Fall Out Boy's 'I Dont Care' is Gen Z's 'Pour Some Sugar on Me'

I've spent a lot of extra-curricular time with Pete Wentz lately, so it's always a good day when my favorite arena-emo fameballs get it together to actually make new music. "I Don't Care," the debut single off Fall Out Boy's  "Folie a Deux" (due out on election day, Nov. 4, but please don't be distracted, kids), falls somewhere in between their best moments like "Sugar, We're Going Down" and flatter notes such as their "Beat It" cover with, erm, John Mayer. "I Don't Care" strays from the hyper-glossy R&B kick of "Infinity on High" and into something approximating scuzzy classic rock, or as scuzzy as you can get with Island/Def Jam's quarterly outlook dependent on your radio spins.

The F Yeah Fest, curated by Sean Carlson and Keith Morris, might be the younger, more precocious sibling to Silver Lake's Sunset Junction, but it has its own buoyant charm. Only at F Yeah can one watch Austin, Texas’ Best Fwends while standing next to cheery Matt Johnson of Brooklyn’s Matt and Kim, and later, mosh with Jonathan Gray of L.A.’s The Mae Shi. Although this year’s festival suffered a huge setback when a financial backer pulled out at the last minute, Carlson and the crew -- now more than $15,000 in debt -- decided to press on, booking a wealth of musical acts into the Echo, the "F Yeah Fest Annex" and Echoplex.

Matthew Sweet has accumulated some devoted fans since his emergence in the early '90s with the celebrated garage opus “Girlfriend.” They’re conscientious too.

At a show Monday night at the Belly Up Tavern in Solana Beach, the singer-songwriter-guitarist marked the release of his latest CD, “Sunshine Lies” (on Shout Factory Records), with a preview of many of the new songs. But it was obvious some in the crowd had already heard them.

Hearing Punjabi music, particularly bhangra music played at a Sunset Strip nightclub, is a rare thing. But on Saturday, Brooklyn-based DJ Rekha spun a set at the Roxy that was enthusiastically welcomed with waving arms and rhythmic stepping in the bhangra dance style.

Unfortunately, the turnout wasn't as expected, partly due to an unrelated altercation that began at the Roxy's upstairs bar area. It resulted in two stabbings and three arrests, according to the West Hollywood sheriff's station, and the crime scene shut down the western portion of Sunset Boulevard during prime bar-hopping hours.

To say the least, those who did make it in got nearly two hours of some of the best in Eastern-flavored party music, which is now crossing over heavily into the huge Bollywood industry, even attracting Snoop Dogg's participation.

The line of hipsters stretching down the southern end of Hill Street on Thursday was every indication that something special was going on inside La Cita.  Its weekly Thursday jump-off, Dance Right, has been pretty surprising with its DJ picks for a couple of years now. It's even become something of a hipster Mecca for the grittier East Side contingent.

Still, despite the $3 whiskey special that ran until midnight, most of the crowd came downtown to see golden boy turntablist A-Trak do his thing. If there's an art to live mixing and mashing for a dance floor, A-Trak is something of a Rembrandt. 

In addition to his championship level cutting and scratching game, he's also co-owner of a pretty hot indie label, boyfriend to a pretty hot rapper you might have heard of and musical cohort to the likes of Jay-Z and Kanye West, with whom he's toured.

Anybody who's attended a !!! show, for instance, can attest to the joy of watching uninhibited singers invent dance moves too ridiculous and unsexy to attempt on your own. On Monday night, hotly tipped singer-songwriter-producer Janelle Monáe took the ridiculous-dancing practice a step further by maintaining the same catatonic facial expression throughout her spastic choreography, all while wearing a bouffant-cum-mohawk and a tuxedo, no less. Nevermind that she was just playing a mellow free show at Hollywood's Amoeba Records. With her dramatic refusal to break out of her dancing robot character, it may as well have been the Grammys. Or at least her show Tuesday night at the Viper Room, which drew in P. Diddy, Christina Millian and Ne-Yo, not to mention Prince, who stopped by for a chat about an hour after the show.

