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F Yeah: Frickin' Yes in the Summertime

This weekend's fest offers a glimpse into the future of rock & roll


High Places

Not sure if the phrase “turd in the punch bowl” gets used anymore, but at least in regard to F Yeah Fest, High Places are, like, the opposite of that. In contrast to the aggressive, shit-kicking tenor of many F-ing bands, this Williamsburg duo’s simple songs consist of little more than Mary Pearson’s coy, slightly flat melodies, and waterlogged drum machines. Recently signed to Thrill Jockey off the strength of their singles collection, 03.07-09.07, High Places are set to drop their debut LP in October. If you liked the former, the new one contains 40 more minutes of a similar thing, but with better production and more cleanly enunciated roots in the soca music of Trinidad and Tobago and Asian peninsular music. (Ian Cohen)


Mannequin Men

Chicago’s Mannequin Men put out Fresh Rot last year, an amazing thing that crammed in every grand or garbagey piece of rock & roll detritus you ever heard, ran it through a wickedly drunken punky blender and ralphed it all back out into the ionosphere, where it slowly shimmered down to Earth, puncturing the ozone layer, contaminating every river and making baby harp seals unhappy. Yes, it was that good/bad. The Mannequin Men sang about sex, beer and partying, their music was truly middle-class pointless and brainless, and they were proud of it. But then, few can pull off these intricate blends of Stooges/Velvets/Kinks/Television with such free-flowing ease without having intuitive smarts, the kind of brains that deliver one of the most insanely over-the-top live shows you’ll ever see. (JP)

 
Mika Miko

In the video for their angular anarchic screecher, “Business Cats,” the ladies of Mika Miko spew out a black sludge that gradually, through the miracle of stop-motion videography, climbs the room’s walls and coats its ceiling — not a bad metaphor for the local party-punk quintet’s story thus far. A series of frame captures spanning Mika Miko’s six years would reveal a measured canvassing of the nation’s noisenik communities (they were the Smell’s first ambassador band) with music not unlike that goop: mostly spat out, unswervingly monochromatic and plenty sticky. Their patent “pony thrash” isn’t necessarily all that patent (see late-’70s Swiss act LiLiPUT), but when dueling vocalists Jenna Thornhill and Jennifer Clavin shout shrill nothings into their mic-rigged red telephone and hair dryer, it’s hard not to fall in love with the fun all over again. (CM) 

 
Monotonix

Three mangy perverts from Tel Aviv who play an extremely chaotic form of punk rock, Monotonix consist of singer Ami Shalev, drummer Haggai Fershtman and guitarist Yonatan Gat, and claim Ritchie Blackmore’s Rainbow as a heavy influence, along with actual rainbows. Their recent EP on Drag City, Body Language, gives you a teensy hint at the sheer madness of their already legendary live shows. Rough, raw, dirty, sweaty, gritty, hellish, sure, but, interestingly, they’re sneakily supercapable musicians who slip in, amid the bedlam, mathematical and slinky loads of Band of Gypsys–type intelli-funk and “jazzy” touches. You, however, will be mainly amused, then shocked, then totally awestruck when you see how far these three big-fro’d lunatics take things — the drummer will no doubt decide to move his kit at some point during the set, but the singer, whose pants might be on fire, will find him and proceed to tear the drummer and his drums a new bumhole. (JP)

 
No Age

The consummate band-as-artists and holy shepherds of the Smell’s experimental cadre, No Age are becoming the stuff of legend despite the duo’s mere 30 months as a performing unit. Drummer/singer Dean Spunt and guitarist Randy Randall make some beautiful noise, and their presence in Los Angeles has been nothing short of transformative. No Age have turned both the Central Library and the L.A. River into acceptable music venues, Spunt’s PPM label plays host to some of the city’s greatest young talent (Abe Vigoda and Mika Miko included), and the pair’s vegan, prohuman, D.I.Y. aesthetic is enough to inspire any old scenester to get out and make something. Of course, as their recent Sub Pop debut LP, Nouns, attests, No Age have set the bar mighty high, specifically, in the upper climes of the atmosphere where thick, ethereal waves crash against untamed rhythms. (CM)

 
Two Gallants

Conor Oberst might be recording deadly-dull folk-rock for Merge these days, and Rilo Kiley aimed for Fleetwood Mac and hit squarely on Tango In the Night, but at least the wildly pretentious Two Gallants are keeping up the Saddle Creek tradition of being young and full of shit. If they’re more (in)famous for their recording of the old slave song “Long Summer Day” (yup, N word included) and a wickedly violent dustup with the cops at an Austin club, well, that’s probably because controversy is something they’re far better at than resonance. Rarely anything less than lumbering and lugubrious in their acoustic Joyce-summoning dirges, Two Gallants more often assume heft due to their own portent than create it. (IC) 

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