Goldsmith recaptures the profound ex post facto enlightenment of Dylan’s post-protest awakening, “So I pointed my fingers, and shout a few quotes I knew / As if something that's written should be taken as true.” Dawes finds little solace in the company of misery, “And now the only piece of advice that continues to help / Is anyone that's making anything new only breaks something else.”

Immediately clear is that Dawes has evolved a rare communicative language that enables personality and deep sentiment to engulf its music while still preserving a spontaneous, youthfully exuberant vibe. According to Dawes, their first LP, North Hills, reflects a softer, greener band that had yet to embark on a national tour. The new record is “more like a live band, featuring a higher level of energy,” strong low range vocal contributions from Griffin Goldsmith, and lyrically dramatic imagery.

Skillfully navigating through tents selling local oysters, slow cooked Argentine sausage, and organic soda, I arrive in time to grab some prime real estate for The Levon Helm Band. And wouldn’t you know it? Here come the pipes: Sherlock Holmes replicas, one hitters, gravity bongs, oh my! Can’t anyone roll a joint anymore?

Opening with “Ophelia,” Helm unites horse, bluesy vocal with a swaggering jazz arrangement. The drummer begs us to defy time, age, and loss: “Ashes of laughter / The ghost is clear / Why do the best things always disappear?/ Like Ophelia / Please darken my door.” Supported by a gargantuan 12 piece backing band, Helm’s songs were augmented by titillating organ, a tin laced horn section, and Jim Weider’s smooth, expressive electric guitar. Weider, “master of classic telecaster and traditional blues slide guitar techniques,” has toured with Dylan, Paul Butterfield, Hot Tuna, and Bob Weir.  Covering Johnny Cash’s “Long Black Veil,” female vocalists Teresa Williams and Helm’s daughter, Amy, paint a tale of dysfunctional relationships and the boundaries of the power of love.

Deploying a folksy ukulele to paint a picture of simple Americana, Levon Helm flashed his pearly whites at the crowd to the tune of thunderous applause. Twangy guitar powered “Greensborough Blues,” as the band built a swirling hurricane with Brian Mitchell’s golden B-3 organ.

Never one to hog the spotlight, Helm drew the crowd’s attention to the bandleader, multi-instrumentalist Larry Campbell. What do Paul Simon, Willie Nelson, and Bob Dylan have in common? Larry Campbell can be heard on the albums of all three. Not too shabby!

Turning to his fans, Levon Helm emphatically exclaimed: “What a beautiful day! Thank you all for your loveliness!” The silver haired drummer pounded out a tin laced version of “The Weight,” testing his iconic vocal chords as he roared “Go down, Miss Moses, there's nothin' you can say / It's just ol' Luke, and Luke's waitin' on the Judgement Day.”

Switching gears abruptly, Helm was followed by Ontario based band Tokyo Police Club. Employing rhythmic punch and adrenaline pumping hooks, Tokyo Police Club drew a crowd of ridiculously cute hipster chicks. Shoegaze rhythm guitar provided backbone for keyboard explosion on “Tessellate.” As an 8-ball volleyball soared through the crowd, singer Dave Monks, sporting a flannel lined denim jacket, sang of class warfare and economic oppression, “We showed them what the backs of our hands is for / The divide is clear in the coming year / The rich will take the poor.” Piano acted as mortar in “Box,” uniting mumbled lyrics with sound.

After Cat Power pulled our heartstrings by wedding atmospheric, luscious vocals with turbulent verse, a barrage of prep school indie rockers stormed the stage, squealing in anticipation for the impending Strokes reunification.

The tension mounts as singer Julian Casablancas scans the clamoring crowd for prospects. He stands stone faced. Casablancas hums a few notes as his fans fall silent. Laughing to himself, he is taken aback by the explosive power he commands. Right on cue, intense high-pitched screams seldom heard outside of roller coasters erupt from the crowd.  He raises his right arm to the heavens, preparing to hurl a Jovian lightening bolt. The crowd is ready to explode. But, it’s a false alarm. The frontman aborts, building anticipation by throwing the fans a confused look.

Amused, he chuckles softly to himself. Suddenly, Casablancas pumps his right arm forward, lunges toward the crowd, and belts out an erotic: “Last Night, Sheeeeeee Said!” Amidst up tempo percussion, “Hard to Explain” paired barely coherent whiskey empowered rattling with raspy, angst-ridden howls. Armed with triumphantly liberating hooks and one hell of a rock scream, The Strokes throw us off balance with inventive time signature shifts.

Guitarist Albert Hammond Jr. advocated the joys of “love and “drunken adventure” before setting a lawless scene of futuristic egotism in “Ize Of The World.” The Strokes fused rock, punk, and psychedelic via dueling guitars and spontaneously interspersed one-minute jams punctuated by controlled distortion. The New York group, commenting on the venue’s “crazy forest business,” rhetorically asked the audience if they were “ready for some Grateful Dead Action after this.” Of course we are!

At the main stage, equip with high definition projector screens and elephant sized amplifiers, Bob Weir and Phil Lesh plugged in.  There was an Age of Aquarius vibe in the air as bearded hippies draped in tweed, hemp and flannel floated into the meadow. Through clouds of pungent smoke, subtle jangly guitar picking on “Cassidy” captures the outside traces of consciousness, and, as with the pied piper, we follow the minstrel. This is a place where we no longer see, hear, smell, taste, or touch—we’re transcendental. The only march is our own parade, and the lure of complete freedom is wholly compelling.

The golden age of rock icons crafted a sensory milieu in which one’s only objective was to synch physicality to the aural sway. Grateful Dead inspired improvisational jams act as the glue between verses, as Furthur silenced the troubled minds of all in attendance, achieving the anticipated aura of Zen by tapping classics “Let It Grow” and “Death Don’t Have No Mercy.”

Concluding the magical, mystical journey with “I Know You Rider” over a sea of oscillating lighters and cell phones, a distorted haze enveloped Golden Gate Park as the night grew dark.

Sunday’s Speedway section featured smaller stages and more intimate performances, enabling fans to see their favorite artists up close and personal. With the crowd buzzing about Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros’ Coachella performance, I raced to the Twin Peaks Stage. Frontman/singer/songwriter Alex Ebert, after dropping out of a 12-step rehabilitation program, wrote a story of messianic Edward Sharpe, sent down to Earth to “heal and save mankind...but he kept getting distracted by girls and falling in love." Somehow, Ebert turned that half-baked premise into the best psychedelic folk album since Devendra’s Cripple Crow. Props!

As the band gets into character, Ebert appears in white jeans, loose eggshell blazer, pink silk shirt, and a scarlet scarf. His hips sway scandalously as Ebert’s shoulders bob fluidly to the building thump of the band’s percussionist. The music’s physically demands movement, thrusting the crowd into a jittery spasm. Transforming into Edward Sharp, without warning Ebert’s eyes are lit ablaze as a spiritual, sexual possession bursts from his joints. Shifting weight from tiptoe to tiptoe, the frontman spastically raises his arms to the sky, gyrates his pelvis, and in orgasmic rapture, leaps headlong into the audience.

Donovan-esqe narrative and refined satirical wit meet psychedelic melodies on “40 Day Dream.” Ebert, now crowd surfing barefoot, lets out a velvety warble in unison with his disciples, “I inhaled just a little bit / Now I got no fear of death / It's the magical mystery kind!” Remarking on the “fucking miracle” that he was alive and playing Outside Lands, Ebert unleashed “Desert Song,” a blur of godlike echo and instrumental Armageddon. The enlightened demolition culminated at exactly 4:20 pm.