Lucas Field knows how to lock eyes with an audience. It's a frontman's skill; the best ones develop a gaze that seems to land on every person in the crowd, making some fans feel understood and others feel chosen. It can take years to gain the confidence to convince with this trick and the charisma to not make it seem hokey. But Field, who at 28 is just starting what might be a climb toward real rock stardom with his band, Low vs. Diamond, already has it down.

For some reason, Europe is home to some of the best electronic music. Case in point: Kap Bambino of Bordeaux, France.

The duo of singer Caroline Martial and beat-smith boyfriend Orion Bouvier ripped the smallish Cinespace stage to shreds Tuesday night, causing a mosh pit to form at times.

Martial's calamity-inducing vocals backed by hard-edged electro beats, along with her stage theatrics, reminded me of the energy of a young Iggy Pop, bending and weaving onstage, jumping on top of things and into the crowd at whim. By the end of her nearly half-hour set, she had brought the audience to a fever pitch. This was the duo's first performance in Los Angeles as part of a mini-tour across North America.

We have good news for anybody wondering what the Long Beach blues-punk Cold War Kids have been up to since releasing "Robbers & Cowards" in 2006. If their sort-of secret Friday show at R Bar in L.A.'s Koreatown was any indication, "Getting Awesomer" appeared to be pretty high on their '08 to-do list.

Shooting a documentary about high school teenagers must be like trying to capture a smoke ring in a jar, but director Nanette Burstein has spun a thousand hours of footage into gold with "American Teen," a documentary that follows four Indiana teenagers through their senior year of high school. Embarrassingly personal at times, goofy and hopeful at others, the film, which opens today, has been aptly described as a documentary version of "The Breakfast Club."

Bookended with anthemic paeans to the glories of youth, the soundtrack to "American Teen," which opens with Black Kids' "I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance With You" and closes with MGMT's "Kids," offers a cross-section of nearly every indie rock trend du jour. The soundtrack's neither deep nor particularly broad, but it makes a perfect backdrop for the film. You can listen to streams from the soundtrack at the end of this post.

"I love performing," said Randy Newman, brushing away the applause the VIP-list crowd gave him at a private show Wednesday at Largo at the Coronet. "Better than living. I think I'm better at it."

I haven't lived with Newman, so can't vouch for his veracity on that point. Judging by the stories he told, he's not the easiest companion: His teenage daughter Alice makes fun of him for thinking he's more famous than he is, and "I'd sell out my mother," he says, for a good punch line. But there's no doubt that he's fantastic live -- an easy ace on the piano, a man who knows how to maximize a vocal croak, and one of the masters of onstage patter, rolling out jokes as he keeps alive the twin American traditions of the tall tale and the jelly roll blues.

It's fitting that one of Nas' early promotional stops for his new album, "Untitled," was here on the West Coast. This is where N.W.A and Ice-T, not to mention proto-rappers the Watts Prophets, were among the first to use a racial epithet for African Americans in their own works, introducing casual usage into the mainstream consciousness.

There are performers who don't show you anything new about themselves live and then there are performers like Leslie Fiest, who blew open her pretty Canadian songstress image at Sunday night's Hollywood Bowl show.

In the last four years, the music of avant-garde cellist and disco producer Arthur Russell, who died of AIDS in 1992, has experienced a renaissance through a series of carefully curated re-releases and fanboys coming out of the woodwork such as LCD Soundsystem's James Murphy. Born in Oskaloosa, Iowa, the musician ran away from the Midwest in 1967, briefly detoured to a San Francisco commune before ending up in New York, where he created compositions with Allen Ginsberg and Ernie Brooks from the Modern Lovers, and premiered music by Philip Glass.

