ATMOSPHERE
January 21 @ Henry Fonda Theatre

Blame the lovely Henry Fonda’s acoustics, but 2Mex and his pals’ beats were slurred along with lyrics lipped too fast — I only caught a couple lines, and one bested the rest of their pseudo-intellectual phrasings. The line "All Anglos and ass" captured the essence of the sold-out show, holding boys with side-swept bangs, girls in hip huggers, and white kids more interested in unisex haircuts and sifting through Urban Outfitters’ sales racks than breaking or head-bobbing.

Eyedea & Abilities hit the stage next, and the floor was crammed with grooving pelvises and raised fists which cleared after their set, and sets in between, only to rush back for Atmosphere. Panties and a bra were tossed onstage, prompting a rebuke from frontman MC Slug: "This is an Atmosphere show, put your clothes back on." That settled that, but remembering the blingin’ KROQ van parked out front, Anglo ass offerings of thongs seemed only a sign of things to come as indie hip-hop goes pop.

–Kristopher Dukes

Audioslave

Shortly after 5 p.m. on Monday, March 17, 2003, President Bush threatened war if Saddam Hussein didn’t leave Iraq within 48 hours.

By 7 p.m., nearly 4,000 outwardly oblivious rock fans passed through tight security at the Hollywood Palladium for a show that can only be described as both fresh and classic.

For about 90 minutes, Audioslave bombarded the crowd with enough sonic thrills and excitement to distract even the militia from thoughts of war and violence. With Chris Cornell on vocals and Tom Morello on guitar, the audience was treated to a near-flawless fusion of the best that Soundgarden and Rage Against the Machine had to offer separately.

Cornell commanded the audience with droning hypnotic lyrics and vocals, and Morello transformed his guitar into a multitude of instruments during the show, returning the six-string to its mythical form of yesteryear. With Brad Wilk relentlessly attacking the drums and Tim Commerford slamming bass lines sans pick, the other former Rage members completed the circle.

Audioslave opened and closed with two songs from their debut album that were most reminiscent of Rage Against the Machine’s sound: "Set it Off" and the first single, "Cochise,"——easily the crowd’s favorite. During "Cochise," for the first time of the evening, this mostly 30-something crowd almost started to mosh. Almost.

Playing almost every song on the album from the melodic "I am the Highway" to the danceable "Hypnotize," Audioslave left little to be desired. Fans were also treated to a tear-jerking acoustic rendition of Brinsley Schwarz’s, "(What’s So Funny About) Peace, Love and Understanding," made famous by Elvis Costello in the 80’s, as well as an incredibly moving version of Rush’s "Working Man." Both ensured concertgoers that even though this band will never be as political as Rage, they still have a message.

——Donna DeDario

Erykah Badu/Floetry
The Grove in Anhaheim
February 9

Sweet, stylish and smooth as cocoa-buttered skin was the way Floetry came at the audience. The duo complemented each other live onstage with positive energy, uplifting messages, and even old school dance moves to further heighten themselves as exceptional examples of conscious hip-hop artists. Floacist dropped knowledge with her resounding rhymes, while Songstress harmonized her operatic range, deep from the soul. Floetry’s music spoke, and the audience replied in unison with bumpin’ heads, loud shouts and swaying bodies.

Floetry hyped the crowd for the one, the only, Miss Erykah Badu. This woman, who cannot be an ounce over 105 pounds (even in what seemed her second trimester of pregnancy), sang her inspiring lyrics with tremendous magnitude. Badu’s performance was a spiritual healing complete with African dancers, burning incense and her interpretation of the seven charkas. Badu sang from her latest two albums, her most recent being Worldwide Underground, and sampled an unreleased track she wrote in 1999 when she was "goin’ through some shit." This show was therapy from Dr. Badu who most definitely has the power to cure.

Badu discussed her intellectual opinion on our society’s preoccupation with fear, and gave hope and encouragement to those who need to rise up and make positive contributions to the world. Badu is the essence of love, and everyone left the show with a piece of her beautiful spirit.

–Sarah Farzam

Since both Beck and the Lips had delivered show-of-the-year caliber performances earlier in the season (at the Wadsworth and the Knitting Factory, respectively), anticipation was high for this pairing. Beck’s pastiche-funk is perfectly suited for a space-age makeover, and the promise of the two bands performing together meant a wealth of possibilities.

But things didn’t work out quite the way it looked like they might, which was surprising, considering how all things Beck are usually flawless. Though the Lips’ set was a Furry-enhanced reconstruction of their always-enthusiastic solo show, Beck’s felt painfully normal. The few songs that were re-arranged ("The New Pollution," "Get Real Paid") occasionally benefited from the looseness of the Lips, but weren’t necessarily improved by their new grooves. The brilliant acoustic songs from Beck’s Sea Change were delivered without zeal or spontaneity; the two adjectives that made the Wadsworth show so worthwhile.

So when a Sea Change song followed an Odelay-era butt-rocker, it was like watching two different bands play in disparate keys. Perhaps the Lips and Beck should record an album together before touring again; that way, we’ll get equal parts of each, instead of one blindly leading the other.

——Jeff Miller

David Bowie/Macy Gray
The Wiltern
February 7

Tanned and trim, David Bowie took the stage with guitar in hand, looking pretty damn good for lasting more than four decades in music. A sold out crowd, which included Mike Einziger, guitarist for Incubus, and actor Ed Norton, packed the Wiltern to see the rock icon, along with a host of other celebrities and fans spanning all ages.

Bowie opened the show with crowd favorite "Rebel Rebel," then slipped into newer songs off his 2003 release, Reality. Songs such as "Looking For Water" and "Never Grow Old" left the crowd in their seats, with fans either not familiar with or unmoved by Bowie’s more recent tunes. The crowd cheered as Bowie’s performance morphed into hits from the past, demonstrating his operatic vocal range on songs such as "Fame" and "Under Pressure."

Although Bowie played for more than two hours, many of the songs he performed were the more obscure — a delight for hardcore fans, but somewhat annoying to others. Fans couldn’t wait to shout "Wam, bam, thank you ma’am" to "Suffragette City," and although he played "Blue Jean" instead of the ’80s’ favorite "Modern Love" for an encore, Bowie showed why he can still draw crowds and sell out shows around the globe.

Macy Gray opened the night with her raspy, soulful voice that got the crowd singing in unison. An unusual pairing with Bowie, but entertaining as well, Gray ended the night singing the lyrics to her mega-hit "I Try."

–Mari Fong

Bright Eyes, Arab Strap,
Simon Joyner

This night was one of the more bizarre I have experienced. The crowd was as vocal as I have ever heard, whether it due to frenzy or fever, I couldn't tell.

It started innocently enough with the easy sounds of Gram Parsons throwback Simon Joyner. His voice a bit off-key working with the pedal steel to get me halfway back to Nebraska before Conor Oberst had even come on stage. Then came Arab Strap, "Scottish atmospheric sex music" is what my friend and I decided it could best be described as. Their singer Aidan seemed more alive than his music with his drunken expletives between the songs.

Enter the icon himself, messy haired and swigging red wine against a chest that looked like it was about to cave in. His voice started hollow and thin then flung itself into a rich vibrato wail. Couples made out, middle-aged collectors leered in anticipation of greatness, and countless females got lost in the blissful hope of healing Oberst's angst.

Chide him for not editing himself, making fifteen eight-minute great songs instead of ten three-minute perfect songs, but it is impossible not to see the talent and promise dripping off his brow as he plays his sweeping grandiose country laments with a tinge of Robert Smith-like anger. His confession-laden lyrics perfect both twangy ballads and the relationship elegies of ‘80’s indie. Oberst manages something quite marvelous with his ever-changing line-up, sizeable catalog and drunken discourse: he brings back the feeling of honky-tonk, back to a moth-eaten booth in a bar just outside Lincoln, Nebraska circa 1961.

The little girls shrieking his name, feeling his pain, were understood by all in a charming, severely inebriated moment when Oberst sang a Marilyn-style Happy Birthday song to Arab Strap's Aidan. As Oberst tugged at the Scotsman's shirt, the embarrassed birthday boy left the stage. As Oberst playfully jabbed at his reaction, Aidan reemerged and did what I imagine nearly everyone that evening had been waiting for him to do–plant a sloppy, sweet kiss on the lips of the preternaturally talented headliner.

–Kimberly Moore

Common/Talib Kweli/
Gangstarr

Judging from the looks of the police and security guard presence outside of the concert venue Tuesday night, the House of Blues looked more like the House of Baghdad, but once inside, it was all love and flowers and hope and joy. The crowd was amped on the not-quite-underground yet less than mainstream bill of intelligent, thought-provoking, positive hip-hop (except for one not-so-cool cat who had to be given the boot for a lack of traditional audience decorum). The offending homeboy in the crowd just wasn’t feeling the love, and after being called out by Common and Talib Kweli for his obstreperous behavior, was shown the door by the hired thugs. The rest of the night saw Common skating through the touchy-feely tunes on his new album, Electric Circus, backed by a swinging full band and bedecked in tight plaid pants, an old-school red Adidas jacket, and a brightly colored wool scarf. The neo-bohemian vibe carried over in the music, with Common imploring the crowd to spread love and doing his best to ensure that everyone was finding their groove during his lengthy set. On the list was his current tug-tuggin’-at-the-heart-strings radio hit, "Come Close," as well as classic material like "I Used to Love H.E.R." The sold-out audience of lifelong hip-hop heads and newbies basked in the veritable hip-hop university led by Professor Common, which also included inspired lessons from former Black Star member and all-around thesaurus peeping wordsmith Kweli, and the original two-man wrecking crew, Gang Starr. Overall, the night was a brilliant counterpoint to all that is wrong with hip-hop today, reminding peeps that it’s all about coming with the big beats and flashy rhymes, not big gats and flashy rides.