Hypnotizing chorus and alluring melody collide with wit and dramatic imagery in energetic “Home.” Ebert and girlfriend Jade Castrinos waltz around the stage, backed by a painfully catchy vocal melody and carefree, country whistle. Genre-blazing across alt-country, psychedelic, and neo-folk, Ed Sharpe cried “Love! Love! Love!” atop thousand part harmonies.

Just as the sun retreated behind the eucalyptuses, Phoenix brought the festival back from the ashes with exotic instrumentation atop cascading waves of lyrical audacity. Kings of Leon closed things out with a display of smoldering, molten guitar riffs.

Two days, 57 bands, 60,000 daily capacity, a plethora of tasty munchies, California wine, and plenty of secondhand smoke. The festivals heroes: Furthur, Dawes, and the psychedelic minstrel Edward Sharpe.

A wall of fog hangs over the Golden Gate, as jasmine bombards the olfactory system and a nippy gust foreshadows the crisp San Francisco eve.  Gothic chandeliers dip and dangle overhead the Fillmore Auditorium, as flannel clad hipsters scrupulously survey burgundy velvet curtains, absent-mindedly sipping PBR.  A conduit for cataclysmic, history shifting performances from immortals Jefferson Airplane, The Grateful Dead, Miles Davis and The Who, to name drop a few, the SF Fillmore has since been purchased, branded, and franchised by Live Nation.  Though Denver, Detroit, Philly, NYC, and Charlotte now stake claims to the Fillmore name, venue historians know that San Francisco’s incarnation embodies the real deal.

As Dr. Dog songwriters Toby Leaman and Scott McMicken glide modestly across a rainbow polka dot backdrop, an oscillating sea of contraband lighters greets the group.  Philly based Dr. Dog, of low-fidelity folk and psychedelic rock fame, draw inspiration from 60’s icons The Band, Flying Burrito Brothers, and John Lennon.  Kicking off with “Stranger,” raspy howls complement a harmonious choir of ELO-esque backup vocals, as Leaman belts, veins straining against the skin of his neck, “20 years of schooling, I just never learned the math / that 1 and 1 don’t equal 2, they often equal half.”

From gospel drenched “Hang On,” to animalistic “The Rabbit, the Bat, and the Reindeer,” the pride of Philadelphia dug deep into their diverse catalog of blues, country, and folk rock.  Sampling 2010’s Shame, Shame, their inaugural LP with Anti-Records, Dr. Dog unleashed a wave of meandering melodies and seamless harmonies that penetrated the Fillmore from its hallowed hardwood floorboards to its cathedral ceiling.  Inconceivably precise electric guitar riffs and booming vocals set the backbone for “The Breeze,” off Fare, the group’s penultimate LP.  Leaman blasts defiantly, “If nothing ever moves / put that needle to the groove, and sing!”

Transitioning to anthemic “The Breeze,” McMicken’s nimble digits blurred the frets with spectral virtuosity, as his right leg pulsed in spastic jolts.  Leaman’s whopping bass and an escalating chord progression serve as fortitude for the taunting childe on “Where’d All The Time Go,” as McMicken shouts out a cathartic: “she’s walking backward  / thorough a parade / and I’m stuck in the shadow / blocking the shade / and there ain’t no way to sweep up the mess that we made.”

On “Shadow People,” McMicken is drawn headlong into the self-destructive and oft pointless umbra of isolation, alienation, and torment.  Setting the stage with his distinctive serenely seductive voice, he whispers, “The rain is falling, its after dark / the streets are swimming with the sharks.”  Dr. Dog leads us to a realm where “every shadow’s getting famous” and we are faced with an impossible choice: “you could be twisted, you could be insane, pushing the envelop against the grain,” crackling in passionate agony.  But just as the world crumbles to dust, a glimmer of hope with the band erupting in euphoric passion, “or just playing along!”

Midnight rapidly approaching, Dr. Dog capped off their set with titular track “Shame, Shame,” purring “I used to write it all down, hoping someone would read it years from now / Shame, shame / I used to act like I was in a movie, so mysterious and misunderstood.”

Dedicated fans, refusing to go home and to bed without a sendoff, stomped and hollered until Dr. Dog returned for a healthy encore.  The enthusiastic and attentive audience was rewarded with a rousing blend of psychedelic drenched communal hand clapping wrapped in impeccable three-part harmony on “California,” a deep cut off 2006 EP Takers and Leavers: “California /
 where the warm sun shines
 / California /
 hear the wind blowing chimes / 
Californ-i-a
 / though you’re far away
 / your love is here today.”

Check out some more photos from the show.

Now that fans have had the chance to soak in Delta Spirit’s sophomore LP, History From Below, songwriter and multi-instrumentalist Kelly Winrich relishes performing a barrage of live tracks on the band’s national tour. Hot off the presses, Delta Spirit’s forthcoming EP, Waits Room, was recorded in an old chicken coup to harness a vibe of honest, classic Americana.  The unique atmosphere of this “boiler room” studio, bounded by a stunning cornfield mosaic, once provided inspiration for Tom Waits’ Mule Variations.  On “The Flood,” Delta Spirit treats us to a bluegrass drenched biblical tale laden with golden three part harmonies. “My Dream” is a lyrically focused, instrumentally deconstructed Vazquez number. When Delta Spirit encountered trouble in pressing the vinyl EP, they called in a favor to bootlegging buddy Jack White, who graciously spun off a few hundred copies.

Despite a reputation for embarking on long, grueling, coast-to-coast tours, Delta Spirit is no lone wolf, but rather sees itself as part of a broader artistic community.  Drawing inspiration from friends, family, and fellow musicians, the Long Beach, the California based group touts the deep impact of hearing news sounds from local bands. And heads up, Brooklyn! Delta Spirit shouts out the East Coast scene in “Bushwick Blues.” Migration in store? Winrich says don’t count it out, as several of his band mates are flirting with the coastal shift.

Though not looking to register as a political or religious force, several of the band’s songs carry social messages alerting audiophiles to some of the pressing issues of our day. “Streetwalker,” off Delta Spirit’s inaugural EP, chronicles the dark human trafficking industry. “French Quarter” dives into the ugly aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, while “911” has an ironic, Woody Guthrie “Jolly Banker” vibe. While it’s easy to pass blame by writing and singing about our societal ills, Winrich cautions against using the stage as a platform to pound fans with ideology by preach political views. He feels artists ought to express sincere and meaningful sentiment, and holds that real progress necessitates direct communal action.

Awestruck by the immortal musicians lining Fillmore Auditorium’s corridors, 25 weeks pregnant Stars female vocalist Amy Millan, glowing and beaming, dedicated the Stars’ Fillmore Auditorium performance to Jerry Garcia, who she’s sure is “still kicking it up there somewhere!” The eloquent, Montreal based indie pop group, shaking its fans from midweek stupor, would have had Jerry crying happy tears this November night.

“Time Can Never Kill The True Heart”, off Stars’ 2002 LP Heart, posts Millan’s velvety vocal against minimalist instrumentation and lyrics ridden with confusion, anxiety, and self-doubt, “One step closer to the sea wall / looking down, you can see all…one heart but the mind was in two  / one half filled with the dreams of a saint  / the other filled with nothing but hate.”

