Whether it’s Bloops and Bleeps, Turd & Main, the OK Corral, the Wayback Machine, These Are the Breaks, Eat Your Paisley, or any of our many other review sections, giving us a suggested section lets us know that:

1. You have an opinion on where your music might be a good fit.
2. You actually read our magazine, and aren’t some random PR intern in an office in Santa Monica who sends out 50 demos a day, and…
3. You care about giving us poor, overworked, underpaid music types a hand with the literally thousands of music submissions we get every year!

Really, by giving us a section name, you’re saving us time and making sure our one musical expert who knows the most about your type of music will be able to give you the fairest of shakes. Album reviewing isn’t that glamorous: we get so many submissions that literally, all we want to do is curl up in the shower naked like Glenn Close in the beginning of The Big Chill because we just feel so defeated and confused, without answers to the meaning of it all! By providing us with those answers, you also provide yourself with a big leg up against the competition.

And we know what some of you (the piss-ants) are saying: “Oh, L.A. RECORD, my forward-thinking opus about man’s insignificance in the face of technology is beyond categorization!” Waaaah! First of all, you’re kidding yourself, because if you have any fans at all,  they are going to describe you to their friends by whatever genre they think you belong in. “Have you heard this psychedelic glitch hop take on Stevie Nicks?”

But secondly, you can always list multiple categories you might think apply: Suicidal Tendencies might fit well in either Ties & Flies or Satan’s Hoary Maw; Arabian Prince would be at home in both Bloops and Bleeps or These Are the Breaks. You get the idea! The categories are intentionally loose, because we too share your distrust of one-size-fits-all genre fascism.

So, send us your albums, send us your suggested category names, and hey, here’s another great idea: send it to us on vinyl! That way, we can list it in our Spin to Win section!

-Dan Collins

P.S. Please, don’t be distraught if you submit something and it doesn’t get reviewed. Math alone dictates that we can’t publish all the things we love from all of you. It’s probably not that you suck, but more like we had too many banjo-based folk albums to put in print this season and had to turn our focus to CD-Rs burned by teenagers wearing hockey masks who play in West Covina. Keep sending in your submissions, and if you’re good, we will take notice. For more info on sending us your shit, click here.

The film geek gridlock in front of the New Beverly stretched a full block, detouring boring pedestrians and rivaling anxious commuters that idled on Beverly. It was an epic night in geekdom to honor Severin Film’s remastered 3-disc release of Inglorious Bastards this past Tuesday. The New Bev played host for the premier, doubling it up with Castellari’s Battle Squadron. Guests of honor included Enzo himself along with the films stars, Fred Williamson and Bo Svenson. The packed house rioted in applause at the introduction from one of Italian Cinema’s All-Time Greats. Enzo humbly engaged the cheering crowd by saying, “My heart is too big with emotion that words could not describe my happiness.” Svenson added, much to the fanatics’ chagrin, that he had never seen the film but was anxious to watch his 30-year old performance. Williamson, always in charismatic form, said, “The only reason I’m here is to show you all how good I still look. Nothing is hanging too low that shouldn’t be.” The trailer reel put together by projectionist Adam Trash was awesome, highlights going to Castellari’s Warriors of the Wasteland starring Williamson as an apocalyptic archer and Kill Them All and Come Back Alone, a bodies-piled-high Spaghetti Western. The Bastards’ print was phenomenal, almost too good when I realized that many of the explosions were indeed blatant miniatures (my shit-legged copy is so grainy I thought some were actually real). Afterwards, Williamson went on to say, “These Genre Films make such a lasting impact because of the individual characters, unlike today’s main characters, the special effects.” The ecstatic crowd went on to sing Happy Birthday to Enzo, who glared with glassy eyes out into the wave of admirers, in awe of what his legacy has truly become.

– Nolan Knight

The Skirball Cultural Center is situated in the wealthy DMZ separating the Valley from the basin.  It is a rest area for the weary traffic victim unlucky enough to be challenging his transmission on the Sepulveda Pass during daylight hours.  And right now it holds Bob Dylan’s American Journey, 1956 – 1966 in a hardwood hangar decorated with the words and images of a restless Robert Zimmerman.