——Scott Burroughs

Dave Matthews & Friends

In a twist on his normal, one-long-set formula, Dave Matthews’ show at the Staples Center came in four parts:

Part 1: The Abercrombie-clad crowd showed its appreciation as jam-lite sovereign Dave Matthews growled his way through an acoustic mini-set of originals, with longtime comrade Tim Reynolds peppering Matthews’ percussive strumming with emphatic slide runs.

Part 2: Matthews’ "Friends" (Reynolds and Phish frontman Trey Anastasio on guitar, keyboardist Ray Paczkowski, Spyboy bassist Tony Hall and drummer Brady Blade) joined him for a meandering, too-long set showcasing cuts from Matthews’ first solo release, Some Devil.

Part 3: Two hours and change after Matthews first took the stage, he returned for encores accompanied by Anastasio, both men armed with acoustic guitars. The duo split the vocal duties on Anastasio’s "Waste" and the title track from Everyday.

Part 4: As the crowd alone sang the coda from "Everyday," even the fans that drifted off to sleep during the Some Devil songs stood. Matthews re-invited the Friends out for cabin-busting versions of Zeppelin’s "Fool in the Rain" and the Sly and the Family Stone classic "Thank You." With this kind of momentum, it was a sore sight when the house lights finally had to come up. Clearly, Dave Matthews should leave the originals behind to lead a jam-funk cover band — if only someone would let him know.

–Jeff Miller

The Datsuns/The Bellrays
The Troubadour
November 15

My first instinct upon listening to the Datsuns’ self-titled debut album was to laugh. There was something hilariously absurd about their guitar-propelled sound in combination with the unbelievable vocal swagger of the lead singer for this New Zealand foursome. But once one gets pasts the initial shock of the reemergence of unabashed guitar heroics, The Datsuns prove to be the best live rock band on the current scene. They were spent after a performance that included wrestling between the lead singer Dolf and guitarist Christian, who nearly collided with drummer Matt’s kit, and Dolf scaling the stage scaffolding.

Their music, driven by two unflinching guitars at all times, never fails to deliver with pounding songs like "Harmonic Generator" and "Lady". They are the band that one dreams of when you think of rock music: their live performance is more than their incredible album had promised, and invites excitement at the mere thought of where they might be going.

Following a performance like the one given by the Datsuns is a unenviable task, even if you are the headliner and a well-loved local band at that. Unfortunately, the Bellrays didn’t seem up to the challenge on this particular night. Although vocalist Lisa Kekula employed a towering voice and the band exhibited the possibility of an interesting mix of soul and rock, the two never seemed to come together. Their sound was more experimental and improvisational than the Datsuns, and it clashed with the more succinct sounds and calamitous energy of the boys from Down Under.

–Kimberly Moore

The Donnas/
OK Go/The Plus Ones

There are a hundred gazillion trillion rock bands in the world. Yes, that many. I’ve counted. And it seems that the Plus Ones make for one more. The lead singer bows after songs. That's cute. They have a girl guitarist. That's cute. But I was still hyperaware of the OK Go banner hanging behind them.

So tah-tah to the Plus Ones and their mediocre set, hello stage hands. I spent a too-long break mentally playing fashion police. Aren’t you a little old for pigtails? Your fine: one billion dollars. A glittery "torn" shirt reading "Yours Truly"? Someone’s getting ten to twenty. I had condemned half of the audience to life sentences when Chicago’s OK Go hit the stage, melting my calloused, Vogue-loving heart.

The indie not-a-boy-but-not-yet-a-man quintet kicked off with "You’re So Damn Hot," from their latest self-titled release. They jammed out other tracks from the LP, making all the sugary, synth-y rock and the slightly more electronic ditties sound loud and tasty. With a spirited, better-than-the-original cover of the Specials’ "Night Klub," and a blatant on-stage glee powered by a ridiculous amount of energy, OK Go lulled the In Style-reading, judicious voice inside and had the crowd cheering and loving.

Co-headliners the Donnas were introduced by KROQ’s Rodney on the ROQ, and proved their mastery of glossy hair tosses, carefully carefree jeans and femme shirt ensembles, ‘80s-steez guitar and drum solos, all topped with cool sass and all making for a good show of pretty-girl, almost-pop-punk rock. In fact, the Donnas so effectively conveyed their triumph of three chords that after three songs, I felt confident about my early departure, convinced I’d seen it all.

——Kristopher Dukes

Dredg/Division Day
/Codeseven
The Troubadour
October 15

As I wandered, far too sober, into the Troubadour at an unnaturally early 8:15 p.m., I had no idea as to the refreshing diversity of audience members I would see inside. There were full-on skater/frat dudes, nerdy indie-kids, and 85 people who all looked exactly like Serj Tankian from System of A Down (right down to the oddly shaped goatee). So I will therefore organize my show review into sections, narrated by the audience member who appeared to most enjoy each band.

Codeseven: (with our friend, Frat Dude) "Dude-brah, I thought this was going to be Jack Johnson, right, so I was going to yell something like, ‘Fix your funny hair, pussy’ when Codeseven got on stage, but this guy rocked way more! It was like he actually had ‘problems’ in his life. So I stood there in the crowd bobbing my head up and down like nobody’s business, y’all!"

Yes, Frat Dude, you’re right. Codeseven played to the sparse crowd at the Troubadour (consisting of you and all the other Sigma Upsilon Chis) like he was at fucking Leeds. The "funny haired" front man screamed with more honest passion than I’ve heard in a while.

Division Day: (Indie Kid) "…I like keyboards…"

Okay, Indie Kid is kinda shy, so I’ll pipe up for this one. Division Day’s well-structured set built to an impressive swell, ending with a goosebump-inducing "Signals and Telegrams" providing a carthartic conclusion. Roener’s softly emotional vocals over the Coldplay-esque keyboard/guitar combos was at times haunting and at others hopeful.

Dredg: (Scary System Of A Down Guy) "Fuckin’ hard-core n’ shit! It’s like his singing makes me want to cry, but the music makes me want to rock, so I feel this tension inside that I can only get rid of by bobbing my head all-crazy like and thrusting my fist into the crowd! I even started a moshpit with two other guys for a few minutes till I realized that what this guy was actually singing about is really sad, and I just lost all my rage, ya know? I fuckin' didn’t know what to do with myself! This show was so awesome. RRRAAWWWKKK!"

Wisely spoken, Goatee Boy. This was, by far, the most unexpected surprise I have ever gotten from of a show (next to the first time I saw Har Mar Superstar). It was whimsical and dark, heartfelt and…dark. There was a trumpet, a saxophone, a saw, and even a lap-steel guitar, along with impeccable guitar, drums and bass. But the clincher was undoubtedly frontman Gavin Hayes, whose voice is a beautiful well of emotion that flows from his fixed, tense form and closed eyes as he revels in the blackness of his music. It was a rollercoaster of a show and the audience embraced every drop and twist.

And even I caught myself scrawling the word "RAWK!" into my little notebook.

—Lesley Bargar

Duran Duran
Devo/Cake
July 16

First of all, let’s give a big shout out to the Pacific Amphitheatre and their staff. They've supplied a reward for those trekking beyond the Orange Curtain with the most eclectic programming to hit a venue in a long time. It was a trip getting a rustic county fair rendezvous with petting zoos, tangy BBQ and rickety carnival rides, and then hitting the 9,000 seat venue for everything from Diana Krall to Roxy Music and the New Doors to 311.

This retro reviewer with a passion for the ’80s took in two of the era’s artists born from the art of music video: Duran Duran one humid night and the Devo/Cake combo platter under a picturesque sky.

Duran Duran took 10 years to get their original five-man lineup together, and this was their second gig on American ground (after a not-so-secret Roxy show the previous night). But the sell-out stands hit fever pitch right from the second the spotlights guided the Taylors Three, slick Simon Le Bon and romantic Nick Rhodes to the stage.

None of the past pomp and circumstance could be found. No elaborate sets, pompous egos or overblown performances filled the night. Instead, their VH1 classic image of being fashion plates seemed to be at full throttle.

Seeing a dapper-suited John Taylor lean under the Johnny Cash-black Andy Taylor to grind guitars was a thrill. And, from witnessing Le Bon gyrating in one of three different khaki get-ups to the way-too-absent thumps of Roger Taylor’s drums, it was plain to see that the wild boys will forever shine by simply enjoying each other’s musical chemistry. Rhodes never left his classic brood and cracked smiles behind the keyboards, and damn it, we like him that way!

The set list was a truly solid showing of no-nonsense hits with an endgame of "Careless Memories," "Rio," "Reflex" and the coup-de-grace "Girls on Film," with video backdrops that only made one’s hair spikier. Their few killer new tunes had them grasping a new, poppier sound, probably so they can stay afloat in the present sea of Justin Timberlake sludge.

Devo didn’t take the steps Duran Duran took to try and update their image. Instead, the spud boys chose to remind the 5,000 or so strong audience that they can still "Whip It" good! The treat for fans was Mark Mothersbaugh, Gerald Casale, the Bobs and skinster Josh Freese who went all the way back to the beginning of their evolution (or, rather, de-evolution).