Torquil “Torq” Campbell, Stars’ front man, spun thrilling, heated groove on electronic “Set Yourself On Fire”, hurling white roses into the crowd as he belted with Broadway pomp: “In every single place that has ever, ever been / Hiroshima, Los Angeles and each town in between.”

Millan donned her tough, resilient persona to contrast vulnerable lyrics on “Bitches in Tokyo,” as she bets, ““All this sabotage you bring / well, I can't take it / 'cause I just want you back / I just want you back.” The brunette fixed her eyes on the crowd, shouting, “Where’d you put my heart, San Francisco?”

Campbell bantered on about the hardships of being Canadian, mostly regarding the difficulties of satisfying his marijuana hobby while on tour in America. “Free merch for anyone that gets Torq pot!” Millian teased. Fans looked toward each other, shifty eyed, ready to transact.  “Your Ex-Lover Is Dead,” opening track off fan favorite Set Yourself On Fire, has the blonde front man weaving a tale of ill fated coincidence, “God that was strange to see you again / introduced by a friend of a friend / smiled and said ‘yes I think we've met before’ / in that instant it started to pour.” Millan countered, playing off her male counterpart, “This scar is a fleck on my porcelain skin / tried to reach deep buy you couldn’t get in / now you’re outside me you see all the beauty / repent all your sins.” As fans erupted in frantic applause, Stars genuflected in respect to the “best club in the world, San Francisco, Fillmore!”

After confessing that he “assaults people with friendship in an attempt to get them to ignore his faults,” Torq Campbell launched into synth laden “Take Me To The Riot”, as chiming guitar met bombastic vocals and dramatic lyrics.  Campbell pounded the mic with an infectious chorus, declaring a simultaneously soul pumping and anthemic, “Saturday nights in neon lights / Sunday in the cell / pills enough to make me feel ill / cash enough to make me well / take me, take me to the RIIIOOTTTTT!!!!” Holding his last note for an eternity across punctuating percussion, the male vocalist threw his arms in the air as girls greeted him with hysterical shrieks seldom heard outside of roller coasters.  Torq, drenched, looked down at his soaked shirt and declared: “I’m sweating like Karl Rove in the Castro!”

When the time came, the crowd begged and pleaded for an encore.  Echoes of “please come back” and “don’t leave us” filled the theatre.  Suddenly, the auditorium went dark, and Ike Eisenhower’s iconic farewell address seeped through the speakers. Perhaps more apropos of Veterans Day than Stars –whose native flag has exactly one maple leaf and, ironically, zero stars -may have themselves have realized, the former military general admonished “we must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence…by the military industrial complex. The potential for the disastrous rise of misplaced power exists.” Chillingly, the septuagenarian President cautions: “We should take nothing for granted.”  The cardigan clad hipster stood agape, eyes wide: “So intense man, like Church!”

Stars claimed the floral stage once more, armed with a melodica and Torq’s death stare for “Celebration Gun.”  A wall of bubbles blew off the stage, as Torquell Campbell and Amy Millan complemented tightly arranged, richly layered shoegaze guitars with scenes of destitution “desert wind and a perverse desire to win / history buried in shame,” and crippling realities “morning's papers, ink stains my fingers/ my hands grow darker everyday / are the beating drums / celebration guns?”

Check out some more photos from the show.

Greeting San Francisco’s The Independent with wide smiles and affectionate waves, country/folk quartet Dawes blessed the Saturday night crowd with golden vocals, sultry finger picking, and radiant, molten country jams evocative of Workingman’s Dead.  Riding rave reviews of their performances at Lollapalooza and Barnstormer, Dawes attribute their success to enhanced comfort on stage, refined instrumental chops, and solidified three part harmonies.

Mid-tempo “When You Call My Name,” a poignant expression of grit and perseverance, featured front man Taylor Goldsmith’s focused stare contrasting soft, gentle melodies.  On “That Western Skyline,” a country ballad of geographic transience and the curse of bad luck, Goldsmith mourned, “All the snow fall this time of year, it's not what Birmingham is used to / I get the feeling that I brought it here, and now I'm taking it away.” Eyes brimming with regret and suffering, Goldsmith, pointing to the crowd, belted a gospel infused, “But I watch her father preach on Sundays / and all the hymnals of my heart.”

Following some quick introductions, Dawes jumped into “How Far We’ve Come,” a folk-rock number off their forthcoming LP. Drummer Griffin Goldsmith showcased his emerging vocal prowess, harmonizing with older brother Taylor and keyboardist Alex Casnoff to usher memories of Crosby, Stills and Nash, “California’s greenest parts / I reach out for my brother / to see how far he’s come.” Checking up on Dawes’ fans, Taylor Goldsmith asks us if “everyone’s having a good time.” As the audience answers in the affirmative, the front man raises his right arm to the heavens and hollers, “Because that’s the only thing we’re here to do!”

Red faced, veins straining against his forehead on “When My Time Comes,” Taylor Goldsmith recaptured the profound ex post facto enlightenment of Dylan’s post-protest awakening, “So I pointed my fingers, and shout a few quotes I knew / as if something that's written should be taken as true.” Yet Dawes finds little solace in the company of misery, “And now the only piece of advice that continues to help / is anyone that's making anything new only breaks something else.” Taylor Goldsmith, turning his microphone to the audience, calls for the auxiliary. The crowd, ecstatic at the prospect of indulging their heroes, blasted the anthemic chorus, “When my time comes / Ooooooh Oh / Ooooooh Oh Oh.”

Ten-minute jam “Peace In The Valley,” beginning with gentle twang, quickly builds with incendiary guitars, bassist Wylie Gelber’s charged grove, and soaring Hammond XK-3 organ. Taylor Goldsmith, in roots-rock idiom reminiscent of vocalists such as Rick Danko, Jackson Browne, and Neil Young, confesses “I sit with the memory of kings / with only words to criticize / as if I finally found the antidote for pain / without knowing what that's really like. Inventive time signature shifts, bridge jolts of cascading guitars, as the band plays off each other with incredible precision.

Immediately clear is that Dawes has evolved a rare communicative language that enables personality and deep sentiment to engulf its music while still preserving a spontaneous, youthfully exuberant vibe.  According to Dawes, their first LP, North Hills, reflects a softer, greener band that had yet to embark on a national tour. The new record is “more like a live band, featuring a higher level of energy,” strong low range vocal contributions from Griffin Goldsmith, and lyrically dramatic imagery bringing to mind that freewheeling ‘60s Laurel Canyon vibe. Wrapping up the night with a tight encore, Dawes purrs to its fans at The Independent what we’ve felt all evening: “I got a feelin’ it’s goanna be alright.”

Check out some more photos from the show.

On a raw, soggy Wednesday night, an army of San Franciscans donning thick cardigans and even thicker horn rimmed glasses peruse Café de Nord's intricate wainscoting and hand carved mahogany bar as The Love Language plugs in.  Along with orchestral Dan Deacon and eclectic veterans Yo La Tango, Love Language parade into town for SF's 2011 Noise Pop Festival. Though a few thousand miles from home, Raleigh, North Carolina based were treated to some genuine Bay Area hospitality with hoots, hollers, and roaring applause.

Kicking off with "Blue Angel", a moody, transportive number off The Love Language's sophomore LP, Libraries, front man Stuart McLamb croons: " I feel a little drop of rain / I feel a little moon to flood the shore / danced upon the tide / and tanked to the ocean floor." Propped by communal hand clapping and jazzy bass grooves, McLamb begs for certainty amidst an endless sea of questions, stretching out his syllables for a fragile, expiring lover: "blueeeeee angellllll / will we ever learn to swimmmmm?"

