Rock Picks: Doves, Ceci Bastida, Carina Round, New York Dolls

The Aggrolites, in another concrete jungle. Fri.

Loney Dear's Emil Svanangen gets horny, Sat.

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More About

• The Aggrolites
• Hollywood Palladium
• Joe Lewis
• Punk Rock
• Ska

FRIDAY, MAY 15

THE AGGROLITES AT EL REY THEATRE
Despite looking like they’re about to shake you down behind a 7-Eleven, L.A.’s hard-touring Aggrolites are in fact acolytes of the good-vibes, offbeat-obsessed reggae/rocksteady of 1960s Jamaica (indeed, they formed in 2002 as the backing band for first-wave Jamaican reggae icon Derrick Morgan). Not to be confused with the lo-cal SoCal ska of, say, Sublime or Save Ferris, the Aggrolites use bowel-loosening, burbling bass; optimistic organ; compact, rim shot–punctuated beats; and Jesse Wagner’s warm, brotherly-lurve vocals to create something that’s earthy and earnest yet utterly danceable. Over the course of three albums to date (newie IV arrives on June 9), they’ve gradually focused more on actual songs without compromising the embracing aura of their earlier, more improvised recordings. Laid-back but laced with grainy street smarts, the Aggrolites — like all great bands — transcend mere beats, notes and lust for attention to imply some grandiose message in their music. I’m buggered if I know what it is, mind you, but the band calls it “dirty reggae” — and I’ll run with that. (Paul Rogers)

LUCERO, BLACK JOE LEWIS & THE HONEYBEARS AT THE TROUBADOUR
If you get lit up by the sounds of James Brown and his Famous Flames, Otis Redding and the Bar-Kays or Wilson Pickett backed by Stax or Muscle Shoals men, then lend an ear to Black Joe Lewis & the Honeybears. This Austin-based outfit vividly revives the sweet soul music and ribald R&B of their forefathers. Their recently released Lost Highway debut, Tell ’Em What Your Name Is! (produced by Spoon’s Jim Eno), explodes with heated blasts of guitars, organ and horns on the dynamo opener “Gunpowder.” They rip through more garage-soul hip-shakers like “Sugarfoot,” “Boogie” and “Bobby Booshay” while mixing in “oh, baby” pleaders like “Please, Pt. Two” and the country blues excursion “Master Sold My Baby.” While some critics quibble that the band hews too closely to its influences, there’s no denying that the guitar-wielding Lewis and his Honeybears deliver some seriously rockin’ funk. With Redding, Pickett and Brown all long gone, young Lewis has arrived to carry their torch with his hot and sweaty house-party ruckus. Sharing the bill is the twangy, ’Mats-ish Memphis-based bar rockers Lucero. Also at Alex’s Bar, Fri. (Michael Berick)

Also playing Friday:

THE BOMBS, THE GUILTY HEARTS, MAGICK DAGGERS at American Legion, Post 206; KEB’ MO’ at the Canyon; JACK TEMPCHIN at Genghis Cohen; VOLTO at Knitting Factory; JON BRION at Largo; HELMET at Saint Rocke.

SATURDAY, MAY 16

DOVES AT THE WILTERN
Since 2005’s Some Cities, fans haven’t heard a note from Doves, whose democratic three-way writing style had them cooped up in a barn outside Cheshire for more than three years. The incessant mulling over of words, tonality and song structure might’ve done in any other band, but Doves emerged from their foggy farmhouse with a cohesive accomplishment — a graceful balancing act of restless Britpop, epic riffs and shimmering guitar work. Kingdom of Rust is a long way from those first gigs circa 1998, but, as Doves prove with each successive album, they soar heads and tails above the other Britpop babes on the scene — mostly because they don’t deny their instinct and maturity. The fact that Doves push their musical methodology ever forward serves them especially well, combining sweeping orchestrations and just enough cheap and dirty drum-machine hiss to make it rock and bounce (on the new single “Jetstream”), or when Jimi Goodwin croons “Summer’s on the way/Now the swallows have arrived,” then lifts off into a spiraling, stadium-worthy wall of sound. (Wendy Gilmartin)

LONEY DEAR AT SPACELAND
In the video for “Airport Surroundings,” Loney Dear’s Emil Svanängen is driving with the top down and letting his cadence roll like Nate Dogg in Warren G’s “Regulate,” but that’s as close as he’s coming to the 213, because most of the time he’s IKEA-land all the way, coming from Jönköping, Sweden. There’s more than cold comfort to be found in the technological folk music that makes up most of Dear John (Polyvinyl): His existentialism is balanced with his supernaturalism, just as his synthetics (micro-Korg?) are with his acoustics, and he makes you feel good while singing about a situation so bad. Perhaps only his fellow countryman José González is equally capable if making discomfort sound so comfortable. But if González’s ’70s guardian angel is Cat Stevens, then Svanängen’s is Neil Young. His voice is sometimes timid and shaky, and, when he’s accompanied by a vocoder, it reminds you of Trans. Then there’s “Harm,” daringly sung to the morose melody of Albinoni’s “Adagio in G minor,” which makes me wonder if he got that from another Swede, Yngwie Malmsteen, whose guitar version is called “Icarus’ Dream Suite Op. 4.” (Daniel Siwek)