LA Weekly

THURSDAY, JULY 5

Playing Thursday:

DAVID LINDLEY, JOHN CRUZ, BRANDI SHEARER at Santa Monica Pier, 7:30 p.m.; VOLT PER OCTAVES, HANS FJELLESTAD, RED SQUARE, PLASTIQ at Il Corral; PRESERVATION HALL JAZZ BAND at the Mint; PATRICK PARK at Spaceland; KINGSIZEMAYBE, 50 CENT HAIRCUT at Taix.


FRIDAY, JULY 6

The Mike Savage Benefit Show at Safari Sam’s

Hollywood was a musical wasteland by the end of the ’80s: The predominance of pay-to-pay clubs drove most of the underground bands to early extinction, women were only taken seriously at wet-T-shirt nights at Gazzarri’s, and the scene was run (into the ground) by a soft parade of illiterate hair-metal Aerosmith wannabes . . . until Pigmy Love Circus shouter Mike Savage grandly announced, “I’m the king of L.A./I killed Axl Rose today!” The decidedly unglamorous Pigmies brought danger back into local rock & roll, combining heavy-metal dexterity with Savage’s gruff vocals and sarcastic punk theatricality. Tonight’s benefit raises funds for Savage’s recent battle with throat cancer (you know, somebody really ought to make a film documenting the absurdities and inequities of the U.S. health care industry) with a lineup that’s fit for a king, including the countrified roots-rock of Speedbuggy, metallic knockout artisans Motochrist, punk-rockin’ psychobillies Los Creepers, unrepentantly boozy country-rockers Groovy Rednecks, authentic LAMF New Yawk punk-pop from the Kevin K Band, and an increasingly rare set by self-described “Sexxx Junkies” Piss Ant, among others. As for Axl, please use a silver bullet next time, Mr. Savage. (Falling James)


Also playing Friday:

ROCCO DELUCA & THE BURDEN at Henry Fonda Theater; LEON MOBLEY & DA LION at the Derby; IRINA BJORKLUND, MIRANDA LEE RICHARDS at the Hotel Café; MONOLATORS, CAT HAIR ENSEMBLE at Mr. T’s Bowl.



SATURDAY, JULY 7

The Decemberists with the L.A. Philharmonic at the Hollywood Bowl

The band voted most likely to dress in embroidered waistcoats while eating hot-cross buns and harpooning a whale, the Decemberists are naturally popular with the English-lit crowd, sending fans running to their dictionaries to look up “palanquin” and “falderal.” But it doesn’t take a master’s degree in comparative poetry to get swept up in their thoroughly gorgeous and playful songs. The surging melodies and seafaring and brokenhearted themes will lend themselves well to the big, bold sound at the Bowl. Accompanied by an orchestra as grand and compelling as the L.A. Phil, the Decemberists will put on a show that has the makings of an ornate blockbuster not to be missed. Dress like a dandy and bring a picnic of smoked mackerel and absinthe, and party like it’s 1899. With Band of Horses and Andrew Bird. (Libby Molyneaux)


The Rentals at Spaceland

Is it sanctity or sacrilege that Weezer’s original bassist, Matt Sharp, has a band that’s genuinely cool? Sharp’s L.A.-based group, the Rentals, are not lesser than his other band, and in many ways they’re remarkably similar: Like Weezer, the Rentals have operated in fits and starts (Sharp put the band together before leaving Rivers Cuomo’s awkward-rock neuroses rodeo, disassembled it shortly thereafter and re-formed it last year with solo and casual jam adventures in between). The bands share a fondness for textured guitar reveries, conscious dynamics and languid intelligence (the Rentals’ big hit, “Friend of P,” is very nearly a Weezer song); they both inspire rabidity in fans (my friend Jeff is planning a four-hour journey to see the Rentals on their current tour). The Rentals, though, are distinctly reflective of the adult nerd mood, like pothead graduate students who finally learned how to fuck. (Kate Carraway)


Hootenanny at Oak Canyon Ranch

While this annual O.C. grease-monkey meltdown seems to pride itself on relentlessly presenting the same acts (enough already with those fucking Social D stiffs), a couple of the most enticing propositions are going on pretty much at the get-go, and each is a female-fronted knockout. The ever-volatile Tex & the Horseheads are always a kick in the head, and don’t fail to get a load of Mad Marge, the High Desert psychobilly siren whose intuitive sense of overkill rates her higher on the thrill scale than many of the bill’s nominal big draws. The addition of Squirrel Nut Zippers and MIA zany Mojo Nixon brings some much-needed new wrinkles to the same-old contour, and one really can’t bitch about the uniform quality of such stalwarts as John Doe and the Blasters. Starts at noon. 4621 Santiago Canyon Road. (213) 480-3232. (Jonny Whiteside)


Also playing Saturday:

JACK BAMBIS, ARI SHINE at the Echo; PASTILLA, HEALTH CLUB at Knitting Factory; HORNY TOAD at Rusty’s Surf Ranch; JOE BAIZA’S UNIVERSAL CONGRESS OF . . . at Taix; MEDUSA at the Troubadour; TIJUANOS at the Westchester.



SUNDAY, JULY 8

Neil Hamburger at Spaceland

If Neil Hamburger wasn’t the Funniest Man in America, why would the record company keep letting him make so many albums? Can’t answer that question, can you? No, it’s beyond dispute, he is the funniest. End of debate. Don’t even mention Jack Kevorkian, Neil is waaaaay, waaaaaaaay more side-splittingly hilarious, and he’s a much bigger bummer. And he’s got a million of ’em — why, if one of his jokes falls flat or makes you groan or feel like gagging, or say the next 80 or 90 “gags” don’t exactly make you howl with uproarious laughter, just wait, because Neil will pounce with just a killer, killer line that will make you pee in your pants and nudge the guy next to you so he spills his drink (and when he hits you, that’ll be funny too). You’ll be glad you shelled out your money and chose to spend your time, on a Sunday night, no less, with America’s funny man, Neil Hamburger. Because thaaaaaaaat’s your life!!! (John Payne)


Dan Janisch at the Echo

“How many love songs really mean what they say?” Dan Janisch wonders on “Sweet & Simple,” from his new CD, Medicine Man (Green Door). “You make up some words and a melody, and you take ’em out to play,” which is just what the local singer-guitarist does over the course of his pleasingly wrought folk- and country-flavored solo album. “Sometimes I don’t feel right singing about love anymore/But when a heart gets broken . . . a song’s the only place that it can hide,” he continues. He gives broken hearts some lovely places to hide, such as the swirling, bluesy slide-guitar-driven title track and the circus-y love-letter lament “Sayonara Chinatown.” You might remember Janisch as one of the guitarists in the literally incendiary psychedelic glitter-rock troupe the Imperial Butt Wizards, but his solo work is miles away from such a spectacle. There’s a Bob Dylanish world weariness in a rustic ballad like “Pretty Little Baby,” while other melodies are constructed from a basic Johnny Cash foundation. This early show starts at 6 p.m. (Falling James)