On "Heart To Tell," grimacing guitar riffs and visceral rhythmic punch complement McLamb's seductive, yearning whisper: "I need a flame and she's a water bearer / Now I'm rubbing sticks out in the rain / Well it's just trial and error."  The Love Language injects sparse piano and corrosive vocals to drive a gritty, quirky, minimalist vibe on "Manteo," off 2009’s self-titled Merge Records debut.  In a lysergic ode to weirdness, McLamb weeps: "Chesapeake, I could barely speak / When I said my first goodbye / My angel, she had frozen feet / The day that I arrived."

Fresh jazzy tones seep through chiming Rickenbacker on "Brittney's Back," amidst a nonchalant and chiding shrug: "All I could do was apologize / Where's your piece of mind / Where's your silver line." The Love Language, spilling rivers of sweat every which way, rewarded Café du Nord's weeknight warriors with a tight set of ­­frenetic electricity, seductive vocals and dueling currents of, of course, the dueling currents lust, love, and loss.

'89 Bronco clunking noisily over the Bay Bridge as San Francisco's skyline shimmers in silver and gold, a cold breeze reminds us that behind Sunday's idyllic serenity lurks a killjoy Monday morning. But that’s tomorrow!

In an unexpected surprise, Dawes’ Goldsmith sits in on bass and backup vocals for opener Blake Mills. Never heard of him? Mills has done session guitar work for artists as diverse as The Strokes' Julian Casablancas and alt-country songstress Jenny Lewis. Hearing Mills dish his blazing solos, it ain't difficult to see why.

Self-proclaimed “exotic band” Middle Brother say they ain’t no supergroup, but they’re brimming with indie rock’s finest road warriors: soulful Delta Spirit frontman Matt Vasquez, Dawes’ country-folk hustler Taylor Goldsmith and Deer Tick anchor John McCauley. This resplendent synergistic concoction is brought to us curtsey of Partisan Records, home to anachronistic female trio Mountain Man and cross dressing miscreants Deer Tick. Drawing from Rock’s bottomless tide pool, Middle Brother’s eponymous LP fuses Mississippi blues, Dixie ballads and folksy Americana, cut with generous globs of quirk and kink.

Vasquez, donning a festive, pastel Hawaiian shirt, struts to the mic in “Green Eyes.” Backed by Goldsmith’s chiming Rickenbacker, high standards meet slim pickings: “I’ve been lookin’ for sometime / in a room full of pennies, for my dime.” Dwarfed by chronic loneliness, Vasquez dishes out a densely rendered fantasy: “She’s a Southern girl without a drawl / she’s a good girl who wears black bras.”

On single “Me, Me, Me”, Middle Brother fires an opening salvo with carefree, spontaneous yelps and skittering piano lines. Chuck Berry-esque guitar riffs drag us through a lyrical morass. McCauley, sporting a Technicolor Dreamcoat he must have borrowed from Jethro Tull's Ian Anderson, conveys an urgent tale of manipulation and egocentrism. Bombarded with questions, he faces fierce competition in life and love: “If he puts lies in your head / if he interrupts a feelin’ / that he cannot comprehend / I guess it’s meeee me me me meeee.” The ensuing instrumental flurry, equal parts sock hop and raunchy carnival, sets up a proclamation of headstrong independence and boiling lust: “I do my very own things these days / I gotta desiahhhhh / I gotta desiahhhhh!’”

On "Blood on Guts," Goldsmith, looking like he just stepped off the farm after a hard day's manual labor, throws his arms skyward in exasperated defeat, as he softly purrs: "Am I killin' time / Or is it kill-lin' me?"

While orange polygon light fixtures glow from the rafters, country waltz “Theatre” matches Vasquez’s glottal grinding with a deconstructed piano. He delivers coarse, dirty vocals with brutal conviction, frustration, and resentment: “This life will tell you nothing / nothing but lies.” Ripping to shreds life’s unfulfilled promises with the rapture of gospel, raspy howls permeate the track.  Through a sinister smirk and with questionable sincerity, McCaully apologizes for his conduct last time Deer Tick played The Independent. As the story goes, Deer Tick was banned for life after an allegedly intoxicated McCaully tried using his pecker as a guitar pick. Ouch?

Shuffling tambourine and metronomic hand clapping on title track “Middle Brother” frame denial as second nature. In turn, ignorance is unadulterated bliss: “I know my days are numbered / but I’m bad at math.” Playful riffs shoot from behind the vocals to the pulse of rhythmic excitement. Taking us back to those trailblazing ‘56 Sun Records days, Middle Brother interjects us with Elvis’ throaty, erotically charged “Uh huh,” chased by a cathartic, exuberant “Woooo, wheee!” that would have Jerry Lee Lewis crying happy tears. After McCauley chases Vasquez off the stage with his guitar as makeshift bayonet, Vasquez remains amongst the crowd for an entire track, trashing at his guitar wildly as his straight black hair whips erratically in every conceivable direction.

Closing out the set with “Million Dollar Bill”, we are reduced to a two-dimensional slip of paper in pursuit of a gold digger that’s already slipped away. Goldsmith’s humble, pristine voice turns ambition on its head, as he fantasizes: “When it hits me that she’s gone / I think I’ll run for president / and get my face put on the million dollar bill.” But his drive for posterity is neither societal progress, nor world peace, nor any of that groovy jazz, but simply to remain with his erstwhile lover as a mere shadow: “So when these rich men that she wants / show her ways that they can take care of her / I’ll have found a way to be there with her still.” Vasquez finishes the album with soulful quivering that is at once bewildered and bursting with passion, as he wails in merciless yearning for his love’s return. Stuck in the middle with these three? Squeeze me in!

Supported by Dawes' drummer Griffin Goldsmith and bassist Wylie Gebler, Middle Brother sounded impossibly tight for a band that's only been touring together for a few months. In a bittersweet twist, however, the audience learned that this epic lineup shall be short-lived. Effective immediately, Taylor Goldsmith and his Dawes' comrades will be leaving Middle Brother. So what gives? The Band's immortal frontman Robbie Robertson needed a backing ensemble to promote How to Become Clairvoyant, his first LP in over a decade.  Stay tuned!

It’s a packed house Friday night at SF’s The Independent, and fans are jammed tight for experimental folk rockers Akron/Family. Crafting an indigenous vibe with some pagan artifacts, a frilled turquoise Cherokee quilt is draped over Miles Seaton’s keyboard, as the band shuffles unassumingly onto the stage. Though Seaton mostly plays bass, he regularly pipes in on array of miscellaneous instruments. The same goes for drummer Dana Janssen and guitarist Seth Olinskyl. Wedding powerful harmonies with stark vocal effects, the entire trio sings together on almost every song.

The ominous sound of a rattlesnake shaker builds tension on “The River,” off Akron/Family’s 2009 LP Set ‘Em Wild, Set ‘Em Free. Seaton fires off poetic shards of excitement, passion and inferno, clashing with Olinsky’s idyllic whistling: “And once this spark met kindling / Forgets its gentle ambling / Becoming heat, becoming steam / Becoming luminescent glee / Atoms splinter, sparkling / Alive and nimble symmetry/ Shadows dance triumphantly.” In a visceral explosion, the band bellows repeatedly in complementary pulses: “You and I and a flame make threeeee!”