The exhibit, which has been zig-zagging across America for nearly two years, hails from Seattle’s Experience Music Project – those pop music preservers nestled in the shadow of the Space Needle known as much for their architecture as their contents. The collected artifacts vary wildly between mass-produced objects any hip uncle might have withering away on a bookshelf to precious hand-written lyrics riddled with corrections and arrows.  All of it encased in glass and lit with a glow befitting the Pieta.

At the entrance, thrift store copies of Bound for Glory and Kingston Trio LPs huddle around reproduced photographs of a frosty Minnesota before a cast of wild-eyed east coast bohemians take control of the exhibit.  There are interesting objects to be found:  Woody Guthrie’s guitar (crudely engraved “WOODY”), D. A. Pennebaker’s camera from Don’t Look Back and autographed LPs with lyrics written in bubbly long-hand.

The center of the exhibit is divided into small vocal booths each featuring a different Dylan album as well as television sets presenting digestible clips on all things Bob.  Pete Seeger and Robbie Robertson chatter away while the chirp of harmonicas ricochets around the room.

What excels most about the project is the same thing that makes the EMP in Seattle worth anything of note.  It’s not the enshrinement of Fred Durst’s hat.  It’s the interactive exhibits.  At the back of the gymnasium are stations offering the opportunity to mix an early four-track recording, provide percussion via hand-operated drum pads, and even operate the organ drawbars to epileptic effect.  In the corner of the well-funded playland is a small stage with three guitars allowing people to experience what it is like to be a rock star’s feet – a rack of effects pedals allows the performer to play pre-recorded riffs behind any combination of loud he likes.

And then there is the vocal mic.  Those brave enough to further aggravate the long-suffering security guard stationed right next to it could sing “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door” behind the worst karaoke version ever recorded.  How is it that a person can completely remove the vocals at a station twenty feet away yet the instrumental version would give even the loneliest and drunkest businessman pause before trying to hold up his end in front of such a sorry accompaniment?  Besides that song came out in the ’70s.  But it is rather entertaining to listen to a person sing a song only they can hear, stomping and humming away, remembering a time and place that may or may not have existed.

By the end of the tour, the visitor has spent more time and effort considering Dylan’s sound than Dylan ever did.  He was notorious for barreling through material where the first rehearsal may just have been the first take.  Perhaps if he had heard “One of Must Know” backed by the finest tablas a table-top drum machine can produce he would have run off with the Maharishi rather than the Band.

Winding down the halls past docents a generation older than the Bobster, it’s easy to pick out those who have come to see the exhibit.  Hipsters in all shades of grey roam the displays regretting the things they lent to their siblings and getting a little closer to their reluctant hero.  The well-funded production lavished upon a man who still grumbles amongst us sounds exquisite and looks great.  It may not be enough to satisfy the average Dylanphile, but should be more than enough for the curious music fan looking to learn more about America’s favorite lingerie pitchman.

— SOC

BOB DYLAN’S AMERICAN JOURNEY CLOSES SUN., JUNE 8.

Bad Dudes
Eat Drugs
Retard Disco

Bad Dudes take the name from an arcade game about saving the president from ninjas, so it should come as no surprise that their music draws heavy inspiration from classic video games and 8-bit audio. Their self-titled debut found a loyal audience with college students obsessed with math rock and Nintendo-core, but with this sophomore release the band has moved out of the dorms and into post-collegiate communal living. The Dudes have definitely have grown up. Eat Drugs is a manic masterpiece of ADD-fueled rock, constantly shifting from their trademark video-game style to party anthems and intelligent (but wild!) rock ’n roll. “The title track gets stuck in your head with a simple hook and wicked breakdown, while other stellar tracks like “Cabana Boyzz, B.C.” and “Heterosaucer” display the band’s famously mind-bending technical skill. In a nutshell, they were already good and they just got better.

— JAX

With a history of selling out Central Park and other massive venues, it may not come as a surprise that shelling out for tickets breeching three-digit price points makes a Paul Simon concert impractical for those living on a budget. But give Paul Simon a month-long residency at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, add some artists such as Grizzly Bear and Josh Groban, and you have a bill that draws an audience varied both in age and predilection.