Being a negative creep has gained some measure of respect of late, with grunge swinging its long pretty hair into the 21st century. Having mercifully transcended that genre, and the decade, the Melvins never actually went away; they are maybe better than ever, as one veteran of many Melvins shows spanning 14 years and way too many bass player changes might venture to say.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve seen "Mamma Mia!" in London, New York, Las Vegas and Los Angeles, and I’ve never failed to be swept into the euphoria of the ABBA songs that propel the musical.

Although he hasn’t released a record since 1998’s “Bitchin,’ ” Johnny Legend -- known to admirers as the Rockabilly Rasputin -- is still in the game. Last Friday he kicked out the jams at Spike’s Bar in Rosemead, playing to a largely uninterested room of traditional rockabilly types.

Mick Hucknall, in his first post-Simply Red incarnation, takes on the repertoire of Bobby "Blue" Bland in "Tribute to Bobby," a new album of soul classics released last week.

There's a social script that goes on at seemingly every rock concert in the universe: Stand in place; watch band play loudly; maybe, just maybe, dance to the music; occasionally leave spot for refill of cheap beer. Repeat a few times a week/month/year until you label yourself "too old" to go to shows anymore.

The Sads, an L.A. foursome that builds their bedroom sound around moody lyrics and percolating soundscapes with soft synths, varied that script Saturday night with a "silent concert" in conjunction with "The Vision and Art of Shinjo Ito" exhibit at the Westwood Art Forum. Tucked into a warren of flowers and cables, the four members faced each other and played their digital instruments -- two keyboards, drums and a soundboard -- but the byproduct of their efforts came out through headphones that the audience listened to while sitting on brown pillows in a ring around the band. A handful of TVs were perched around, projecting images from popular movies of actors laughing, created by Mike Mills.

If you pulled off your headphones, you could hear the pinging sound of a hit on the digital drums or Aska Matsumiya singing a cappella into her microphone or David Scott Stone, longtime Eno-like multi-instrumentalist for the Melvins and former one for Unwound, shuffling around, twisting knobs and unraveling what looked like a noisy spool of wire, likely one of his homemade creations. But with headphones on, the music was intimate, enveloping and lush. The payoff wasn't in staring at the band, the usual protocol; it was in abandoning the visual and turning as inward as the music itself.

The Sads played two "silent" sets, at 8 and 9 p.m. The second one lasted 25 minutes -- it was just long enough to settle into the experience and wonder more than a few times why other bands don't try this from time to time. The concept is sharp, but the Sads, who played a similar show in New York, could explore the medium more. Certain instrumentations sound delicious through headphones; next time, the Sads will hopefully include more from Stone's formidable arsenal, but that's faint criticism for a show that flipped Buddhist wisdom on its head -- silent on the outside, noisy within.

-- Margaret Wappler

Left to right: David Scott Stone, Aaron Rose, Aska Matsumiya and Dan Monick; photo by Alex Foley

No, this post is not redundant -- for the second time in three days, Beck trotted his new band onstage at the Echo on Wednesday night for a surprise show. With three new band members joining him and keyboardist Brian Lebarton, Beck obviously wants to work some things out before the release of his new album, the Danger Mouse-produced "Modern Guilt," and the summer tour supporting it.

Wednesday's musical calisthenics spanned 12 songs and 43 minutes. The players seemed more comfortable and spirited, and if the energy seemed a notch lower than Monday's set, it was only due to the fact that the room was only about one-third full, word about the show not having leaked as it did earlier in the week.

Nobody on Wednesday's regular bill seemed to mind that Beck crashed the party. It was the EP release show for singer-songwriter Daniel Ahearn's "Pray for Me by Name." Once he got started, Ahearn (a familiar face in the venue since he pays some of his bills by tending bar at the Echo) thanked the man who preceded him onstage ... with a wink.

"Good local artist," Ahearn said. "I think he's going places."