Formally on Neil Young’s label Young God Records, Portland based Akron/Family teamed up with Dead Oceans Records for 2011’s verbosely titled Akron/Family II: The Cosmic Birth and Journey of Shinju TNT. On paper it’s a great fit, and the group looks right at home alongside Dead Oceans’ catalog of oddball, genre-hopping artists like jazzy, eccentric ensemble Destroyer and off-kilter critical sweethearts Dirty Projectors.

Early in the eve, Delicate Steve, powered by New Jersey’s Steve Mario, heated up the crowd with intricate jams, frenetic electronics, and precisely layered instrumental compositions.  Paired with folksy melodies, up-tempo riffs on “Ballard of Speck and Pebble” drew emphatic applause from the audience. The Independent’s punctual attendees were also treated to ditties off Delicate Steve’s fresh cut LP Wondervisions. Teaming up with Luaka Bop Records, brainchild of The Talking Heads’ David Byrne, Delicate Steve is taking his Fender on the road. As long as Steve’s not too fragile for the open highway, expect more from him real soon.

Requesting more light so he could see the audience, Seaton noted that San Franciscans didn’t look nearly as angst ridden as those on the East Coast. Leading the crowd in an old fashioned “scream-a-thon,” Akron/Family helped fans kick off the weekend with chiastic hollering and bestial grunts.  Pointing out that “we’re all about 78% water,” Seaton argued that our differences are really illusory. “Everyone here,” he preached, is “part ocean, part sweat, and part everything else.” Right on!

Getting supremely freaky, Olinsky chomped down on the microphone and Janssen struck an electric guitar with his drumstick. Thankfully, amidst this jarring cacophony, the quasi-melodic fragments of Seaton’s smooth, throbbing bass peaked through the raucous.  On “So It Goes,” off Akron/Family’s newest LP, the trio sings with guilt and a heavy conscience of apathy and assimilation: “Just like them, I stopped giving my change / To all the homeless people out on the street.” But fret not; it’s never too late for a little compassion. In the very next line, the band inverts its message, declaring proudly: “But I changed back. I give my change again / To anyone who asks so long as I have a pocket.” Charity, tolerance, and an open mind. Now those are what I call family values!

A blazing beacon of turquoise and teal crowns SF’s Bottom of the Hill, as Seattle sextet The Head and the Heart shuffles modestly onto a cramped stage. Delirious fans push forward for an intimate look at the Pacific Northwest folk rockers, as intense high-pitched shrieks erupt from the audience. Gazing out at the sellout crowd, the band paid tribute to their fans with enthusiastic, endearing salutes and scarcely concealed grins of disbelief.

Exposed brick at their backs, The Head and the Heart kicked off the set with playful romp “Cats and Dogs.” Amidst complex, powerful three-part harmonies, front man Jon Russell, violinist Charity Thielen, and singer Josiah Johnson convey a tale of naturalistic omens and the dark side of geographic mobility: “Falling from the sky / there are raindrops in my eyes / my thoughts are digging in the back yard / my roots are grown but I don’t know where they are.”

On “Ghosts,” Kenny Hensley’s menacing keyboard prelude gives way to an ominous admonition, as vocalist Russell groans: “Boys in the street talkin’ ‘bout leavin’, they’re leavin’ / lookin’ for someplace to go.” Blurring lust and escape, a sneaking, sinking terror of entrapment and eternal stagnation seeps through drummer Tyler Williams’ rhythmic punch. Atop daring time signature pivots and a medley of shakers, sentimentalist harmonies expose the liberation of detachment as a hollow lie: “One day we’ll all be ghosts / trippin’ around in someone else’s home / one day we’ll all be ghosts, ghosts, ghosts!” A brief pause suspends the story, freezing fans in anticipation, as the track ends with an ocean of calm that only complete abandonment of obligation and expectation can deliver.

“Down in the Valley” has Russell, propped by Johnson’s impeccable backup vocals and Thielen’s melancholy violin, singing of vagabonds, alcoholism, and unfulfilled love. With a crisp, hazily euphoric tempo and an infectiously catchy melody, the three belt an account of wanderlust and isolation in perfect harmony: “Cali-Cali-forn-yah-yah, Oak-la-home-ah / and all of the places I ain't ever been to but / down in the valley, with whiskey rivers / these are the places you will find me hiding.”

Closing the set with “Rivers and Roads,” the band highlights that despite their obsession with crippling alienation and atrophied relationships, kinship and fraternity are absolutely fundamental to their art: “Been talking bout the way things change / and my family lives in a different state / and if you don't know what to make of this / then we will not relate.”

Throughout the set, The Head and The Heart referenced a crudely etched cast of bumbling spirits and mischievous jesters evocative of The Band’s 1968 debut Music From Big Pink, as their lyrics conveyed a crisp, gilded flash of the open highway.  Yesterday’s follies are diluted by another horizon of pavement, and one’s lone chance at salvation is hitching a ride out of town. Released on prolific independent label Sub Pop earlier this month, The Head and the Heart’s eponymous debut LP expands on the work of folk revivalists Fleet Foxes and Blind Pilot, pairing timeless melodies with stunning sonic vistas and stark, densely rendered fragments of experience.

Thanks to the guys at Sub Pop for their hospitality.  You can learn more about The Head and the Heart by visiting their website.

Past an array of rainbow tinted Victorians, countless psychedelic peddlers, and that iconic Haight-Ashbury intersection, a dusty footpath leads into the thousand acre site of 2011’s Outside Lands music festival: San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park.  Attendees of the extravaganza, which returned to its full three-day incarnation following last year’s brief truncation, were treated to a genre blazing blend of rock, country, folk, blues, soul, dubstep, mashup, reggae, and everything caught in the cracks.

InThe queue to enter the festival grounds for Friday’s opening ceremonies moved shockingly fast, providing an early clue that Outside Lands organizations would be at the top of their game all weekend long.  Now in its fourth year, the festival’s musical offering were beyond stellar, the food scrumptious, and Wine Lands featured some of the best vino on the planet.  But as a chilling fog struggled to obscure the nearby Eucalyptus patches, scantily clad fans began to appreciate that twisted oxymoronic joke known as San Francisco summer.

MGMT

Starting things off, Wesleyan grads Benjamin Goldwasser and Andrew VanWyngarden of MGMT trotted nonchalantly onto the Land’s End stage for a set of neo-psychedelic electro pop.  Reminding fans that MGMT was “not from Montego Bay, but the Eastern seaboard,” the liberal arts scholars opened with a lackluster rendering of “Flash Delirium” off their 2010 sophomore LP Congratulations. Disappointingly, singer VanWyngarden had absolutely no presence on stage, and presented himself like a statute with a fear of public speaking. Falling short of their ultimate objective, MGMT failed to get the white kids dancing.

Even “Time To Pretend,” the young band’s breakout hit from debut album Oracular Spectacular, came across as bland and uninspired.  In what ought to have been one of the set’s most cathartic and energetic moments, VanWyngarden turned sheepishly toward the audience, speaking without a trace of enthusiasm: “This is our decision to live fast and die young / We've got the vision, now let's have some fun.”  Sadly, nobody seemed to care about his declaration, MGMT included.

Phish

In the days and weeks leading up to Outside Lands, San Francisco’s citizenry buzzed and bantered about whether legendary jam band Phish has “still got it.”  After two and a half decades on the scene, many –myself included- wondered whether the group could channel the vivacity and verve that mobilized their millions of followers in years past.