After a more modern trifecta of "That’s Good," "Girl U Want" and their signature hit in their yellow trench coats and bright red power domes, the boys peeled their banana-colored clothes to reveal their basic black T-shirts and kneepads.

Mothersbaugh pumped his fist as he drove the old Moog keyboards hard, proving that they have always been a rock band first, synth saps second. "Come Back Jonee" and "Mongoloid" showed further proof that both Bobs are guitar geniuses, drilling out solo after solo of grinding buzz over the keyboard fuzz.

Cake was the perfect opener for Devo, with the same rhythmic urgency, but more basic, similarly quirky, instrumentation. The vocals and acoustic guitars of John McCrea melded seamlessly with Vince Di Fiore’s trumpet on fan favorites "Short Skirt, Long Jacket" and "Stickshifts and Safetybelts," ending with a boisterous encore of "Meanwhile, Rick James."

——Greg Reifsteck

This is one of the reasons why it was worth whatever the scalpers were charging in the parking lot to spend two hours and thirty minutes with Fleetwood Mac. But the band had plenty to offer on an individual basis, even divorced from the drama of just having its members collected in one place. It was deeply moving, for instance, to hear Nicks’s increasingly-weathered voice settling into "Gold Dust Woman" and the new disc’s title track with equal grace. And when she pulled out Tusk’s "Beautiful Child," as an unexpected treat, a hush fell over the room like we were hearing a proclamation from a queen, which I suppose we were.

Buckingham, on the other hand, ripped into his guitar with spellbinding passion. The new record is, after all, the solo album he had such difficulty getting released, tucked into a set of slightly uneven Nicks tunes to make it more palatable to record execs. His joy at airing these songs was palpable. Even on an out-of-the-park stunner like "Come," he’s still a middling-at-best lyricist, but as always his songs muddle through a couple of verses’ worth of maddening inarticulateness before exploding into guitar solos that express everything with stabbing precision.

There’s a wistful sense of the valedictory to the band’s shows nowadays that's absent from the record itself thanks to Buckingham’s fervor, which suggests that Fleetwood Mac is reaching the September of its years. But let’s hope that Buckingham’s stubborn refusal to let even chestnuts like "Never Going Back Again" sound dated indicates that he, at least, plans to soldier on for years to come.

–Steven Hanna

French Kicks/No. 2
The Troubadour

The night didn’t start out with much promise. No. 2 is the epitome of the band one might have seen at any grassroots bar across the nation about five years ago. They were reminiscent of the type of band that never strays far from the well-worn sounds of REM and other later ‘80s-early ‘90s standards. The threesome (fronted by Neil Gust, a former bandmate of Elliot Smith in Heatmiser), though earnest and enthusiastic in their delivery, never quite caught the attention of the audience.

The boys in French Kicks have their look down pat——unlimited uses of button down shirts, v-neck sweaters, and dark blazers. At first glance, one might write off the pretty faces and slouched preppy clothing as just another nicely packaged garage rock foursome, ready to hit the pages of NME in full pinup fashion. Yet, as soon as lead singer Nick Stumpf sat down at the drums, one could tell something was awry. Don’t be alarmed: Mr. Stumpf is no Don Henley. and French Kicks prove to be quite intriguing.

Their sound is full of keyboards, drums, and Stumpf’s vaulting lyrics. Guitarist Matt Stinchcomb and bassist Lawrence Stumpf (yes, another band of brothers) kept themselves to one side of the stage, remaining rather unaffected by the animated Stumpf, whose bobbing suggests the jointlessness of a dashboard hula girl. French Kicks tread that fine line between being unfocused and diverse. While it is encouraging to see a band that is willing to experiment far more than its counterparts, it is also apparent that when they are more focused and concentrating on melodic hooks and quirky drumbeats, the Kicks are far more successful.

Further refinement and the definition that comes with time can only serve to help French Kicks and gain them the following they deserve.

——Kimberly Moore

Funk Brothers
The Wiltern
April 23

"Oh, honey, I swear, when we walked into that theater, I felt so old! To think, that those songs were recorded so long ago and I used to listen to them on the radio when they first came out! Yes, it would have been nice if little Sally had come with us. I told her these were the songs Mommy used to listen to when I was her age, but she just wasn’t interested. No, honey, I didn’t remember all the words. Just most of them. ‘I played with your heart, got lost in the game…’ It’s true, our songs are just so much more powerful than that stuff Sally listens to…

"Hey, you know, I ran into Mr. Hanna at the store today, and I mentioned we were going to this show. I know, honey, you think I should stay away from him, but he’s really just a harmless old man. I was telling him about how the unheralded studio musicians who backed Britney Spears and N’Sync and so forth were finally getting the recognition they deserved, all these years later, and touring and all, and do you know what he said? He said he went to a concert like that, way back in 2003, where musicians from something called Motown played. Well, it might be sort of like O-Town, but I really don’t know. Anyway, he got all rapturous about it, talking about how incredible it was to hear those songs played live, and how amazing it was to see these old guys who knew Marvin Gaye telling stories and playing music, and… Yeah, I asked who Marvin Gaye was too, but Mr. Hanna just snorted and shook his head. He told me I should check out some movie called Standing in the Shadows of Motown, and then I’d understand. Don’t get upset, honey. He’s just an old man, so I try to cut him some slack. But as he walked away, he started singing this song to himself, and it was quite lovely. ‘Mercy mercy me,’ it went, ‘things ain’t what they used to be, no…’ Maybe he just made it up, but if that’s what this Motown thing sounded like, it must have been quite a show. No, honey, you’re right, of course. There’s no way it was as good as the one we just saw, but still…"

——Steven Hanna

Gomez
House of Blues Sunset Strip
October 14

Gomez guitarist Ben Ottewell has one of the most convincing voices in current rock, a from-the-deep, raw growl that explodes out of his thin, nebbish body. It's not surprising, then, that the highlights of Gomez's stage show——the rowdy "Get Myself Arrested," the trancy electro-folk "Revolutionary Kind" ——almost always came immediately after Ottewell took in a deep breath and leaned into the mic.

But Gomez aren't a one-man show——though Ottewell is the prime vocal presence—— and the band's 90-minute set proved that they've risen above heady studio experiments into a realm of pop artistry they share with only few other current artists. Gomez may be from Britain, but their sound is distinctly American in flavor; they share an intimate, understated knowledge of the dirty roots of rock music with such distinctive peers as Wilco, Beck, and Phish. So, when Gomez's other frontman, Ian Ball, began a country-influenced, fingerpicked ballad, there was no need for spoken apology or explanation. However, as Ottewell joined in on harmonies, his howling, depressed voice expressed a perfect amount of both.

——Jeff Miller

Helloween
Key Club
January 26

Ten p.m. on the Sunset Strip, a Monday evening, the streets were dead. No one was walking about. Why? ’Cuz everyone was in the Key Club watching the fucking Helloween show! I kid you not; the Key Club was full of happy head-bangers moshing around, chanting the words to their favorite tunes. This was a nice crowd, but also a crowd that sang along to Iron Maiden’s "Bring Your Daughter to the Slaughter" during the pre-show music.

Helloween burst onto the stage with arena-rock flare and pristine playing. Playing classics from way back (this is the band’s 20^th anniversary) along with brand new tunes. Vocalist Andi Deris then explained the meaning behind the title of the new album, Rabbit Don’t Come Easy, where "rabbit" somehow refers in Spanish to "pussy." Huh? Nevertheless, the songs rocked hardcore.

Stefan Schwarzmann bashed the skins with vim and vigor, his double-kick technique thundering its way through each tour de dementia. Deris’ vocals were amazing; not a flat or sharp note was to be found the entire evening. His operatic ability only strengthened the guitar shredding done by their newest member, Sascha Gerstner. "Open Your Life" and "Dr. Stein" jammed with passion; the latter even including homage to Judas Priest’s "Green Manalishi." Guitarist Michael Weikath and bassist Markus Grosskopf held the riffs tightly together and provided a solid back-line.

Only Helloween could keep the attention of fans during their 16-minute epic ("Keeper of the Seven Keys"). Other gems brought out for boasting included "Future World," "Eagle Fly Free," "Power" and "Hey Lord."

–Kerr Lordygan

Idlewild, French Kicks,
The Natural History
EL Rey Theatre
April 3, 2003

Idlewild should seriously consider releasing a live album. Their performances are miles ahead of the mundane rock/emo they put forth on their latest studio effort The Remote Part. They’re more sophisticated when they break out of the radio-ready rubric they set for themselves on their album and play their mini-anthems in a fashion appropriate for the headlining band.

Their flaws might not have been as readily apparent had they not been sharing a stage with two such quixotically captivating bands, French Kicks and The Natural History. The Natural History is a New York trio that comes close to being a perfect amalgam of the all good things going on in music these days. Spasmodic’s Max Tepper (whose off-kilter voice reminded me of Hot Hot Heat's Steve Bays on more than one occasion) provided their bouncing rhythms.

Placing your obscenely tall, hard-to-ignore bobble-headed drummer center stage and making him sing doesn't seem like the best idea for a band just starting to get noticed, but French Kicks did it anyway and it’s starting to pay off. Their music comes across as a more sophisticated and off-beat than a rock band being forced to play disarmingly simple pop, bizarrely enough this is very much a compliment. Nick Stumpf came to the forefront with ease and, although he isn't very mobile, he manages to hold one's attention with his sweet, looping, oddly affecting voice that pops in and out of the slight melodic mayhem of the Kicks' disjointed rhythms that are fast becoming their signature.