-- Photo, post by Kevin Bronson

JUST IN:  A few moments ago, Beck fan club members were alerted that he's performing at the Echoplex tomorrow. Tickets go on sale at 5 p.m. today at ticketweb.com. The password is CHEMTRAILS; two-ticket limit. Looks like Beck can't stop showing off those sunglasses in the Eastside clubs.

"I don't think anyone from the L.A. Times is here tonight," Aimee Mann said before returning to a lengthy verbal sparring match with her opener, comedian Paul F. Tompkins. Maybe I should've stayed home, but then I would've missed another superlative night at Largo, or rather, Largo at the Coronet, where Mann's performance was her second in as many weeks. I would've also missed running into Jeff Goldblum in the bathroom, but I digress.

As Richard Cromelin noted in his review of last week's show, the Coronet is an intimate space; the farthest seats back are only Row N, if that's any indication. A sit-down theater can't help but add some seriousness to the old Largo's anything-goes environment, which may have been why the singer-songwriter tapped Tompkins to open. In his too-brief set, the comic riffed on white supremacists, the perils of living with his girlfriend and the worst apartment he ever lived in, an anecdote that concluded with his landlord's son inexplicably shouting, "Once I get my $200, I'm out of here like Steve Martin!" (If you get the reference, feel free to explain it in the comments.)

Still, at least until Tompkins joined her mid-set to duet on new song "Ballantines," Mann seemed more focused on singing than gabbing, offering banter-free guitar tuning and a dearth of song introductions. She did offer a whale of a tale for "Borrowing Time," a song she wrote (and rewrote and rewrote) for "Shrek the Third" that didn't make the cut.

Ogres aside, the songs were king. The show was billed as a full-band gig; due to various "difficulties," Mann was backed once more only by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards. No problem for Mann, who unleashed a career-spanning setlist that included "Red Vines" (a song about director pal P.T. Anderson, whose "Magnolia" helped relaunch Mann into the public eye), "Save Me" and a smattering of noteworthy tracks from her latest album (released last week), "@#%&*! Smilers." On June 2, she introduced it complete with unprintable profanity; last night, she just called it "Smilers." Is Mann cheering up? Let's hope not -- judging by new material like "Thirty One Today," the misanthropes who populate her music have a lot more to say.

-- David Greenwald

Photo of Mann on June 2 by Lawrence K. Ho/Los Angeles Times

Beck's invitation-only show Monday night at the Echo not only stoked the buzz for the upcoming release of his 10th album, "Modern Guilt," but it also was a toe-wetting experience for a largely new batch of side players -- who will have their work cut out for them if they're along for the ride on a world tour that begins later this month (and, down the road, includes a Sept. 20 stop at the Hollywood Bowl).

The frontman acknowledged that it was "only about the fifth time we've played together" as he led his charges through a 14-song, favorites-laden set occasionally punctuated by technical clatter. None of those woes mattered to the Beck faithful; the show was mainly for "family and friends," management said, and surely many of those were keen to the 37-year-old's new material, right? Ahem.

For the record, the four new numbers -- "Modern Guilt," Gamma Ray," "Replica" and "Profanity PrayersPlayers" -- won't bend the ears of anybody used to Beck's sonic adventurousness. Solid guitar rock, all, especially the set-closing "Profanity," a pedal-to-the-metal blast seemingly made for highway driving with the windows rolled down.

Besides longtime band member Brian Lebarton on keys, Beck was joined by guitarist/backup singer Jessica Dobson, a twentysomething from Long Beach who has created some ripples herself as a singer-songwriter; bassist Bram Inscore, who has played in local outfits such as Colorforms and Electrocute and is finishing a solo album; and drummer Scott McPherson, who has played with Earlimart, Sea Wolf, several national acts and, once upon a time, Elliott Smith.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo of Beck, with Jessica Dobson, by Kevin Bronson

The Hollywood Black Film Festival kicked off its ninth year last Tuesday with the world premiere of "2 Turntables and a Microphone," a documentary chronicling the life and death of one of popular music's most famous turntablists, Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC. Born Jason Mizell, Jam Master Jay was murdered October 30, 2002 in a Queens recording studio. The HBFF event, which was attended by members of rap group Onyx and Ice-T (along with wife Cocoa), featured a Q&A by the filmmakers, who sported thick gold chains and "Godfather" hats, in the style originated by the venerated DJ.

