Indie rock doesn’t produce much in the way of anthems, but, then again, Glasvegas is ‘indie’ only by D.I.Y. courtesy, started as it was by four Glaswegians with more confessed ambition than self-admitted skill. Crowd and feedback noise from Oasis’ rattletrap set punctuated a conversation already fraught with slippage. This interview by Ron Garmon.

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Rhett Miller and the Old 97’s have probably seen Dallas from a DC-9 at night on several occasions, and they return to earth when whim and inspiration combine to release albums of distinct and considered country-style rock ‘n’ roll. Miller—who is opening for his own band with a set from his new solo album—speaks now about writing a song while little children shriek all around him. This interview by Thomas McMahon.

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It may sound odd describing an artist as “full of love”—especially when one of her most famous songs is entitled “Fuck the Pain Away”—but Peaches was (and remains) just that. She entered the stage in an abstract peach outfit composed of a pinky-orange balloon shirt, hood, a glittering snakeskin mask and tights, and as she crossed the stage with her arms moving back and forth, she resembled a lively beating heart.

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Sure, the dead band members outnumber the living ones at this point, and David Johansen seemed more than a little tired, and Sylvain Sylvain has nearly morphed into a combination of Danny DeVito and Rhea Perlman. But to their everlasting artistic credit, they insisted on playing half a set of newish material, and that new material was 100% damned good. A few songs sounded a bit like the sweet street-tough material from David Johansen’s solo career, but even tighter and poppier, a little more Lou Reed than Shadow Morton. And they even made sure to evoke their dead brethren by opening “Lonely Planet Boy” with a full chorus of Johnny Thunders’ “Can’t Put Your Arms Around a Memory.”

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Was 50 Cent at the Henry Fonda on Sunday, April 26? No, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t sexual innuendo-laced lyrics on top of ass-bouncing beats floating through the steamy air as young, hot, bodies grinded on each other.

Shrouded in a light show back-lit by videos screening behind them, the Faint delivered. After rushing through a maze of L.A. traffic to get to the early concert (the Faint went on at 8:15), I felt a little crabby, pushing through the crowd to get up close. But, the moment “Take Me To The Hospital” blasted through the speakers—crabby no more—my heart started pumping and my feet started moving.

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michael hsiung

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