–Kimberly Moore

Incubus

Halloween Night offered one more special treat as Incubus took the stage in their Fright Night best and ready to rock under the stars at Verizon Wireless. Lead singer Brandon Boyd was ironically dressed as a Catholic priest, while guitarist Mike Einziger was tricked out as an "Oktoberfest beer garden guy," bassist Dirk Lance was a bedsheet-sporting ghost, DJ Kilmore was Dumb Donald (remember the Fat Albert Saturday morning cartoon?) and drummer Jose Pasillas II was one hot-looking Hooters Girl. Incubus was clearly out to have fun as they celebrated the end of almost a year of continuous touring by playing their final show "at home."

The set covered favorites like "Nice To Know You," from their double-platinum album Morning View, oldies like "Glass" from S.C.I.E.N.C.E., and cover songs like Madonna’s "Like A Virgin" (for which Boyd stripped off his priest costume to bravely reveal a black-laced, blue satin teddy) and "Maneater" by Hall and Oates. Boyd's vocals exploded with manic intensity on harder-edged songs like "Privilege," then shifted down to more soothing, emotion-soaked tones for ballads like "Drive."

After more cover songs (for a tune from the Grease soundtrack, Boyd wore a leather jacket emblazoned with the "T-Bird" logo)), Incubus ended one stellar show with Boyd shirtless and in devil horns, singing "Pardon Me" while the flames of hell leapt in the background. Incubus will be taking a break to write their next album, but left the hometown crowd with memories of one wickedly good show.

——Mari Fong

INTERPOL

Once Interpol took the stage, screams of excitement came from every corner of the venue. Feeling the anticipation, I readied myself for a performance to match the ethereal quality of their immensely popular debut album, Turn On The Bright Lights (Matador Records). Instead, what I was given only came as close to ethereal as one would expect in Hollywood.

The crowd was more than pleased to bask in Interpol’s well-dressed persona, even though the band’s audience interaction was limited to polite "thank-yous" between songs. However, while the band glided seamlessly through each song, a certain connection was missing. It wasn’t the velvety smooth guitar layering or the distinct, calming voice of singer Paul Banks that was lacking. Although the majority of the songs Interpol played were mellow in tone, the band’s onstage subtlety could just as easily have been mistaken for apathy. Yet their breakout hits "PDA" and "Obstacle 1" still made the night for many, as those songs were met with, by far, the most noise and cheers.

If Interpol decides to continue riding this New York hype train, here’s hoping that they rid themselves of the hype and start playing for their fans instead of for themselves.

–Connie Tran

JamisonParker/Coheed and Cambria

What is so amazing about Coheed and Cambria? What gets the entire crowd at two sold-out shows pounding their fists and screaming along to every song without even the slightest falter? Is it the band’s one of a kind blend of indie, emo and screamo? Their engrossing stage presence or seemingly ADD-addled antics? Who knows … Regardless, Coheed’s musicianship far exceeds whatever preconceived notion you may have of their live show, for the simple fact that they’re so far off the trodden rock path. On this night, the only place they came up short was frontman Claudio Sanchez’s vocals, which didn’t seem to be hitting their full capabilities as heard on Coheed’s albums.

Any shortcomings on Coheed’s part were made up for by the "not-acoustic-but-not-a-band" duo JamisonParker, who put on an enjoyable, albeit slightly out of place, performance with a decidedly more melodic and traditional rock sound, oddly complimenting Coheed’s chaotic intensity.

–Brien Overly

Mest/Fall Out Boy/
Matchbook Romance/ Dynamite Boy
Februrary 6 @ House of Blues, Anaheim

Mest is considered one of the more promising acts in today’s "punk revival," however, the only thing revived at the House of Blues was this reviewer’s feminist alter-ego which surfaced once frontman Tony Lovato sang an entire song about getting a blow job, and then proceeded to taunt a female fan by calling her "fat." Perhaps someone should do Mest a favor and tell Lovato that punk is about more than acting like a 13-year-old boy stuck in detention.

As for the supporting acts, Dynamite Boy rocked an outstanding cover of AC/DC’s "TNT," while Matchbook Romance delivered angsty love songs. However, Fall Out Boy stole the show, showing that what this band lacks in music that occasionally borders on recycled, it makes up for with in onstage intensity. Rarely do musicians hurl their bodies (and instruments) around stage with such full-throttle energy and maintain such a level of output for the duration of a set.

–Erin Broadley

Monterey
January 15 @ The VIper Room

It is both refreshing and perplexing to be at a loss for ready-made comparisons when describing Monterey’s sound. It’s also nice to hear a new band that doesn’t sound indie, neo-emo or nu-metal. Monterey has created classic-style, southern tinged, kick-ass rock ’n’ roll without sounding derivative.

As the Viper Room filled to capacity with even a few celebs in the audience, Monterey began a 30-minute set that included "Oh Yeah," a potential hit in which singer Blake Cusack wails with compelling urgency, and "Breathe," a song with a trippy opening riff and slide work by cowboy-clad guitarist Marc Roth. Throughout the show, the mixed-age crowd nodded their heads in rhythm while one super-enthusiastic guy writhed in religious-type contortions near the stage.

If pressed for a resemblance, Monterey might be likened to Puddle of Mudd’s sound on their early hit song "Control," or early Incubus, minus the turntable funk. On their country-tinged songs, nuances of the Black Crowes can be heard, making perfect sense since Crowes’ vocalist Chris Robinson worked with Monterey during the early formation of the band. Monterey is currently working on their debut album, which will be produced by the Deleo brothers and released this spring.

–Donna Quesada

Neil Young and Crazy Horse
July 22 @ The Greek Theatre

One can only be mystified by the blissful inanity that is Neil Young and Crazy Horse. Bonehead
chords bashed over bonehead lyrics performed by burnt out stoners. But man, do those boys
have soul! It is American meat and potatoes
garage rock at its very best. They are simply four old guys who want to rock hard and really, really loudly.

Those expecting a greatest hits set from Neil and the Horse at the Greek were instead treated to a complete production of the band’s forthcoming concept album, Greendale. The production, which felt like a high school theater project, was quaint and charming in its Waiting For Guffman design. Nearly 30 crew-members-turned-actors participated in bringing Greendale to life in its B-movie glory. It’s hard to determine the quality of the material itself as it clearly was as absurd and over the top as anything Crazy Horse has done in the past.

Within the story of Greendale there are broad thematic songs about love, government and marijuana. But hey, what Crazy Horse record does NOT contain thematic songs of this nature? It is the fact that the band can be so cheesy and really rock at the same time that makes their music so compelling.

New Found Glory/
Something Corporate/Finch

The pure energy of this Drive-Thru Records spectacular, featuring emo heroes Finch, Something Corporate, and headliners New Found Glory more than made up for the Palladium’s horrible sound system! There is something to be said for a band like Finch, whose pint-sized lead singer Nate can scream loud enough to be heard by just entering the theater! Finch is the Deftones of the emo generation, with an amazing combination of metal and melody.

Something Corporate’s performance may have been plagued with some minor technical difficulties, but the fact remains that piano rock is here to stay! The stage presence of this band is something else–singer/pianist Andrew has seen Great Balls of Fire one too many times (this is a good thing!), guitarist William belongs in an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog (also good) and bassist Clutch can slide across the stage on his knees like Bret Michaels! Who could resist them? I was a bit disappointed by the absence of the ten-minute tear-jerker "Konstantine," but I guess the young audience may not have appreciated a tribute to Elton John as much as I.

New Found Glory gave one of their best performances to date! Believe me, I know...I’ve seen them five times! Fueled by the energy of the crowd (which was focused in the "fucking big-ass mosh pit!" specifically requested by singer Jordan), NFG showed heir synchronized jumping skills as well as their serious side on a three-album medley. Highlights of the evening included a punkier, updated version of "3^rd and Long," a beautiful rendition of "Sonny," a tribute to Jordan’s recently deceased grandfather, and of course, an encore performance of "My Friends Over You."

–Eszter Takacs

No Doubt/Garbage/
The Distillers

Much like a proud mother running a camcorder at her daughter’s homecoming, No Doubt wanted to make sure they captured every Kodak moment of the triumphant end of their Rocky Steady tour, which was the largest in the band’s sixteen-year career. They armed themselves with video cameras so that home video junkies can enjoy seeing this landmark occasion for years to come.

Four sold-out SoCal dates (tonight’s was part of a two-night assault of their homeland’s Long Beach Arena) had the audience "all to myself and right in my arms," said a sultry, playful and altogether-goddamned-on-fire Gwen Stefani. But even from the signature Nellee Hooper keyboard crunches of "Hella Good," No Doubt knew that only good musicianship alone couldn’t wow over a hometown audience.

Squeezing onto the end of a midstage runway and circled around their drummer, the band got intimate with the SoCal sistas and brothas that put them on the map long before they ruled the Tragic Kingdom. With playful and clever choreography, the spitfire Stefani gyrated and slithered along every inch of the stage, but never let the spotlight focus on her Snow White-on-steroids dance moves alone. She continuously and selflessly egged on the rest of her goofball minions to get their props from their backyard buddies.

The set list was heavy on material from Rock Steady, their most diverse platter to date, and showcased some calypso rhythm and strong horns on the mellow "Underneath It All," as well as the retro rock of the guitar-infused "Platinum Blond Life." The buff Stefani even managed a little 24-Hour Fitness action with a round of pushups before dipping into their back catalog to prove that she still wasn’t "Just A Girl."

