By Emma Silvers
By Gary Moskowitz
By Alee Karim
By Ian S. Port
By Ian S. Port
By Derek Opperman
By Emma Silvers
By Alee Karim
Tiny Television is unflashy, even by indie-rock standards. Jeremy D'Antonio's "countrypolitan folk songs" are pure No Depression: He sings about loneliness in a "basement by the sunset," with lengthy pedal steel and banjo moans and sighs woven throughout. With murder ballads and songs about heartsick waiting, Tiny Television's music is a dusted, busted look back in time.
Like Cat Power or Low, Odessa Chen's off-in-the-distance duets with herself sound intimate, even hymnal. But if Iron & Wine's Sam Beam can make a name for himself as a surprising festival staple (often with two drummers on hand), why can't Chen? Haunted, frozen ditties like "Snow Angels" — which is led by a cello — aren't quite party music, but explore a little atonement in the afternoon. And anyway, Chen puts down her Sylvia Plath to run through the sprinklers now and then.
San Francisco, CA 94133
Category: Music Venues
Region: North Beach/ Chinatown
The Oakland Faders
Many turntable DJs spend so much time perfecting their scratching technique that they don't even put it into practice over beats. Not so with the Oakland Faders, who cleverly tether disparate elements — like the simmering organ line and flute-and-strings psych-soul that go into their menacing anthem, "We the Oakland Faders." With beats this good, you almost hope their scratching is just a stage.
Oakland's Santero is ambitious for an artist who sees himself asat least part reggaetón. But then, most reggaetón artists are not ordained Santerían priests. Having absorbed the music of New Orleans and Havana through the '80s, and attained the highest honor of his religion before making his own music, Santero aspires to be the socially responsible answer to Calle 13. With warm Latin percussion, call-and-response female choruses, and sudden interjections of salsa brass and jazzy vibraphone, he's more musically adventurous than your average Latin hip-hop group, too.
Boca do rio
San Francisco's psych-garage scene is bursting out of control these days. The incandescent Ty Segall is at its summit, thrashing about with such rough, pencil-sharpener sonics that spiritual forefather Jay Reatard sounds like the Hives by comparison. Segall's latest album, Melted, is a barnburner recently released on the classic Memphis label Goner Records.
This psych-folk band spreads joy from the opening moments of "Careful with That Hat," from its Dead Oceans debut, Dream Get Together. Full-choir vocals and cheesy twin-guitar leads skyrocket from the seven-piece, yet it rocks as jauntily as Phoenix and uses space as effectively as Fleet Foxes. All Citay needs is its own retro movement — maybe Blitzen Trapper needs a tourmate?
Personal and the Pizzas
With their tasteless-but-excellent name, penchant for defacing classic album covers, and claiming their sound boils down to "one Ramones riff + one Stooges riff + really dumb words," Personal and the Pizzas are just cruising for a Brian Jonestown Massacre namecheck. But dressing up as punks is always more fun than dressing up as hippies: "These brass knuckles are gonna break you down/Gonna pop you in the mouth," goes one catchy chorus over a driving beat. Anthem "I Don't Wanna Be No Personal Pizza" is either a rebellion against themselves, a commentary on loneliness, or a coded request for an extra-large pie. It's fun any way you take it.
A garage-rock band without a gimmick is either a noble or a damning thing, depending on whether you consider lo-fi production a conceit or '70s leather jacket affectations ridiculous. But the music of power trio Bare Wires feels more like it was crafted on the couch than among gasoline cans, so consider it a living-room rock band. Bare Wires' members aren't slackers trapped at their folks' houses, they didn't forget to write heart-slaying hooks, and their tempo changes would capsize Wavves. Under the scrutiny of stage lights and beer goggles, they could even pass for Spinal Tap with all their hair.
THE CHURCH KEY
Mozaic deals in stark minimalism and the shortest sounds you can program into the memory of the human ear — bleeps, squirts, claps, pops, and, of course, beats. The San Francisco DJ's tracks wrench, hallucinate, and tickle. They're haunting and creepy, yes, but alluring as well.
Ghosts on Tape
Ryan Phillip Merry's influences for Ghosts on Tape read like a stoned beatmaker's shopping list: "Lots of drums. Spliffs. Dub ... Chicago house ... tropical plants. ... Zoning out." Between the distant vocals of "Midnight Moves" and the backwards-sample rainfall of "Rainbow Arabia," you could slot his music as the Burial of booty bass. And as with the best dance music (and stoners), he excels most when evoking foreign places, as in "Mogadishu Night Life." All that's missing are the tropical plants.
The Jazz Mafia All Stars
Crystal Monee Hall
All Shook Down Music Festival