Stephon “Phonz” Watford, a younger cousin to Jam Master Jay, multi-tasked on the film, acting as co-producer, narrator and interviewer. He also participated in the Q&A segment.

One of the first questions from the audience addressed the absence of DMC in the movie, which featured reminisces by Hollis, Queens neighborhood pals, Russell Simmons, Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, music industry executives, as well as a laundry list of music talent, including Kid Rock.

The film sets up early on that while JMJ went from rugged Queens DJ to the height of world-wide music success, his connections to his neighborhood never faltered, possibly to his detriment. "I've seen people be over-loyal," says a stoic 50 Cent in the movie. Fiddy relates a story of how JMJ, a mentor in Fiddy's fledgling days, taught him song structure, specifically to write his choruses first and then his lyrics. And we all know the success of 50 Cent's hooky raps.

I asked Watford after the show if the late '90s murders of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had overshadowed his cousin's similarly tragic death. Watford answered like he hears that question a lot.

"Well, he wasn't a rapper, so his voice is hardly heard. Biggie and Tupac are MCs. Jay was a DJ."

But that was his point in making the film: "Now [Jam Master Jay's] voice can be heard."

Nearly a week later, director and producer Guy Logan described the festival response to "2 Turntables and a Microphone" as "overwhelming. People laughed, they cried ... Reverend Run left midway through, it was so emotional for him."

The film is slated for DVD release at the end of the year. Details on screenings in L.A. and New York will be coming soon.

-- Camilo Smith

Photo of Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, left, and Don "Magic" Juan at the premiere by Matt Sayles/Associated Press; movie poster courtesy of the Hollywood Black Film Festival

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Punk rock dance party -- F Yeah!

The F Yeah Fest, curated by Sean Carlson and Keith Morris, might be the younger, more precocious sibling to Silver Lake's Sunset Junction, but it has its own buoyant charm. Only at F Yeah can one watch Austin, Texas’ Best Fwends while standing next to cheery Matt Johnson of Brooklyn’s Matt and Kim, and later, mosh with Jonathan Gray of L.A.’s The Mae Shi. Although this year’s festival suffered a huge setback when a financial backer pulled out at the last minute, Carlson and the crew -- now more than $15,000 in debt -- decided to press on, booking a wealth of musical acts into the Echo, the "F Yeah Fest Annex" and Echoplex.

Matthew Sweet has accumulated some devoted fans since his emergence in the early '90s with the celebrated garage opus “Girlfriend.” They’re conscientious too.

At a show Monday night at the Belly Up Tavern in Solana Beach, the singer-songwriter-guitarist marked the release of his latest CD, “Sunshine Lies” (on Shout Factory Records), with a preview of many of the new songs. But it was obvious some in the crowd had already heard them.

Hearing Punjabi music, particularly bhangra music played at a Sunset Strip nightclub, is a rare thing. But on Saturday, Brooklyn-based DJ Rekha spun a set at the Roxy that was enthusiastically welcomed with waving arms and rhythmic stepping in the bhangra dance style.

Unfortunately, the turnout wasn't as expected, partly due to an unrelated altercation that began at the Roxy's upstairs bar area. It resulted in two stabbings and three arrests, according to the West Hollywood sheriff's station, and the crime scene shut down the western portion of Sunset Boulevard during prime bar-hopping hours.

To say the least, those who did make it in got nearly two hours of some of the best in Eastern-flavored party music, which is now crossing over heavily into the huge Bollywood industry, even attracting Snoop Dogg's participation.