For an encore to end all encores, No Doubt went even more old-old school for one of their crustiest hits "Trapped in a Box," capturing the mood of the thousands who pogoed in a sea of sweat and scars just to see a glimpse of their heroes from the arena floor.

You can never go home again is the most inaccurate and ignorant statement ever deduced if this display of thankful and thanklessness by one of pop music’s hookiest chameleon groups is any evidence. Those who paid a measly $35 to see No Doubt give back to their homies along with a sturdy set by punky openers Garbage, got a bargain as well as a chance to say thanks to the reigning champs of OC style pop to boot.

—Greg Reifsteck

Writer Williard Manus first conceived "The Penis Monologues" as an answer to "The Vagina Monologues," but "Penis" blossoms into much more than the female version of "Portnoy’s Complaint." The piece is delivered by capable actors John Aniston (yep, father of Jennifer), John DiFusco, and Leon Morenzie, in a staged reading style: scripts on music stands, very few props, and an effective and simple backdrop by Judith Carr and sound and lighting by Mark Baker. The scripts and music stands bothered me at first. Why wouldn’t director Louis Fantasia insist upon total memorization of dialogue? Ten minutes into the piece, it stopped bothering me as I realized the material is the "star" here, and the actors serve it well. Whether Manus is using his own commentary on the male organ, or quoting/paraphrasing such diverse sources as Ron Kovic’s "Born On The Fourth Of July", Philip Roth’s "Portnoy’s Complaint", "Nobody’s Daughter" by Aviva Layton, Hubert Selby’s raunchy "Last Exit To Brooklyn", among others, the production seamlessly segues from the humorous to the more touching aspects of the ownership of the male organ. I laughed at lines like, "They’re coming out with a liquid version of viagra, so now you can ‘pour yourself a stiff one’", was touched by the poetic, sensual-not-ugly female point of view on giving a blowjob via the above mentioned Layton’s essay. Kovic’s paraplegic section was devastating: "I have given my young, numb dick to Democracy. A Charles Bukowski selection, and Selby’s "Brooklyn" section about gang rape of a hapless, drunk whore were shocking. This is much more than frathouse cum old age home humor. "The Penis Monologues" is an education as well as darn good entertainment. Say, did you know that doctors get 1200 bucks for one circumcision? "It’s the party line of the A.M.A.," says Manus. I’m out of words here. See this piece! Bring a date; it’s not in the least insulting to women, tasteful (thank God), and will take your emotions on quite a ride.

——Robert Axelrod

Pharoah, Monch,
Slum Village, Phat Kat
The Knitting Factory
April 24

Pharaoh Monch describes himself as "a little bit thug, a little bit b-boy, and a gentleman." He must have forgotten to mention that he is also one of the most innovative and intelligent lyricists currently in action. Pharaoh showcased rhymes off his latest album Internal Affairs and a few joints on his newest project. The audience gave him much love with their consistent waving arms and bumpin’ heads. He definitely has appeal. Pharaoh gave shout-outs to his influences: Run D.M.C., Mos Def, A Tribe Called Quest, his mom and dad, and even his girlfriend (that’s sweet). He also had the crowd holler for the troops in Iraq and expressed some issues he had with Bush in his new song "Agent Orange." His game is absolutely down to the fullest! DJ Boogie Blind was dropping the beats for Pharaoh, which added even more to his dope vibe. By the time Slum Village came on, the crowd was hyped.

Unfortunately the Trinity of T3, Elzhi, and Baatin was incomplete. Baatin was replaced with Phat Kat, which I had no hard feelings about. Phat Kat is an accomplished emcee in his own right, but they just had a tough act to follow. Their performance lacked any sort of commentary and played like their last CD: chill. There was nothing too out of control until they brought it with "Tainted," (at which point even the VIPs were out of their seats dancing with a light step-touch). Pharaoh Monch ripped it, while Slum Village and Phat Kat just ripped open a tiny hole.

——Sarah Farzam

The Pop Sux Tour:
Korn/Disturbed/TRUSTCompany

Korn brought its first annual Pop Sux tour to rabid Southern California fans for two sold-out shows at the Long Beach Arena. The dates were the band’s first in about two years, so rabid Korn fans arrived in droves.

For this tour, Korn toned down their stage show to place more focus on the music. The presentation was relegated to a single giant screen that displayed a collection of haunting images and artwork from various stages of Korn’s innovative career.

Their set was a crowd-pleaser from start to finish, touching on both newer hits and forgotten tunes, but the evening’s highlights were the old school anthem "Blind" and a badass cover of Metallica’s "One," which served to reinforce the opinion that Korn is the Metallica of its generation. Korn may be mainstream, but they deserve respect and credibility for the genre they have created and defined.

Sadly, the same cannot be said for openers TRUSTCompany and Disturbed, who were a good example of why Korn named their third album Follow the Leader. Disturbed’s mix of spooky wannabe-metal and melodic rock sounded more like a scarier version of Creed, which is just sad. And judging from TRUSTCompany’s sound, they might as well be called baby Papa Roach. They brought nothing new to the table except a set of generic and sophomoric songs.

Thankfully, Korn’s set made suffering through these two bands more than worthwhile.

——Alex Distefano

The P

With the loss of both Joey and Dee Dee Ramone and more recently, Joe Strummer, it’s easy to think that the door to late ‘70s and early ‘80s punk rock has been closed for good. However, that assumption overlooks one of the more influential, charismatic and perhaps longest-lasting bands with roots in that era of music, the Pretenders. The band has been described as everything from new wave to punk to alternative but no matter which category the listener prescribes, the fact is that after two decades of churning out music, the Pretenders still rock. And anyone in the audience at the sold-out Wiltern performance would tell you the same.

Concertgoers were treated to a special two-and-a-half-hour performance (the event was being recorded for an upcoming DVD) that featured an extensive selection of songs spanning the band’s entire career, including some rarities. Frontwoman Crissie Hynde led the band through aggressive favorites such as "Precious," "Tattooed Love Boys" and "My City Was Gone," as well as the catchy pop of "Kid," "Back on the Chain Gang," and "Brass in Pocket," and songs from the band’s most recent album, Loose Screw. Hynde’s command of the stage remains impressive and, despite claiming to have had throat problems earlier that day, her seductive yet hard-edged vocals were flawless. If you like a bit of measured perfection and maturity with your rock and you missed this show, definitely catch the Pretenders next time they come around.

——Erin Broadley

Queens of the Stone Age/
And You Will Know Us
By the Trail of Dead/Peaches
The Palladium

October 4

Current critical faves the Queens of the Stone Age headlined the industry show of the season earlier this month at the Hollywood Palladium with And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead and Peaches in town. While all three acts gave high-energy performances, it was the Queens that stood tallest at the end of the night thanks to a brief but tight and ferocious set.

The enigmatic Canadian electropop/hip-hop act Peaches kicked off the show. Unfortunately, her barely-there stage costumes and foul-mouthed lyrics seemed to repel more people in the crowd than it attracted.

The mood was somewhat rescued by the hypnotic Texas emo quartet Trail of Dead. However, the notoriously volatile band seemed somewhat subdued as they opened with "It Was There That I Saw You" from their acclaimed Interscope debut, Source Tags and Code. However, Trail of Dead didn’t quite provide the jolt that the crowd needed, even after drummer Jason Reece and singer/guitarist Conrad Keely took turns crowd-surfing over the audience.

Expectations were running high in the packed house as QOTSA took the stage. With guitarist Josh Homme trading vocal duties with former Screaming Tress frontman Mark Lanegan, the crowd was treated to mix of old favorites ("Lost Art of Keeping a Secret," "Monsters in the Parasol") and new songs ("Gonna Leave You," "No One Knows") from their recent Interscope release, Songs for the Deaf. After a good hour of songs, the band left the stage, only to return to deliver a quick one-two encore of "Feel Good Hit of the Summer" and "God is in the Radio" to the raucous crowd.

Despite the poor acoustics of the venue, the Queens managed to win over the crowd by providing the feel-good show of the fall.

–Connie Tran

Rilo Kiley
The Troubadour

January 10

Rilo Kiley has always maintained one key element in their live shows: the ability to create intimacy with their fans (and no, I don’t mean that "I’m a rock star, let’s make out" kind of intimacy). Perhaps this ability is one of the many reasons for the band’s much deserved recognition and growing success, or maybe this recognition comes from the way the band’s expression of music captivates an audience to be in a complete state of enjoyment, intently hanging onto the subtly sweet vocals pouring from the lips of singer Jenny Lewis, while the fluid melodies of Blake Sennett’s guitar evoke emotions and awe.

On this night, the audience packed themselves into the venue like a can of sardines (minus the fishy stench), to experience a night of acoustic delight. The leading duo of RK performed crowd-pleasers like "Bulletproof" and brought their devoted roadies onstage for help with the chorus of "Arms Outstretched." Along with a less energetic and more tender cover of Robert Palmer’s hit "Simply Irresistible," RK also gave fans a taste of songs to be expected on their next album, scheduled for release in June.

Opening band Let’s Go Sailing was a pleasant surprise, but the eclectic Future Pigeon’s soulful rendition of funky-reggae-ska was a bit too psychedelic for a sober me.

–Helena Ngo

STELLASTARR* /
RAVEONETTES
October 2 @ El Rey

Upon entering the El Rey Theater, the loud noise from the stage is not what initially caught my attention. Instead, the impressive décor of the historical building piqued my interest. The "noise" I mention, by the way, was the last two songs of the opening act, Kittens for Christians. I’ll give the opening band the benefit of the doubt in the talent arena, since I caught only the end of their set and wascompletely overwhelmed by the venue’s aura.