At least, in theory.

As The Roches took the stage (three older women who were clad like the Rolling Thunder Revue had taken place earlier that evening), it became evident through a combination of thunderous applause and in-seat-dancing that the crowd was largely comprised of Baby Boomers.  Of course, this was not to be unexpected, but it did raise the question of how a group like Grizzly Bear would be received.

Comprised largely of two or three song sets, groups and artists took turns covering Simon’s material, occasionally being joined by Simon himself. This showmanship may have been lost on some of the crowd, but by and large, the response was always welcoming.

It was with no semblance of irony that as Grizzly Bear finished their lush, soundscaped versions of “Graceland” and “Mother and Child Reunion,” the audience took a nasty turn.  After genial applause, there was an uproar of whistling and clapping when the stagehands removed a set of synthesizers and effects pedals from the stage, shunning artists that Simon had invited to play over some sort of lust for acoustic purity.

The other artists didn’t have a chance to offend as their convention was more traditional, but as I stood at the back of the concert hall during the encore, the crowd screamed their approval for Simon when he sang a line about smoking a joint. I couldn’t fight the feeling that many of those who cheered the loudest no longer understood what they were cheering for.

— Austin Murphy

The Keepers “Where Strides the Behemoth”

Back down from his woodsy home in Oregon, Fred Fight (Dirt Clod Fight) descended to hand in his  Master’s Thesis on the Long Beach punk scene with The Keepers. Consisting of the unstoppable Ed Kampwirth (Suburban Rhythm, Dios Malos) on bass, the incomparable Patrick Butterworth (Shoegazer, I’m Gonna Stab You, Alleged Gunmen, Dios Malos) on drums and of course Fred Fight, the noblest shredder and metal screamer. From the opening notes of “45” it was right back to the past, like the notes had never left and time had never passed. Ending the set with “Last One Out,” a paean to everything screamed with righteous, gorgeous fury and fading out to the final measures of “She’s So Heavy,” The Keepers let loose with their immeasurable mastery of Rock Which Is Good and Shall Save You like it never left their hands. Let me tell you something about each one of these musicians: no one can beat them. It’s not a competition and they’re not out for the Hall of Fame, but the command each has over his music is just this: unmatched, unparalleled and enviously effortless. And even if you don’t know them, you should at least hear them. Then you can beg them to put out their unreleased one-take (no, seriously) album with Mike McHugh. You heard it here.

— Chesney Higgins

There was a party on a school bus Monday night in Echo Park. Yeah, you fucking missed it and will be kicking yourself for weeks. Mr. Free & The Satellite Freakout rolled their carnival-on-wheels into Los Angeles from Tuscon earlier this week with the hopes bringing their extravaganza to the masses and perhaps conceiving a few illegitimate children. Last night I left my house around 10 o’clock and walked down to their graffiti covered rock shrine which was parked next to Echo Park Lake. Once inside the bus, partygoers discovered what can only be described as a 6th grader’s fantasy: the bus had been converted to a venue on wheels. All the seats had been ripped out and a stage set up in the back. The front half of the bus had been carpeted, which definitely came in handy later on. Just after 11 pm the band launched into their set of insane rock n roll with gregarious front man Mr. Free leading the charge. A small contingency of fans, people in the know and people just passing by crammed into the bus to witness the spectacle. Mr. Free stripped down to a pair of ruffled pink panties, pink fishnets and combat boots. The crowd danced wildly using the low roof for support. Mr Free groped men and women and gave it all in the name of rock n’ roll. Surprisingly, the show didn’t get shut down by the cops and only got a warning around 1 am. The band will be in Los Angeles all week long hopefully playing shows. If they can’t play inside a venue, they’ll play out front.