Just chords into “Kill Devil Falls,” a cut from 2009’s Joy, singer/guitarist Trey Anastasio answered these questions unambiguously in the affirmative.  As an aging hippie sporting a “Humboldt” trucker hat embraced the spiritual possession hijacking his limbs, Anastasio belted a bluesy, restless tale of crippling boredom and painful isolation: “Stared at the ceiling for over a day / But none of my questions are answered this way / Won't make any calls, I'll just bounce off the walls / Till I go back to Kill Devil Falls.”  Atop a backdrop of floral scarves wafting freely in the breeze, bassist Mike Gordon unleashed a barrage of funky, tasteful grooves that sent hips swaying merrily and shoulders bobbing to the beat.  Set to a skittering piano, Anastasio’s guitar solos were precise and intricately nuanced, delighting his disciplines with deftly controlled distortion and eye-popping fret navigation

Reaching all the way back to the epic ‘87 tale of fictional wonderland “Gamehendge,” Phish shouted a desperate cry: “Willlllllllson!”  Fans, on the precipice of delirium, erupted in response: “Willsonnnnnnnnnn!”  Interspersed between a pair of electric power chords, Phish rattled off a bizarre cast of characters from early album The Man Who Stepped Into Yesterday, including the King of Prussia, Duke of Lizards, and that killjoy Wilson: “You got me back thinkin' that you're the worst one / I must inquire, Wilson, can you still have fun?”

Smashing his sticks together, drummer Jon Fishman hollered to the crowd: “I feel…Come on and dance!”  The audience, immediately picking up on his prompt, responded in unison.  Conveying a stream of scathing, accusatory lyrics on “The Moma Dance,” Phish taunted their erstwhile companions: “And all throughout I gaze and glimpse you / Loving never did convince you.” On “Possum,” another cut off The Man Who Stepped Into Yesterday, jazzy guitar licks mesh with eerie, brooding organ, forcing a burley geezer to rip off his multicolored madras blazer to embark on a journey of euphoric gyration.

Throughout their three sets, which also featured fresh, inventive covers of David Bowie's "Life on Mars” and Lou Reed's "Rock 'n' Roll," Phish rewarded audiophiles with refined improvisational chops, rambling instrumental jams, and overwhelmingly successful ploys to get their fans involved in the spectacle.

The Shins

Friday’s headline performance on the Twin Peaks stage featured a dramatically reshuffled Shins ensemble.  Following his critically acclaimed collaboration with Danger Mouse as Broken Bells, The Shins’ front man Mercer parted ways with his entire band, substituting an indie super group that includes singer/songwriter Richard Swift, bassist Yuuki Matthews of Crystal Skulls, and drummer Joe (not the) Plummer of Modest Mouse.  Though The Shins formed almost twenty years ago in Albuquerque, New Mexico, the band is now based out of folk revivalist haven Portland, Oregon.

Cascading electric guitar riffs and a rapid burst of quirk set up “Australia,” as Mercer decries the dull sting that accompanies those chronic reminders of our innate limitations: “Faced with the dodo’s conundrum / I felt like I could just fly / But nothing happened every time I tried.”  On Chutes Too Narrow folk-pop ditty “Mine’s Not A High Horse,” thrashing guitar and a rakish rejection of worthless dogma empowers Mercer’s plea: “Don't ask for his opinion / They ought to drown him in holy water.”  Honing new track “Double Bubble,” The Shins bolstered Mercer’s fluid falsetto with golden three-part harmonies and a rowdy, syncopated drumbeat.

After breaking ties with prolific Seattle label Sub Pop Records, The Shins are preparing to release their first LP in over six years on Mercer's private label Aural Apothecary.  The Shins’ 2006 release Wincing the Night Away sold over 100,000 copies and peaked at #2 on the Billboard charts, remaining one of Sub Pop’s bestselling albums of all time.  Wrapping up the set with lyrical powerhouse “Saint Simon,” The Shins mourn the fact that life’s fundamental questions often elude even the most sophisticated analytical probing: “After all these implements and text designed by intellects / So vexed to find evidently there's just so much that hides.”

Part II | Part III

Bragging of Friday night’s extensive substance abuse while exposing their bare midriffs to the golden, mellow California sunshine, throngs of eager fans poured into Golden Gate Park for a Saturday morning encore.  Attendees threw back booze with gusto all throughout the day, padding promoters’ profit margins with $7 glasses of Heineken.

Vetiver

San Francisco natives Vetiver provided the ideal weekend afternoon soundtrack with smooth, folksy dream pop. Easing the crowd into a hazily euphoric lull with airy vocals and soothing melodies, front man Andy Cabic impressed Saturday’s early arrivals with his precise, serene acoustic guitar finger picking.  Channeling the glam rock of Georgia based band Of Montreal, “Can’t You Tell” featured jaunty electric guitars and a bouncy vocal delivery.  Lyrics are obscured behind a wall of tambourines and shakers, as a repetitive drum drives the track forward.

“Right Away” has Cabic yearning for a heartland companion and pure, simple Americana.  Decrying high brow exhibitions as insignificant and claustrophobic, he longs for an erstwhile lover that’s been left behind: “The gallery felt crowded, I couldn’t see the work upon the wall / Your face was all I saw.” Yet the singer is besieged by doubt, as it’s unclear whether he actually had a real connection with this old flame. As the track fades, Cabic echoes “I wonder if we had anything at all” in trippy repetition.

Single “Wonder Why,” off Vetiver’s 2011 release The Errant Charm, begins with crisp snare drum and a glittering piano.  Bashing the rags-to-riches American dream as illusory, the singer complains that he just “can’t live on what’s given.” Financial institutions have an iron grip on his meager assets, and the sweltering heat drives a crippling insomnia: “The bank has what little I’m able to keep / Sun’s getting hotter, I no longer sleep.” It’s hard times ahead, but all we’ve got to traverse these roadblocks is an endless sea of questions.  Luckily, a stellar female backup vocalist helps soothe the pain.

As a rare surprise, Vetiver rewarded fans braving another day of tunes and debauchery with a roots-rock cover of “Standing on the Moon” by The Grateful Dead.  Turning back to their extensive original material, the band finished off their set with a contrasting pair of their strongest live cuts.  “You May Be Blue,” a brooding, sinister number off freak folk LP To Find Me Gone, featured infectious electric guitar hooks that had fans whistling the tune all through the day.  Switching gears abruptly, Vetiver tapped up-tempo pop tune “More of This,” which appears on the band’s Sup Pop debut Tight Knit.  Cooing into his microphone, the singer mirrored a sentiment shared by everyone basking in the plentiful Golden Gate sunshine: “I wish I had / More of this, less to miss / Now is the right time / To swing the bass and sing the praises of a love so fine.”

The Roots

After notching three Grammy awards for their collaboration with R&B artist John Legend on 2010’s Wake Up!, the Roots sure have been keeping busy.  In addition to their regular gig as the official house band on “Late Night with Jimmy Fallon,” the eclectic, jazzy hip hop artists are set to release their lucky 13^th album Undun on Def Jam Records later this year.\

Singer and master of ceremonies Tariq “Black Thought” Trotter, storming the stage in blue jeans and a white t-shirt, immediately got down to business hyping up the crowd by jumping in the air and hollering scarcely comprehendible expletives.  But something’s missing – The Roots’ drummer “?uestlove” and his signature afro are nowhere in sight! Though the bulky percussionist would soon surreptitiously slide behind his drum kit, his trademark ‘fro, reduced to mere cornrows, would not be making an appearance.