My awe quickly shifted from the theater to the stage as Stellastarr* began their set. The band — composed of singer Shawn Christensen (a hipper dead ringer of Robert Smith of The Cure), bassist Amanda Tannen, Michael Jurin on guitar and drummer Arthur Kremer (whose powerfully intense drumming had the crowd on their feet) — is a definite throwback to ’80s New Wave; a cross between the Talking Heads, and ironically, The Cure.

What gives Stellastarr* its edge are the incredible three-part harmonies of Christensen, Tanen and Jurin. It’s apparent this Brooklyn-based band is about to go from relatively unknown to rock superstardom, making their name Stellastarr* particularly fitting.

I was surprisingly disappointed when the Raveonettes took the stage. Not only did the band lack energy and seem indifferent to performing, but their set didn’t really get going until coming back for the encore. When they came back to perform a fervent cover version of Buddy Holly’s "Love Like Yours," it proved to be the most impressive song of their set.

Hopefully the Raveonettes, a band with strong potential for long-term staying power, haven’t let moderate mainstream and critical success go to their head. Maybe it was merely a case of bad jet lag.

–Leslie Morgan

Reggie and the Full Effect
July 19

You know you’re in for a good show when a band enters the stage dressed as Pacos, complete with bright red suits, black ties, shoulder length black hair wigs and two little drawn-on lines under their noses as makeshift mustaches.

Yes, Reggie and the Full Effect did just that, but that was only the mark of what would be an hour of pure, good madness. A comedian came onstage just before Reggie as a kind of relief to the rock show, setting a fun, easygoing mood as a precursor to the band's onstage arrival. Reggie played all the emo-indie pop goodness from Promotional Copy and Greatest Hits, like "What’s Wrong," "Your Girlfriends Hate Me," "Better for You," and "Thanx for Stayin’." Chad, some guy dressed in a bear costume and a leather vest with an American flag on the back, pranced onto the stage before proceeding to jump into the fans. During the new song "F.O.O.D." from Under the Tray, the lead singing Paco (Reggie) ran off stage to the venue’s snack bar, where he proceeded to run and sing on the counter top and order nachos to bring back to the stage to share with the other Pacos.

When done with their set, Reggie said there would be two more bands playing. One was the reincarnated version of Reggie himself into the rollerblading British character Fluxuation, who played my personal favorite, an ’80s love ballad called "Glove." Then the band came out disguised in black leather and black and white face paint, dubbing themselves Common Denominator, their imaginative creation of a Finnish death metal band. They ended the night with "Dwarf Invasion," a dark song about little people taking over the world.

And no, this show was not some weird dream I had. It was simply the best show I’ve seen in a long time, and trust me, I’ve been to many. It was such an unpredictable show … well, unless you know Reggie and the Full Effect. Then I guess this is pretty much expected.

——Helena Ngo

Sahara Hotnights/
The Washdown

Sweden’s tireless Sahara Hotnights are equal parts the Runaways and the Stooges, and they’ve been touring the hell out of their excellent record, Jennie Bomb. This was their third L.A. stint in the last six months, and what slays me every time about these girls is the way they seem utterly incapable of cracking a smile. In most cases, a lack of humor is a pretty serious flaw in a band, but in the Sahara Hotnights, it’s the sharpest sword in their arsenal: the scowling fierceness of their rhythm section bolts the door shut, and the riffy guitars and girlish growls are like a rainstorm of nails. These four girls scream and wail and strangle their instruments until they’re hoarse and drenched in sweat, and then they pick themselves up and tear into their second song. They really only have two or three out-of-the-park perfect tunes in their repertoire, but the girls play even a lesser number like it’s the most important piece of music in the world, and for two or three minutes at a stretch, it might be. Their finest songs, however, like "Alright Alright (Here’s My Fist, Where’s the Fight?)", have acquired a sheen of mastery over the months and months of touring, until every little bark or guitar chord is like a rock and roll haiku.

The room was ably warmed up by Tampa’s the Washdown, who sound like Hot Hot Heat rehearsing in your parents’ garage. Lead singer Michael Waksman has a little Julian Casablancas in him, with hiccuping vocals and a downright-dangerous habit of spinning a heavily duct-taped microphone around his head like a lasso. They could have benefited from a cleaner mix, but tunes like "End of the Conversation" show that the Washdown knows how to put together a good rock song, and charismatic axmen Gregg Schmidt and the startlingly afro-ed Ryan Hess sure do play a mean guitar.

——Steven Hanna

Saliva/Audiovent
House Of Blues Sunset Strip
December 3

Coming onstage sporting long hair, tattoos and menacing grins, Saliva got the party started with their hard-hitting single "Click Click Boom" from their Island debut, Every Six Seconds. The boys from Memphis played some pounding heavy rock, with singer Josey Scott leading the way with his raspy, devilish voice. They also tore through "Always," the intense first single from their most recent disc, Back in Your System, along with crowd participation songs like "Raise Up" and "Pride" (a song written in response to the 9/11 terrorist attacks), which took the energy level to a new high. A massive mosh pit that seemed to engulf the entire floor of the House of Blues as Chris D’abaldo and Wayne Swinny unleashed some blazing guitar throughout the set. Saliva ended the night with the song that put them on the rock map, "Your Disease."

Openers were Audiovent, the hometown boys from Calabasas, who sang some choice cuts off their album, Dirty Sexy Knights In Paris. Jason Boyd sang "The Energy" and "Looking Down" with a mix of primal screams and melodic, flowing sounds. Ben Einziger provided some cool effects on lead guitar, while drummer Jamin Wilcox and bassist Paul Fried kept tight, steady rhythm. Audiovent ended their set with Boyd going into the crowd and showing appreciation for their fans, which also included members of Calabasas-based bands Incubus and Hoobastank.——Mari Fong

Jón Birgisson of Sigur Ros is rubbing a violin bow against an electric guitar and it’s…like…deep. There’s this tension between a classical, traditional instrument working against a rock instrument, and this…like…friction is making noise that’s loud and harsh and…you know…not music. So…um… these two instruments are making noise, but who decides when noise becomes music? You know what I mean?

Sigur Ros songs are like discussions about poetry: it’s so much intellectual masturbation and getting off on how deliciously smart you are. It’s about self-expression that’s intentionally difficult to decipher, like singing in a language that’s part English and part Icelandic rather than communicate in a more accessible way.

But mostly, it’s about me sitting there thinking about taking my shoe off to beat myself in the head with it, while the audience gives a standing, hooting, nonstop clapping ovation.

But the art-for-art’s-saker in me was pleased. Sigur Ros utilized psychodramatic lighting and imagery: blurry faces of children danced in the background, white lights shone singularly on their spectacular drummer while he soloed. And the opening band wasn’t bad, they were just a baby Sigur Ros (T-shirted John Does slightly grooving on stage, heads bowed). Like Sigur Ros, they were boys who made ambient frou-frou rock and would probably slip by in a crowd. Unlike Sigur Ros, they mumbled (in English) that they were the Album Leaf from San Diego, and they played with more electronic bleeps and bloops.

I want to enjoy the Sigur Roses, the Mogwais and the Album Leaves–I really do. And I have my moments. But I have them just as easily and often as with the hyper-commercial Justin Timberlakes, the Kylies.

So la-la-la, cry me a river.

–Kristopher Dukes

A Sounds Eclectic Evening

KCRW (89.9 FM) is a bright spot amongst the wasteland of Los Angeles commercial radio is a bright spot on the Los Angeles dial. A Sounds Eclectic Evening is a yearly benefit to fund this station that dares to bring the public new and groundbreaking music, and this year’s version, the second in the station’s history, was an immense success.

The 2002 concert took place at the Universal Amphitheatre, a step up in size from its previous location, the Wiltern Theatre. The evening featured a line-up of performances who each owe some of their success to airplay on KRCW. Aimee Mann said it best when she commented about the airplay her new album has received, "God Bless KCRW for playing it. Lord knows no one else will." In addition to Mann, the performers ranged from the hip-hop stylings of Blackalicious to the airy electronic headliners Zero 7, folkies Beth Orton and Aimee Mann, sultry chanteuse Norah Jones, Mexico’s Kinky, and special guests Beck and Pete Yorn

The four-hour-plus concert surprisingly played out with no bumps, glitches or musical duds. Highlights included the insanely energetic Kinky, a special appearance from Wayne Coyne of the Flaming Lips singing Sonny and Cher’s "I’ve Got You Babe," and the vocals of Sia Furler alongside the dreamy Zero 7.

Main complaints: the sleepy Jones on at 11 p.m. set, Mann’s start, that was bit overshadowed by Kinky, and Beck’s impromptu duets left some puzzled, but the evening was a joyous celebration and an appreciation of not only an influential radio station, but also great music.

——Christine Anne Long

The Streets
The El Rey Theatre
March 11

"If you fro yer beer, I'll give you a new one!" shouts The Streets’ Mike Skinner to the rowdy crowd as he swings his beer around his head like a frothy lasso, emptying its contents on his backing band (as well as concertgoers), who grin sheepishly and wipe down their instruments.

Britain’s answer to Eminem has arrived. Skinner and sidekick Kevin Mark Trail make up The Streets, England’s first rap export. During the course of this particular evening, Skinner is pelted with a wide array of items (including ice and beer), is offered a toke and given a tab of X, none of which seems necessary given the sheer exuberance of his performance.

