Music Picks: Overdoz, The Cure, Lucinda Williams

The Devil Wears Prada

CLUB NOKIA

Barrio Tiger: See Friday.

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The Redwood Bar & Grill

316 W. Second St.
Los Angeles, CA 90012

Category: Bars/Clubs

Region: Downtown

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For proudly Christian kids, The Devil Wears Prada sure make an ungodly racket. Their positive metalcore is polished with keys and vocal treatments, but the battering beats and pseudo-symphonic guitars come on plenty hefty while Jeremy DePoyster's airily optimistic timbre gets almost mocked by Mike Hranica's regurgitation retorts. TDWP juxtapose all this with song titles like "Assistant to the Regional Manager" to express and explore the mundane horrors of capitalist existence. Angry as fuck and anti-materialistic (yet ultimately well-meaning), The Devil Wears Prada could be the soundtrack to today's Occupy movement. —Paul Rogers

Also playing:

SOFT METALS, ANIMAL BODIES, FEATHERS at the Echo; SECTION QUARTET at Largo; SKIP SPIRO LITTLE BIG BAND at the Baked Potato; SKETCHY BLACK DOG at Vibrato.

mon 11/21

Bob Mould tribute with Dave Grohl, No Age, Best Coast, Ryan Adams

Walt DISNEY Concert HALL

Ex–Hüsker Dü howler-guitarist Bob Mould's indie-punk children will forever hold him dear, and the appeal is obvious. He's a real likable dude, with a down-to-earth, Middle American brand of charisma. The Dü canon and Bob have earned r-e-s-p-e-c-t, as this tribute by an eclectic crew of Dü devotees will be at great pains to make clear. Dave Grohl (Foo Fighters), Britt Daniel (Spoon), Ryan Adams, No Age, Best Coast, Craig Finn and Tad Kubler (The Hold Steady), comedian Margaret Cho and singer-songwriter Grant Lee Phillips perform selections from the Mould book of songs. There shall be pumping of fists, and it shall be good. —John Payne

The Cure

PANTAGES

Fans mostly familiar with The Cure's post–Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me layered goth-pop might find the stark simplicity of the band's first albums jarring: the numb new wave of Three Imaginary Boys; the lonesome, synthy contemplations of Seventeen Seconds; Faith's monochrome, borderline funereal wallowing. This trio will be performed in their entireties at the Pantages, each by a different lineup of the band (though, sadly, not those that actually recorded the albums), plus "encores of the period." These discs are both hints of things to come and stand-alone documents of how utterly honest Cure main man Robert Smith was with his writing, however fucking depressing the results. Every time could be the last time with The Cure these days; make the most of it. Also Tues.-Wed. —Paul Rogers

K. Flay, Chain Gang of 1974

ECHO

In recent months, 22-year-old Kreayshawn and her fluttering eyelashes have stood out as the symbol of modern-day white-girl rap. But now there's a new Bay Area lady spitter stirring up the convo. K. Flay, the stage name of Kristine Flaherty, is a native Chicagoan with a degree from, yes, Stanford University. Thanks to her official Santigold-featuring remix of The Beastie Boys' "Don't Play No Game That I Can't Win" and her taut, chilly flow on her three-part mixtape I Stopped Caring in '96, she has notoriously prissy music outlets referring to her as "the next big thing in hip-hop." We have to agree — without the prissiness, of course. —Dan Hyman

Also playing:

IMMORTAL TECHNIQUE with CHINO XL, DA CIRCLE, DJ GI JOE at the Music Box; EXHUMED at the Slidebar (Fullerton); TOUCH PEOPLE at Pehrspace; SCOTT WHITFIELD at Typhoon.

tue 11/22

Overdoz

THE ROXY

The core four of this L.A. collective — Creamie, Joon, Kent and Sleezy — were on the red carpet at an awards show late this summer, and no one noticed. Their first major headlining show tonight just might change that. As opposed to the city's other notable clan who stormed the country last fall growling bloody lyrics, Overdoz (whose members are only a couple of years older than Odd Future's) prefer to smoke you out and stroke you down. Their last album, Live For Die For, teeters between sexy and (sexily) raunchy, the bedroom-eyed lyrics sprinkled with hash before being rolled in big, spacey blunts of beats. And it's funny: The chorus of "You're Blowin' It"? "The only time you please me is when you're on your knees." We expect plenty of people to be bowing soon. —Rebecca Haithcoat

Wu Lyf

TROUBADOUR

Leading today's pack of gnashing, anti-establishment wolves are Manchester's WU LYF, a quartet who play self-described "heavy pop." Frontman Ellery Roberts attempted to shroud them in mystery, snubbing the press, periodically deleting their Wikipedia page and blowing off record-industry courtships. Instead, the group recorded in an abandoned church, put out their LP on their own Lyf Recording label and sold $1 "shares" to fans/stockholders. Some compare them to uplifting orchestral pop acts, but Roberts' decayed, gasping shout channels the sobbing ghost of Joe Strummer. The group's shows invoke the feel of protests. You'd be wise to bring your own gas mask. —Andrea Domanick

Death Grips

ECHO

The beast lurking in the shadows is Death Grips, an avant hip-hop collective that may or may not involve polymath drummer Zach Hill of Hella and some Sacramento homies called MC Ride, Mexican Girl, Info Warrior and Flatlander. Self-described as "raw like wet pennies, post-Christian, post-Satan," Death Grips rap about orgies in the bowels of hell, swinging guillotines, and Shiva slashing through your flat screen. Angry and ultraviolent, their words paint a frightening picture of the most primal urges that mankind has to offer. Last summer the five-headed enigma released their noisy and explosive mixtape Exmilitary, the most incendiary, fuck-shit-up hip-hop album to emerge in years. Prepare to have your eardrums bludgeoned. —Lainna Fader