With their last tour of the States now over ten years ago, the band looks no worse for the wear. Bassist and longstanding main songwriter Nicky Wire is an attention getter, as always, doing high kicks wearing a naval captain’s hat in front of his boa-covered mic-stand that could double for a colorful giant macaw. James Dean Bradfield’s voice is as beautiful and crystalline as ever, an instrument that is simultaneously capable of the range and timbre of Peter Cetera and the sneer and outrage of John Lydon, making it possible for this band to turn even a mundane cover song into a universe expanding melody.

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I eventually did get out of the house by Thursday night, touring both floors of Amoeba Music prior to fading down Vine St. to 3 Clubs. Briefly fashionable after the 1997 movie Swingers, this venue I’ve long associated with dreadful music and gave the place up entirely after I quit martinis. Still, the Rumble’s night of indie-squawk sounded promising enough outside muffled through the walls. Both light and prospects were considerable dimmer inside, as French Miami- a trio of Bay Area collegians beloved of NME -was onstage thrashing around inside a math rock that was obviously failing to carry its twos and decimal points.

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