Club Fight

Photos by Wild Don Lewis

GANGSTARR, C-RAYZ WALZ, EL-P, 4th AVENUE JONES, PLANET ASIA at the Henry Fonda Theater, August 30

While Los Angeles’ flagship hip-hop station Power 106 is hardly a mainstay of forward-thinking rap, there’s no doubt that on its Wake Up Show, DJs Sway and King Tech consistently capture the spirit of freestyle competitions, and it was the excitement of discovering new blood that fueled tonight’s 2,000-capacity sold-out show (this with nary a drop of alcohol in the house). In truth, the excitement was about glimpsing Gangstarr dropping bombs from The Ownerz, their first joint in over four years and, according to DJ Premier, “not that bubblegum microwave shit you hear on the radio.” Guru, in his calm, urbane monotone, kept crowing, “We’re the resurrectors of the New York sound” (whatever that means), and the rafters shook accordingly. But in addition to unnecessary a cappellas, including one in which Guru referenced his newfound sobriety, it sucked that Gangstarr skipped the string-driven “Soliloquy of Chaos” from ’92’s still-dope Daily Operation. Moreover, the pair’s affection for the crowd and positive ’tude had an aftertaste of charity: “We doin’ this for free, y’all,” yelled Premo.

But the fresh crown goes to C-Rayz Walz, the latest hype from Def Jux Records — too bad label prez and “first white rapper taken seriously” El-P only joined him for a cameo. Most anomalous was 4th Avenue Jones, a self-described “hip-hop-rock-soul” outfit that would have rocked harder had they not reminded us constantly of their guitar-band credentials, and anyway, what’s up with the cover of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit”? I dug Planet Asia most, especially after Asia — invoking the dirty South — broke some crunked-up boom-boom over our backs; the S1W-type bodyguard/eunuch figure onstage (arms folded, looking hard) was a nice touch of P.E.-style theatrics. Also excellent work from Battle Monkeys and Killafornia, breakdance crews that made painful body contortions look balletic.

The evening’s raison d’être — 16 battlers whittled down by four rounds of 30-second heats (with four judges and the audience-o-meter for tie breakers) — got started around 2 a.m. Black, white, Latin and one Asian cat spat for the gold, but it was a shame so many taunts dealt with race and apparel choices (that the best y’all can do?). Forty-five minutes later, it was down to the Inland Empire’s Poseidon vs. gangly great-white-hope C4. In a cruel reversal of the 8 Mile moment that seemed imminent, C4’s second-round boos meant Poseidon walked off with the two-grand prize and left 909 heads feeling strong.

DAVE GAHAN at the Wiltern, August 25

Finally putting his own words in his mouth, Depeche Mode’s Dave Gahan took the Wiltern stage supporting his first creation as a lyricist, Paper Monsters, a to-hell-and-back journey of a man whose once drug-weathered heart stopped beating for several minutes. The album is good, good enough not to be wasted live on restless beer hounds — the dirty drinking ditty “Bottle Living,” the Cure-ish bass delight “Hidden Houses” and the beautifully atmospheric “Stay” are better appreciated in your room at home.

It wasn’t a lost-in-the-lyrics trance, though, that kept these hands from taking too many notes, but the sexual energy barely contained in a pair of pants tighter than the butt from Basildon wearing them. Soaked by the third song and still skinny as the mike stand, Gahan’s as much a singular symbol of D.M. as the jagged Anton Corbijn rose that adorns Violator. The dreidelish spinning, the Jaggeresque hip-swaying and the overhead hand clap were all classic Gahan, like it was Rose Bowl ’88 all over again. Even amid serious talk of leaving the band after years of singer-songwriter frustration with wordsmith Martin Gore, he stayed faithful to the oldies: “Question of Time” is a rarely played must-dance gem, while the screeching, bluesy “I Feel You” and the mournful “Walking in My Shoes” are underrated tunes that were lost in the alternative world of ’93.

Gahan can never get holier than on “Personal Jesus,” and when he said, “Reach out and touch faith,” his disciples did, over and over again. No surprise that he ended the show with the favorite closer (almost entirely sung by us, of course) “Never Let Me Down Again.” Do the same for us, Dave; D.M. is the last of our generation. (Siran Babayan)

BOOKS ON TAPE, LIBYTHTH, MONOSTADT 3 at the Parlour Club, August 31

Another Rollerderby Superstar salon, here opened by twilight assassins Monostadt 3. An excoriating rhythm stick hits out from Robert Price’s assorted bent circuits and synths, complemented by Priya Ray’s violin poking out of the scree. “Oh, that sucked!” comments a disgruntled audience member. The withering drum scrawl of Harry Pussy co-founder Adris Hoyos nearly disables the episodes of Land of the Lost and Shindig screening on a wall and rattling along in fast-forward at times, as the DJ’s death-hop twists the death nerve, a reconceived soundtrack.

Books on Tape, a.k.a. Todd Drootin, twists and gyres while poring over an assortment of processors and guitar pedals that are essentially a smorgasbord of drum breaks and disemboweled beats. Gingerly twisting dials and pecking at his equipment like a fussy child at supper, Drootin shoots speed-metal guitar lines with tranquilizer darts, slowing them to 8 rpm even as the overamped sulfur trail of the high-hat wends its way through dancers and head-nodders. It’s faintly reminiscent of watching an autistic root for his favorite AFL team, or the release by the Gerogerigegege called “Shaking Box Music (You Are Noisemaker),” wherein a metal box is filled with blank cassettes and nothing more. Frantically, Drootin batters the pedals like congas in this night at the house of knives, detonating for an audience that is at turns appreciative and mystified.