— JAX

I often say that if California were to break off from the main continent and become an island it would be no big deal. After all, we already have Hadley’s date shakes, Morongo Casino, Pioneer Town and Venice Beach. We also have more than enough good musical acts to entertain us, and several of the best played at the Scene Bar in Glendale on Saturday. The evening began with a rare appearance by Last Kind Words, a collaboration between Gabe Hart (Jail Weddings), returning to Starvations territory, and Matty Rue (of San Francisco darlings The Holy Kiss) in a snarling epic descent into torrid murder ballad territory. The band was rounded out on drums by Warren Thomas of Long Beach’s Grand Elegance, looking laid-back and nonchalant as if he had been transported via time machine from a poolside, plopped right behind a drum set and said “Fuck it, why not?” Lily Marlene (Lily and the Ladies) debuted a new backing band, which lived up to its description—in her words “reallllly heavvvy”. Lily always has an amazing ability to translate her stark blues into practically any form and still have it work and tonight was no exception. Her set ran from strait renditions of material from her solo repertoire to full out rock songs to a sweeping ballad that would put Journey to shame—all with out batting an eye. Trash blues-champions and Scene Bar-favorites The Guilty Hearts played next. Their usual high energy rollicking was punctuated with hillarious banter between bassist Edgar Rodriguez and lead singer/guitarist Leon Catfish in their notorious never-ending one liner contest. The Holy Kiss took the stage at around 12 (the witching hour appropriately) and preceded to reinvent the genre with their epilleptic blues. Lead singer Matty Rue throws himself all over the stage like a tall black scarecrow, howling the refrain “sooo sick and tired of crying!” California, you’re alright.

— Lauren Everett

Jens Lekman “Friday Night at the Drive-In Bingo”

If Jens Lekman had forgotten to bring his band and instruments to the Fonda on this Friday night, he probably could have gotten away with it. The Swedish minstrel seemed to have a wealth of droll banter that could have filled the night if necessary. Case in point: Lekman mentioned that he had just been in Austin, Texas, at the “dude fest” (aka South by Southwest), where, “I woke up the next morning with my pockets full of business cards.” Denoting his degree of interest in the networking aspect of the event, Lekman cheekily claimed that he used the cards to build a castle with seven towers, a moat and a functioning drawbridge. He said that he was hoping to add an eighth tower as well as a catapult — “all made out of business cards.” But Lekman’s gift for off-the-wall stories wasn’t confined to the spaces between songs. The lyrics he crooned tonight told of a romantic gesture resulting in a trip to the hospital (the wistful “Your Arms Around Me”), an Iraqi refugee operating a beauty salon out of her apartment in a Swedish suburb (the string-soaked “Shirin”) and using Google Maps to escape the labyrinthine layout of the same Swedish suburb (the as-yet-unreleased “New Directions”). That town was the muse and recording place of Lekman’s latest album, Night Falls Over Kortedala. On stage, he described Kortedala as “miserable,” but the music it inspired is bursting with joie de vivre. At one point during the performance, Lekman and his bandmates abandoned their instruments while a prerecorded track played, spread their arms and pretended to fly. Perhaps that’s how he got out of Kortedala.

— Thomas McMahon

Boredoms “Jungle Taitei”

Yes, I saw my first Boredoms show only three years ago when I was 19. Yes, last year I went to New York to see the 77 Drum performance (an 85 minute Boredoms/Voordoms set that included 73 extra drummers all led and conducted by Yamatsuka EYE).  And yes, last night I did it again at the Henry Fonda. There were people there who had also been to the two previous shows I attended, and this brings up the question: Why? Well, because. Because the Boredoms have been a band for 20+ years, because Yamatsuka EYE is my dad’s age (I realize my dad is only 47 and that some of the L.A. RECORD readership is in that same age range, but my dad works for Boeing and doesn’t play a seven necked guitar or have dreadlocks) and most importantly because they possess the rare ability to fuse so many things together so seamlessly—it comes off as the most effortless thing you’ve ever seen. Last night’s set was similar to my two previous Boredoms experiences: three full drumkits, EYE jumping around and conducting with a theramin-like wand of some kind and CDJ decks running everything from techno to choir vocals to drum rhythms.  They were unrelenting for over an hour, did an encore and then left the stage, everyone still in awe at what they’d seen for the first time or third or fifth.

— Nate Harrington