Listening to the lyrical intricacy of his debut album Original Pirate Material, there was some question as to how he would present his tales of two-day lager binges and South London chip shops to the notoriously leaden L.A. crowd. However, Skinner’s performance, straight from the opening bars of "Has It Come To This?" showed that he is a young man whose time has come.

"This ain't your archetypal street sound," he states during "Let's Push Things Forward", the broken-rhythm dance-hall/hip-hop single that blended beautifully into the source material of "Ghost Town" by The Specials. "Sharp Darts," an energetic lyrical tongue-twister ended up as Nelly's "Hot In Herre," pushing his backing band to nail down beats that ranged from hip hop to reggae to UK garage and back again.

"It's Too Late" showcased the adorable and talented Trail, one of the few black people in the sold-out venue, which housed a crowd mostly composed of white Anglophiles and young hipsters.

"Don't mug yerself, L.A., don't mug yerself!" yells Skinner, sauntering back onto stage for an expected encore. Skinner and Trail offer the apocalyptic "Stay Positive" and the inevitable "Weak Become Heroes."

Although The Streets may be England’s answer to Eminem, Skinner has a more lighthearted approach to his rhymes, fusing together astute government observations with rhapsodic waxings about birds (girls) and the joys of marijuana.

Even if they didn’t understand everything Skinner said, the crowd that night knew that they had witnessed something joyful and resonant.

——Christine Anne Long and Simon Petty

Call them saviors or poseurs, but the Strokes gave two marvelous performances at the Greek. On the first night, the band played to a cool and tempered crowd who actually knew the opening acts (the superb Realistics and an endearingly hard Mooney Suzuki). On the second night, anyone over 21 and from LA proper should’ve felt like a chaperone, as the crowd consisted mainly of teenage KROQ listeners. Yet the Strokes overcame any conflicts by caring only about what they were playing, not who was listening.

The latest backlash against them seems merit-free after these performances. From the unrelenting opener of "New York City Cops" to the climax of "Take It Or Leave It," the Strokes showcased the tightness of their performances and their almost. overwhelming chemistry without a shadow of doubt. Complaints about their lack of improvisation are stunted by the fact that their music isn't about jamming. They play their songs tight and fast, trying to attain a sort of succinct perfection.

As for those who still harbor hopes that Julian Casablancas might become a stage maven in the likes of Mick or Axl, stop hoping. You’re missing the point. It was apparent, infinitely more so on the second night that Mr. Casablancas is a mass of inebriated contradictions. Drunkenness is nothing new in rock, but his seems more necessity than excess. One suspects that if alcohol wasn’t involved, Casablancas wouldn’t move. His lyrics are cocky and detached, confused, yet insistent; his presence, blasé and self-conscious. He doesn’t dance like guitarist Albert Hammond Jr. and he can’t fade into the amps like bassist Nikolai Fraiture, so he drinks, smokes, and tears through their songs.

Pacing between his mic and Fab Moretti’s drum riser, his banter consists of song titles and brief, witty, expletive-laden rambling. He relentlessly apologizes for their new material and then informs the crowd in a mocking tone that it will blow their fucking minds. Never failing to entertain, he fell into the crowd twice, tossed a "man down" call at an unlucky stage diver, apologized for neglecting the crowd to flirt with Fab, booed Mormons, and got high with guitarist Nick Valensi and Albert. Casablancas is impossible to ignore; his impatient yearning voice, encased in his unaffected persona, signifies the tension and release that define The Strokes.

Their new material, while as catchy and frantic as their debut album, exhibits Casablancas’ growing songwriting ability and shows that the Strokes are evolving into an at once frighteningly melodic and yet beautifully raw sound. Their more varied influences are evident in the reggae, country guitar, and ballad-like phrasing of the five new songs. The Strokes haven’t made it over the hill yet, but they have shown that they have every intention of doing so.

——Kimberly Anne Moore

Those snotty, power punk kids from Canada are back. Sum 41 is playing small clubs to frenzied fans, with the Troubadour show being no exception. Playing a day after the release of their sophomore album, Does This Look Infected? the boys were ready to celebrate, playing upbeat, catchy songs like their most recent single, "Still Waiting." The show was filled with the usual Sum 41 antics, such as Steve "Stev-o" Jocz drinking a Heineken while slamming beats on the drums and Dave "Brown Sound" Baksh playing spontaneous guitar riffs while the band mimicked their alter-ego metal band, Satan’s Sluts (remember them from the "Fat Lip" video?). The boys sang and partied hard, ending the show with their mega-hit "Fat Lip." A special treat came as an encore, when singer Deryck "Bizzy D" Whibly took over the drums while drummer Steve took the mike to end the night on an energetic high.

Opening for the night was fellow Canadians Flashlight Brown, who are touring for the first time in the U.S. Starting their set with a song called "Ready To Roll," the band’s sound is a mix of the fast, upbeat rhythms of Green Day with the punk flavor of the Ramones. Ironically, Sum 41 had opened up for them in Canada, that is, right before Sum got signed to Island. Lookout for Flashlight Brown’s EP, entitled All That Glitters is Mold.

––Mari Fong

Tahiti 80

On the last stop on their twelve-date whirlwind tour of the U.S. before jetting off to Japan, French pop masters Tahiti 80 graced West Hollywood with their booty-shaking ditties and disco beats. Despite the unseasonably warm, 80-degree weather outside the Troubadour, there was no question where the heat was radiating from once the six-piece band hit the stage. The feel-good evening was prompted by the release of Tahiti 80’s second LP, Wallpaper for the Soul, which is the follow-up to their modestly successful debut, Puzzle.

Throngs of devoted fans danced with glee throughout the 90-minute set. Highlights included the disco-inflected "Yellow Butterfly," "Easy Way Out," the dreamy "Wallpaper for the Soul," as well as the hip-hop/synth-pop-infused "Fun Fair" and "The Other Side." The night was only sweetened by an impromptu closing jam session and a delectable two-song encore, consisting of the infectious "Mr. Davies" and "Heartbeat," both from Puzzle.

Lead singer Xavier Boyer captured the hearts of many wide-eyed adoring females with his sweetly pure vocals and boyish charm (oh, and did I forget to mention his beautiful French accent?). To Boyer’s right, the enthused bassist/mix master, Pedro Resende drew his fair amount of attention with his animated facial expressions and spontaneous booty-shaking outbursts.

Tahiti 80 lovingly brought good-feeling music with an amazing pop-sensibility to Los Angeles on a rather humdrum Wednesday evening. A good time was had by all.

——Christine Anne Long

Writings} and Performed by Jeremy Lawrence.

The Laurelgrove Theatre, 12265 Ventura Blvd. Studio City

One-man shows are not my thing, especially when they are biographical, or worse, autobiographical in nature. The P.R. guy’s persistence and the piece’s repute finally got me there. I’m glad they did!

Entered the Laurelgrove’s large lobby (pix of Williams and friends liberally hung on the walls), made my way to my first row seat, expecting to turn towards and see a fairly bare stage, and was pleasantly surprised to see a full, flowing set, designed either by Danny McCabe, Kathi Donohue, or both. Program unspecific. An elaborate, canopied bed graces up right. Williams’ bed, or Maggie’s from "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof"? Maybe both. Big easy chair down centre with table at left of it holding Mr. Williams’ ubiquitous bottle of spirits.. Flowing ecru curtains drape the upper perimeter——very graceful, like Williams himself; Southern, yet cosmopolitan New York City. It very much resembled the décor of Williams’ apartment in New York, which I had opportunity to visit and spend an afternoon in, along with its owner and his companion, via a girlfriend of mine, in the late ‘60s. Quite an experience, as he was most gracious. We all got pretty buzzed, talked theatre. It’s one of the most cherished experiences of my life. I had one more "live" encounter with this playwright-icon that I will bring up later.

The house was near full, and, on Super Bowl Semi-final Couch Potato Sunday! Theatre doth live! I love the ambiance. Now, once the principle entered, would this one-man show be great theatre? Jeremy Lawrence as Tennessee Willaims enters with full wine glass in hand, mischievous gleam in his eye, and a wry smile. Before he utters a word, I know I am in for a treat, a gift, and my aversion to the one-man show evaporates. The wonderful Mr. Lawrence has something magical up his sleeve, and everyone in the audience knows it. He IS Williams!

Mr. Lawrence has arranged a compact show taken totally from Williams’ writings that is just the right length and, for me, touched the right bases. Lawrence chooses to depict Williams the Playwright more than Williams the Man, allowing us a glimpse of the latter via the former. In Act One, he weaves a basic linear timeline with humorous and ironic anecdotes from Williams’ life, covering his childhood, through his travels, up to his ultimate successes, with readings from Williams’ riveting and touching essay-like sonnets. He included quotes from folks in his life, like his mother, who scolded him: "With so much unpleasantness in the world, why is it necessary to put it on stage?" Later, she became one of his staunchest supporters, asserting to critics, "My son writes about life!!" There are less than friendly exchanges with Edna Ferber, whose writing Williams felt was "inorganic". Lest you think success came easily for Mr. Williams, Lawrence includes a helping of amusing stories of waiting tables, working in shoe factories, battles with tuberculosis and cataracts, tastes of success with Harold Clurman and The Group Theatre and a thousand dollar Rockefeller grant, as well as periods of practical obscurity. All is woven effortlessly, gracefully, with tongue firmly in cheek by the actor. He leaves at the end ofa compact forty-five minute Act One, with Williams finding success with "The Glass Menagerie" and a $250 a week contract in Hollywood, where he also wrote "Streetcar…" (which was originally named "Poker Night," believe it or not).