After meshing jazz with hip hop and rock influences on their original tracks, The Roots guitarist Cap'n Kirk shot off an urgent, visceral cover of Guns N' Roses' “Sweet Child of Mine.”  Segueing into George Thorogood’s “Bad to the Bone,” the Philly based group channeled that soul crushing cycle of toil and unrelenting dissatisfaction inherent to Mississippi Delta Blues.  Indigo stage lights burning bright, Trotter whirled his mic in wild concentric circles as he dove headlong into Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song,” tweaking the lyrics to elicit a deafening round of shrieking from the crowd: “We come from ‘da land of the ice an’ snow / From the midnight sun…to San Fran-cis-cooooo!”

On funk ditty “Jungle Boogie,” originally recorded in ‘73 by Kool & the Gang, the entire band danced across the stage in perfect synchronization while keeping true to ?uestlove’s sturdy beat, as Trotter hollered: “Get down, get down / Get down, get down!” Not missing a step, the elated audience screamed in response: “Jungle Boogieeeeeeee!”

Part I | Part III

Sporting muddy bare feet and a flowing tie-dyed sundress, a flaxen-haired teen pumped up Sunday’s physically drained crowd by waiving a satellite image of “our home from outer space.”  Reminding us that “this is where we live,” the angelic blonde implored us not to “throw your garbage on the ground, because that’s where the animals and the birds and the fish and the ocean live!”  Why sweat the details? She’s on the right track!

Mavis Staples

Crazy though it may seem, Sunday’s clear highlight was 72 year old Mavis Staples, formally of family band The Staple Singers.  Mavis has been piping out blues, soul, and gospel tunes all across America since her eleventh birthday.  And as Mavis  would soon prove, she “still ain’t tired yet!”

Leading with Christian Hymn “I Found Such a Wonderful Savior,” Mavis sounded off like a thousand soul choir all by herself: “I found such a wonderful savior / In Jesus, my Lord and my King!”  Applying her rare glottal gift to cover Credence Clearwater Revival’s “Wrote a Song for Everyone,” the septuagenarian singer, pounding her hands together and imploring on the audience to follow suit, let out a gospel infused “Wrote a song ‘fuh truth / Wrote a song ‘fuh everyone.”  Looking about twenty years younger, Mavis wished her fans “joy, happiness, and pos-ah-tive vibrations!”

As Arcade Fire front man Win Butler marched onstage to help cover “The Weight,” which The Staples Singers performed alongside The Band in Martin Scorsese’s “The Last Waltz,” fans erupted in wild applause.  Mavis sang Levon’s part, while Win Butler pitched in for Rick Danko with bewildered and quivering vocals: “Crazy Chester followed me, and he caught me in the fog.” Come on, ya’ll know the rest!

Paying tribute to “Robbie Robertson, Levon Helm, Danko, Manuel, and Garth, dear Garth,” Mavis shot her hands toward the heavens in spiritual rapture.  The versatile vocalist capped off her set with a rebellious, exuberant rendition of “Freedom Highway,” as her fans chimed in with an impassioned cacophony of “hallelujah, amen!”

Still as relevant as ever, Mavis Staples scored a “Best American Album” Grammy win for 2010’s gospel-soul LP You Are Not Alone.  Produced by Jeff Tweedy, You Are Not Alone is her 12^th studio album. Here’s to 12 more Mavis!

Part I | Part II

Throughout Wilco’s two decades on the scene, the vacillating brain chemistry of frontman Jeff Tweedy has unfailingly fueled the band’s highflying creative trajectory.  Backed by the always vicious electric guitar chops of studio legend Nels Cline, the Chicago band’s 8^th studio LP The Whole Love -self-released on Wilco’s nascent dBpm Records- presents Tweedy at a critical juncture. 

After surviving the shadowy abyss of a chronic painkiller addiction on Sky Blue Sky, and emerging to bask euphorically in that glistening light at the end of tunnel on delightfully kitschy Wilco (The Album), Tweedy leaves behind the creative reservoir that informed and inspired his work for so many years.  Wilco’s latest is both ambitious and deeply personal. And in declining to cash in on the quarter-million-in-sales pop of Wilco (The Album), the veteran rockers are treading on financially soggy soil.  

Rock’s archives are flooded with albums detailing the physical and psychological pains of withdrawal, but few capture the appalling, gut wrenching horror of Lennon’s “Cold Turkey.”  Even more suspect are cuts where singers champion the miracle of survival, especially where Jesus makes too many cameos.  Having successfully converted his dependency on migraine medication into two stellar albums, Tweedy faces a critical question: now what? The Whole Love, oozing with fresh electronic beats, signature alt-country twang, and the maturity of an artist who’s been down the rabbit hole and back, has Wilco updating its sound and reaffirming its status as experimental rock trailblazers.

• Art of Almost
• PlayI Might
• Sunloathe
• Dawned On Me
• Black Moon
• Born Alone
• Open Mind
• Capitol City
• Standing O
• Rising Red Lung
• Whole Love
• One Sunday Morning (Song For Jane Smiley's Boyfriend)

Lacking both the alluring eccentricity of Arm’s Way and synth drenched electro pop driving Vapors, Islands’ A Sleep & A Forgetting is unmistakably the least compelling album overextended singer/songwriter Nicholas Thorburn has ever hatched.  Chalked full of trite, minimalists, lovesick shells of his band’s earlier efforts that never quite get off the ground, this LP hints that the versatile vocalist may be tiring of Islands just as he jumped ship from The Unicorns five years ago.  Considering Thorburn’s enthralling voice and seasoned songwriting chops, the album is a major disappointment suggests the Thorburn’s creative energies are now focused on his Sub Pop Record project Mister Heavenly – featuring Joe Plummer of Modest Mouse and The Shins, as well as Honus Honus of experimental rockers Man Man – and no longer graces Islands with his prime material.

Seeking refuge from a brisk and windy San Francisco evening, hirsute hippies and mustachioed hipsters file into the Connecticut Yankee for a special performance by jam band collective Secret Chimp.  Ironically enough, the Connecticut Yankee, which has undergone a plethora of name changes and facelifts since it first opened in 1907 as “Hilda’s Saloon,” is in fact a loyal municipality of Red Sox Nation. Go figure!

Secret Chimp features a complex concoction of seasoned blues rockers and country journeymen.  Anchoring the group is Jim Lewin of Great American Taxi, whose precise, weaving guitar lines captivated fans throughout the night. Bill Laymon, a touring member of both David Nelson Band and Kingfish, provided a firm backbone with his throbbing, tight bass work.  Add in Scott Cooper of Bay Area based The China Cats on rhythm guitar, and things really start heating up. And there’s still so much more! Former Dark Star Orchestra drummer Mark Corsolini, who also plays with Front Street, pitched in with a steady rhythmic smack that channeled Mickey Hart of the Grateful Dead. Topping things off, DB Walker Band keyboardist Lachlan Kane laid intricate, ethereal organ tracks reminiscent of The Bands’ Garth Hudson.