The line of hipsters stretching down the southern end of Hill Street on Thursday was every indication that something special was going on inside La Cita.  Its weekly Thursday jump-off, Dance Right, has been pretty surprising with its DJ picks for a couple of years now. It's even become something of a hipster Mecca for the grittier East Side contingent.

Still, despite the $3 whiskey special that ran until midnight, most of the crowd came downtown to see golden boy turntablist A-Trak do his thing. If there's an art to live mixing and mashing for a dance floor, A-Trak is something of a Rembrandt. 

In addition to his championship level cutting and scratching game, he's also co-owner of a pretty hot indie label, boyfriend to a pretty hot rapper you might have heard of and musical cohort to the likes of Jay-Z and Kanye West, with whom he's toured.

Anybody who's attended a !!! show, for instance, can attest to the joy of watching uninhibited singers invent dance moves too ridiculous and unsexy to attempt on your own. On Monday night, hotly tipped singer-songwriter-producer Janelle Monáe took the ridiculous-dancing practice a step further by maintaining the same catatonic facial expression throughout her spastic choreography, all while wearing a bouffant-cum-mohawk and a tuxedo, no less. Nevermind that she was just playing a mellow free show at Hollywood's Amoeba Records. With her dramatic refusal to break out of her dancing robot character, it may as well have been the Grammys. Or at least her show Tuesday night at the Viper Room, which drew in P. Diddy, Christina Millian and Ne-Yo, not to mention Prince, who stopped by for a chat about an hour after the show.

Lucas Field knows how to lock eyes with an audience. It's a frontman's skill; the best ones develop a gaze that seems to land on every person in the crowd, making some fans feel understood and others feel chosen. It can take years to gain the confidence to convince with this trick and the charisma to not make it seem hokey. But Field, who at 28 is just starting what might be a climb toward real rock stardom with his band, Low vs. Diamond, already has it down.

For some reason, Europe is home to some of the best electronic music. Case in point: Kap Bambino of Bordeaux, France.

The duo of singer Caroline Martial and beat-smith boyfriend Orion Bouvier ripped the smallish Cinespace stage to shreds Tuesday night, causing a mosh pit to form at times.

Martial's calamity-inducing vocals backed by hard-edged electro beats, along with her stage theatrics, reminded me of the energy of a young Iggy Pop, bending and weaving onstage, jumping on top of things and into the crowd at whim. By the end of her nearly half-hour set, she had brought the audience to a fever pitch. This was the duo's first performance in Los Angeles as part of a mini-tour across North America.

We have good news for anybody wondering what the Long Beach blues-punk Cold War Kids have been up to since releasing "Robbers & Cowards" in 2006. If their sort-of secret Friday show at R Bar in L.A.'s Koreatown was any indication, "Getting Awesomer" appeared to be pretty high on their '08 to-do list.

Shooting a documentary about high school teenagers must be like trying to capture a smoke ring in a jar, but director Nanette Burstein has spun a thousand hours of footage into gold with "American Teen," a documentary that follows four Indiana teenagers through their senior year of high school. Embarrassingly personal at times, goofy and hopeful at others, the film, which opens today, has been aptly described as a documentary version of "The Breakfast Club."

Bookended with anthemic paeans to the glories of youth, the soundtrack to "American Teen," which opens with Black Kids' "I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance With You" and closes with MGMT's "Kids," offers a cross-section of nearly every indie rock trend du jour. The soundtrack's neither deep nor particularly broad, but it makes a perfect backdrop for the film. You can listen to streams from the soundtrack at the end of this post.

"I love performing," said Randy Newman, brushing away the applause the VIP-list crowd gave him at a private show Wednesday at Largo at the Coronet. "Better than living. I think I'm better at it."