Act Two gives us less event and more the meat and fabric of Williams the writer, a wise choice by Lawrence. Most cogent for me was his assertion that emotion at its heights and depths, are allowed to function on stage, but not in real life. "We experience them in the theatre, then make our way to Sardi’s to eat, and await the critics". When one critic pointed out a lack of resolve in the character of Brick in "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof." Williams answered, "Every moment in life is alive with uncertainties. Why look for certainties in the theatre?"

Act Two completely refreshed my education on Williams. I recall him make that last statement at our surprise meeting. Mr. Lawrence is so real, so thorough, so comfortable and graceful in the role, that at times I thought to myself, "Who the hell am I to be sitting here reviewing and critiquing the great Tennessee Williams?"

My companion for the evening, again younger brother John, opined we should have seen more of Williams the heavy drinker and homosexual, learn more of his personal relationships. I disagreed, and Mr. Lawrence wisely decided to dwell in that direction but briefly. For one, we’d be there another hour and a half. For another, I think Williams was neither a "people" nor a "reality" person. He loved heightened reality, actually shied away from success, which may have provided two reasons for his drinking. He could be cruel. I mentioned a second live encounter with the man. I went to see a special performance of "Small Craft Warnings" in New York in the early ‘70s. Williams actually played a role in "Warnings" during the play’s run, which starred William Hickey, among others. Williams was to take the night off, as he was slated to appear after the performance for a Q & A session with the audience. He came out loaded, was abusive to the cast, especially the actor who played his part, stated flatly that the show would be much better when he retook his role, then split. Perhaps that was heightened reality for him, as my girlfriend and I may very well have been on that chance visit to his apartment.

Regardless of his behavior, Tennessee Williams’ body of work and genius is astonishing. His whole bibliography is listed in the program. His portrayer, Jeremy Lawrence, is also astonishing, giving us an evening I can only call magic. I’m still getting goose bumps as I finish this probably too long review. This is theatre you have to watch and listen to…every word. Not for the TV attention span people. As I mentioned, Lawrence played to a nearly full house on a football Sunday and during an extension of an already good run, so you word lovers are out there. Brain cells were rejuvenated in my noodle! That’s theatre! Thank you, Mr. Lawrence and company.

——Robert Axelrod

The Transplants
and Foo Fighters
Universal Amphitheater
April 17

The Transplants made quite a ruckus. With members of Rancid and Blink 182 in the mix, no one could have expected anything less.

Though theirs was unquestionably a punk rock gig with old school tendencies (they covered the Clash’s "White Riot") the Transplants treated the crowd to a refreshingly original and energetic set. Harking back to Tim Armstrong’s pre-Rancid days with Operation Ivy, the band infused their punk bravado with ska and reggae.

The fusion was a relevant segue to the Foo Fighters electrifying performance. You didn’t have to be a die-hard Foos fan to enjoy their show. Hell, you didn’t even have to be particularly familiar with their records. If you enjoy untainted, stripped-down, high-energy rock, the Foos undoubtedly converted you to their corner.

They have an uncanny way of portraying themselves as amateurs and jokesters yet producing a set that places them in the midst of rock n roll greatness. They played including "Monkey Wrench" and "Everlong" and a number of less knowns including "Weenie Beenie" from their first and "Tired of You" from their latest.

Dave Grohl is effortlessly captivating as both singer and lead guitarist in a way unseen since his former bandmate Kurt Cobain. It is a rare feat for someone to do both and remain a truly enchanting entertainer, but Dave has mastered it and thrown it back in our face.

At the risk of committing journalistic blasphemy, Dave has even outshined Kurt in his own way. But he still can’t take himself too seriously, telling fans that he wanders through the crowd because he secretly likes to get titty-twisters from aggressive fans. Sorry Dave, neither secret is safe with me.

——Donna DeDario

Trans-Siberian Orchestra
Universal Amphitheater
December 13

Rock guitarist Al Pitrelli (who’s played with the band Megadeth and rock legend Alice Cooper) was the highlight of this Christmas rock extravaganza by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. Set with a full orchestra and rock band, this annual holiday event, entitled "Beethoven’s Last Night," included a myriad of Christmas tunes that incorporating sounds from classic rock, R & B, classical, opera and Broadway.

Written and produced by Paul O’Neill and Robert Kinkel, the team’s classic rock roots came alive when TSO show played traditional favorites such as "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" and "The Russian Dance" from The Nutcracker in true rock form. Pitrelli showed the talent of a guitar genius throughout the show, making his instrument sing and rip into the emotional core of the audience.

The crowd consisted of mostly baby-boomers with their families, along with those who grew up when classic rock was king. Adding to the visual feast was a well-choreographed light and laser show. TSO began the performance as a rock opera (complete with a narrated storyline), which later morphed into a rock show, with new songs and jam sessions introduced toward the end. Although the two-hour performance may have run a bit long, by its conclusion, the crowd was inspired to give TSO the standing ovation they deserved.—

—Mari Fong

"Turnaround"
The Coast Playhouse, 8325 Santa Monica Blvd, West Hollywood
(through March 2)

"Turnaround" is writer-director Roger Kumble’s third play in a Hollywood trilogy that he began in 1993, assaying the progressive show business life of soulless writer-director Jeff Pelzman, here played by David Schwimmer, as he did in "D-Girl" in ’97 (co-star Jonathan Silverman played Jeff in Kumble’s first, "Pay or Play"). Kumble’s got quite a film and TV resume as well, so with him at both helms, and a cast with resumes to match, our expectations were high, especially given the hype in The Times Sunday Calendar section of January .

I wasn’t let down. "Turnaround" is a crackling good comedy-drama about the pitfalls of success and the horror of failure in Hollywood. The word "turnaround" usually refers to the state of a script after it’s wended its way through the various committees and studio heads, then left on the shelf to die, shunted to another studio with a "maybe," or routed back to the once-hopeful writer. It means change, for better or worse. Here, the term applies to the lives of the four men in this piece.

Play opens with a great choice of music, "Heroes and Villians" by the Beach Boys. Lights come up on the interior of the upscale, just-below-the-Hollywood-sign home of Gary (Tom Everett Scott). Gary’s a mess. He’s been on quite a coke and booze tear, having been fired from his job as a top Hollywood agent. He's attempting to transition from agent to writer. Jeff (Schwimmer) comes calling, to pick up his tennis racquet. Jeff, a hot film director, is bummed because his most recent opus is a total flop. At first, he tries to get Gary’s head together, but soon is snorting lines right along with him. Into the mix comes Richie (Silverman), a producer on the way up, with five film projects in various states of total success, umbilically connected to his cell phone and Palm Pilot, and on the Atkins diet to boot. Expected is Seth (John DiMaggio), an AA/NA sponsor, who’s left the "dark side" of show biz for a calm, sober, married-with-children life. Found under the strewn clothing is fetching hooker-actress Sahara (Jamie Ray Newman). Also found, by Jeff, is an outrageous script Gary has written in his crazed drug and alcohol state about a fourteen-year-old retarded Jewish kid during the Holocaust. Gary swears it’s a true story! Seth is on his way to whisk Gary off to rehab—-there’s a limo rented, Gary’s parents have flown in, and a ton of friends are in on the intervention, including Richie, but not Jeff, who’s insulted about not being invited.

Act one plays like an above average, X-rated (for language) sitcom, earnestly familiar territory here, reminiscent of "Hurly-Burly". Hollywood and Jewish in-jokes are rapidly delivered offhand, making them funnier. The cast is terrific, each in a different state of "Turnaround," according to the situation, even the hooker! There’s a subtle competition going on among these four guys, who have been friends since college.

Act Two gets serious and really delivers the gold. It’s two months later. Gary is back from rehab, having nurtured by Seth. Amazingly, Jeff has sold Gary’s crazed script to Fox-Lorber on his word that it’s a true story, and is set to direct. He’s looking for the project to get him back on the top of the directorial heap. Gary admits the story’s a total fabrication and Jeff freaks. He’s scheduled a meeting with "the suits" for the afternoon. Gary, shaky in his new sobriety, gets home. Jeff urges Gary to go to the meeting and lie, but Seth urges the rigorous honesty the AA program demands. The married Richie, who has been screwing the hooker regularly in Gary’s digs, learns his wife is pregnant, sides with Jeff, leaving Gary at sea. Showbiz is depicted as the dark side. Seth maintains if Gary lies about this film, he’s sure to use again. Schwimmer is fabulous at playing the dark angel here. He doesn’t depart much from his "Friends" persona, and it’s the right choice, making his case the fulfillment of the Hollywood dream all the stronger and more sympathetic. DiMaggio is equally effective as the calm, staunch voice of reason. Being in AA myself, I know the drill, and DiMaggio does it perfectly. Silverman is terrific, a total pro, as the guy on top of it all. He makes anything he does right. As Gary, Scott is tenderly vulnerable; he lets us travel with him through this hell of a decision. Newman as hooker Sahara is sexily manipulative, on top of her game. Will she get a break as an actress out of this? Writer-director Kumble has crafted a masterful final part to his trilogy that makes us laugh and think. One hopes he extends this to part four and beyond, perhaps bringing our four guys all the way to some Florida retirement village with issues in tow.

I’ve already gone way over my word limit here. I’ll sum up by saying this is one hell of a professional show and worth the price tag. Great for a college age audience and worth the thirty-dollar price tag. So skip dinner at "wherever" and put your money in "Turnaround."

——Robert Axelrod