Interspersed with their tight, funky original material, Secret Chimp treated fans to a series of inventive covers. Harmonizing with a contrived southern drawl, the band blasted out a visceral, energetic cover of “Mystery Train.” Propelled by Cooper’s rhythm guitar, the track featured a fast, fiery tempo. Although we know there is pain and despair in the singer’s voice, we also feel the anticipation of the arriving train that offers up hope and relief. The vocal is uplifting and resonates with a fervor that expresses a very definite sense of sexual angst. The lead guitar is actually quite naughty, and we know exactly what’s going to happen when the lovers are reunited. As the singer declares that the train “will never take his baby again,” he unequivocally rejects that often-unchallenged dominance of the locomotive beast. Though the original version of this song, which dates back at least as far as Little Junior Parker, is rooted in a deep feeling for the blues, Secret Chimp’s cover is something new and altogether unique. It maintains the dissatisfaction and abandonment of the blues, but weds it with the excitement and frustration 60s counterculture.  As the band breaks between sets, Cooper looked out at the audience and invited illicit activities with a wily smile, “if you have to go outside, make sure you come back with an illegal smile on your face.”

During the subsequent intermission, a middle-aged couple was in deep conversation as they discussed the complexities and nuances of “Denver sensibilities.” Ending this discussion abruptly, however, Secret Chimp picked up right where they left off by launching into a cover of Three Dog Night’s “Brickyard Blues.” Set against a stiff piano and bobbing baseline, Laymon tilted back his Stetson hat and purred: “Play me somethin’ sweet, play me somethin’ mellow / Play somethin’ I can sink my teeth in like Jell-O / Play me something I can understand.” Squeezing the mic stand until his knuckles turned white, the singer enthusiastically belted: “Play me some Brickyard Blues!”

Delighting those in attendance with their take on The Band’s “Twilight,” Secret Chimp paid tribute to Robbie Roberston, Rick Danko, Levon Helm, Garth Hudson, and Richard Manuel as they sang in harmony: “Don't send me no distant salutations / Or silly souvenirs from far away / Don't leave me alone in the twilight / 'Cause twilight is the loneliest time of day.” Following one stellar, timeless track with another, Secret Chimp whipped fans into a frenzy of euphoric twirling and swaying with a foot stomping rendition of “Panama Red,” which drummer Mark Corsolini dubbed a “certified counterculture anthem.” Singing out to a room full of grateful fans, the band dusted off the Peter Rowan classic: “The judge don't know when Red's in town / He keeps well hidden underground / But everybody's acting lazy  / Falling out and hangin' 'round.” As the set reached a climax, the singers yelled out with reckless abandon “Panama Red is back in town!”

Past the effulgent cherry red and puke green neon sign delineating Pike Place Market, through a perennial shower of raindrops and mist, and under a vertical column of winking, blinking marquee lights is Seattle's historic Showbox at the Market.  Founded way back in '39 and still going strong, the Showbox ballroom has draw many of the greatest musicians and performers of all time.  Name any artist or band, and they've probably graced the Showbox with their tunes and presence. Duke Ellington? Check. Muddy Waters? That's right folks. How about The Ramones? You betcha! And yes, even Lady Gaga paid the Showbox a visit a few years back. So on this very special hippie holy day, it's perfectly fitting that the Dark Star Orchestra, arguably the greatest of the Grateful Dead tribute grounds, chose the Showbox as its temple.

Hazy violet and burgundy lights wrapped the Showbox ballroom in a warming bubble, as 20-foot tie-dye panels set the backdrop for the world’s eminent Dead tributaries, the Dark Star Orchestra. Touring nationwide for decades, Chicago-based DSO recreates original, song-for-song concerts from the Grateful Dead’s 30-year history. Last Saturday night though, the Seattle audience was treated to DSO show #2193, a rare original set.

As hirsute hippies draped in soft flannel and coarse earth toned hemp drifted into the venue early to stake out some prime real estate, an Age of Aquarius vibe was clearly in the air. The band’s determined commitment to channeling Jerry, Phil, Bob, Billy and Mickey seemed to be a success already, as overheard conversations in the crowd included one slightly dazed older gentleman asking another he could “spare a smile.”  On the other end of the spectrum, a cocksure Deadhead propositioning his blonde neighbor bellowed: “I bet you’re a damn fine dancer, because it takes one to know one.” Was that a compliment or just an excuse for the guy to toot his own horn? It sounded benevolent, so who cares!

Chandeliers dimmed as the crowd erupted for front man and lead guitarist Jeff Mattson. A founding member of Long Island jam band the Zen Tricksters, Mattson joined DSO after their longtime lead guitarist and spiritual anchor John Kadlecik was called on to play alongside two veteran rockers that also happen know the Grateful Dead catalog pretty darn well. Maybe you've heard of them, one's named Bob Weir and the other is Phil Lesh. Now a few years on the job, Mattson deftly mimics Jerry’s vocal intonations, guitar flourishes, and even that subtly nonchalant, unabashedly mellow presence on stage as well as the erstwhile Kadlecik ever did. 

Leading off with a molten cover of Bob Dylan’s “Rainy Day Women #12 and #35” from Blonde and Blonde, a jaunty build thrust the audience into a delighted fit of slides and waves. Twirling alongside each other and joining hands as they caught a groove, fans young and old tossed back their hair and shuffled to the tight music.

Through clouds of pungent smoke, the stage lights brought out the deep oranges and yellows of the tie-dye backdrop. At the same time, Showbox security tried in vain to pinpoint the source of the dank olfactory sensation, but the buzzing audience proved far too difficult a sea to part. Can I get a “power to the people”? Amen! One: Rainy Day Women # 12 & 35 > Bertha > Good Lovin' ; Candyman ; Passenger ; Blow Away ; Jack-A-Roe : It's All Over Now ; Sittin' On Top Of The World ; Cassidy > The Golden Road (To Unlimited DevotTwo: Feel Like A Stranger ; Foolish Heart > Man Smart (Woman Smarter) ; Dark Star > drums > space > *Terrapin Station > The Other One > Morning Dew

Next on tap was the Grateful Dead’s “Bertha,” complete with improvisational jams as the glue between verses. The smiling flower kid cutting loose to my left took this opportunity to whisper in my ear: “That’s amazing! Gosh! I see a new color!” Was he profoundly digging the beats or just turning a figure of speech? My usual eloquence betrayed me and I simply replied, “Groovy!” As the band belted, “That's why if you please, I am on my bendin knees / Bertha don't you come around here anymore,” the audience hummed along in a communal display of bluesy feigned dissatisfaction.

After the first set closed out with fan favorite “The Golden Road (To Unlimited Devotion)”, the crowd roared and cheered before rushing outside for some fresh air, cigarettes, and street food munchies. Revamped for the second set, Dark Star Orchestra dug up Hunter/Garcia’s “Foolish Heart,” followed closely by feminist declaration “Men Smart, Women Smarter.”

When the time came, the crowd unsurprisingly begged and pleaded for an encore. Echoes of “come back” and “return to us” filled the Showbox as the Dark Star Orchestra reclaimed the stage. Turning to The Band’s “The Weight,” ticketholders were lulled into a shapeless, timeless world where the devil walks through down in midday and men have to jostle with crazy jesters just to find a place to rest their weary heads.  With a hint of self-sacrifice and lure of martyrdom, everyone in the ballroom blasted out: “And ya put the load right on meeeeee!” Following an evening of vigorous, ebullient dancing, fans were surly looking forward to taking a “load off” and slipping into a restful sleep after Dark Star Orchestra shuffled off the stage well past midnight.