I haven't lived with Newman, so can't vouch for his veracity on that point. Judging by the stories he told, he's not the easiest companion: His teenage daughter Alice makes fun of him for thinking he's more famous than he is, and "I'd sell out my mother," he says, for a good punch line. But there's no doubt that he's fantastic live -- an easy ace on the piano, a man who knows how to maximize a vocal croak, and one of the masters of onstage patter, rolling out jokes as he keeps alive the twin American traditions of the tall tale and the jelly roll blues.

It's fitting that one of Nas' early promotional stops for his new album, "Untitled," was here on the West Coast. This is where N.W.A and Ice-T, not to mention proto-rappers the Watts Prophets, were among the first to use a racial epithet for African Americans in their own works, introducing casual usage into the mainstream consciousness.

There are performers who don't show you anything new about themselves live and then there are performers like Leslie Fiest, who blew open her pretty Canadian songstress image at Sunday night's Hollywood Bowl show.

In the last four years, the music of avant-garde cellist and disco producer Arthur Russell, who died of AIDS in 1992, has experienced a renaissance through a series of carefully curated re-releases and fanboys coming out of the woodwork such as LCD Soundsystem's James Murphy. Born in Oskaloosa, Iowa, the musician ran away from the Midwest in 1967, briefly detoured to a San Francisco commune before ending up in New York, where he created compositions with Allen Ginsberg and Ernie Brooks from the Modern Lovers, and premiered music by Philip Glass.

Being a negative creep has gained some measure of respect of late, with grunge swinging its long pretty hair into the 21st century. Having mercifully transcended that genre, and the decade, the Melvins never actually went away; they are maybe better than ever, as one veteran of many Melvins shows spanning 14 years and way too many bass player changes might venture to say.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve seen "Mamma Mia!" in London, New York, Las Vegas and Los Angeles, and I’ve never failed to be swept into the euphoria of the ABBA songs that propel the musical.

Although he hasn’t released a record since 1998’s “Bitchin,’ ” Johnny Legend -- known to admirers as the Rockabilly Rasputin -- is still in the game. Last Friday he kicked out the jams at Spike’s Bar in Rosemead, playing to a largely uninterested room of traditional rockabilly types.

Mick Hucknall, in his first post-Simply Red incarnation, takes on the repertoire of Bobby "Blue" Bland in "Tribute to Bobby," a new album of soul classics released last week.

There's a social script that goes on at seemingly every rock concert in the universe: Stand in place; watch band play loudly; maybe, just maybe, dance to the music; occasionally leave spot for refill of cheap beer. Repeat a few times a week/month/year until you label yourself "too old" to go to shows anymore.

The Sads, an L.A. foursome that builds their bedroom sound around moody lyrics and percolating soundscapes with soft synths, varied that script Saturday night with a "silent concert" in conjunction with "The Vision and Art of Shinjo Ito" exhibit at the Westwood Art Forum. Tucked into a warren of flowers and cables, the four members faced each other and played their digital instruments -- two keyboards, drums and a soundboard -- but the byproduct of their efforts came out through headphones that the audience listened to while sitting on brown pillows in a ring around the band. A handful of TVs were perched around, projecting images from popular movies of actors laughing, created by Mike Mills.

If you pulled off your headphones, you could hear the pinging sound of a hit on the digital drums or Aska Matsumiya singing a cappella into her microphone or David Scott Stone, longtime Eno-like multi-instrumentalist for the Melvins and former one for Unwound, shuffling around, twisting knobs and unraveling what looked like a noisy spool of wire, likely one of his homemade creations. But with headphones on, the music was intimate, enveloping and lush. The payoff wasn't in staring at the band, the usual protocol; it was in abandoning the visual and turning as inward as the music itself.

The Sads played two "silent" sets, at 8 and 9 p.m. The second one lasted 25 minutes -- it was just long enough to settle into the experience and wonder more than a few times why other bands don't try this from time to time. The concept is sharp, but the Sads, who played a similar show in New York, could explore the medium more. Certain instrumentations sound delicious through headphones; next time, the Sads will hopefully include more from Stone's formidable arsenal, but that's faint criticism for a show that flipped Buddhist wisdom on its head -- silent on the outside, noisy within.

-- Margaret Wappler

Left to right: David Scott Stone, Aaron Rose, Aska Matsumiya and Dan Monick; photo by Alex Foley

No, this post is not redundant -- for the second time in three days, Beck trotted his new band onstage at the Echo on Wednesday night for a surprise show. With three new band members joining him and keyboardist Brian Lebarton, Beck obviously wants to work some things out before the release of his new album, the Danger Mouse-produced "Modern Guilt," and the summer tour supporting it.

Wednesday's musical calisthenics spanned 12 songs and 43 minutes. The players seemed more comfortable and spirited, and if the energy seemed a notch lower than Monday's set, it was only due to the fact that the room was only about one-third full, word about the show not having leaked as it did earlier in the week.

Nobody on Wednesday's regular bill seemed to mind that Beck crashed the party. It was the EP release show for singer-songwriter Daniel Ahearn's "Pray for Me by Name." Once he got started, Ahearn (a familiar face in the venue since he pays some of his bills by tending bar at the Echo) thanked the man who preceded him onstage ... with a wink.

"Good local artist," Ahearn said. "I think he's going places."

-- Photo, post by Kevin Bronson

JUST IN:  A few moments ago, Beck fan club members were alerted that he's performing at the Echoplex tomorrow. Tickets go on sale at 5 p.m. today at ticketweb.com. The password is CHEMTRAILS; two-ticket limit. Looks like Beck can't stop showing off those sunglasses in the Eastside clubs.

"I don't think anyone from the L.A. Times is here tonight," Aimee Mann said before returning to a lengthy verbal sparring match with her opener, comedian Paul F. Tompkins. Maybe I should've stayed home, but then I would've missed another superlative night at Largo, or rather, Largo at the Coronet, where Mann's performance was her second in as many weeks. I would've also missed running into Jeff Goldblum in the bathroom, but I digress.

As Richard Cromelin noted in his review of last week's show, the Coronet is an intimate space; the farthest seats back are only Row N, if that's any indication. A sit-down theater can't help but add some seriousness to the old Largo's anything-goes environment, which may have been why the singer-songwriter tapped Tompkins to open. In his too-brief set, the comic riffed on white supremacists, the perils of living with his girlfriend and the worst apartment he ever lived in, an anecdote that concluded with his landlord's son inexplicably shouting, "Once I get my $200, I'm out of here like Steve Martin!" (If you get the reference, feel free to explain it in the comments.)

Still, at least until Tompkins joined her mid-set to duet on new song "Ballantines," Mann seemed more focused on singing than gabbing, offering banter-free guitar tuning and a dearth of song introductions. She did offer a whale of a tale for "Borrowing Time," a song she wrote (and rewrote and rewrote) for "Shrek the Third" that didn't make the cut.

Ogres aside, the songs were king. The show was billed as a full-band gig; due to various "difficulties," Mann was backed once more only by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards. No problem for Mann, who unleashed a career-spanning setlist that included "Red Vines" (a song about director pal P.T. Anderson, whose "Magnolia" helped relaunch Mann into the public eye), "Save Me" and a smattering of noteworthy tracks from her latest album (released last week), "@#%&*! Smilers." On June 2, she introduced it complete with unprintable profanity; last night, she just called it "Smilers." Is Mann cheering up? Let's hope not -- judging by new material like "Thirty One Today," the misanthropes who populate her music have a lot more to say.

-- David Greenwald

Photo of Mann on June 2 by Lawrence K. Ho/Los Angeles Times

Beck's invitation-only show Monday night at the Echo not only stoked the buzz for the upcoming release of his 10th album, "Modern Guilt," but it also was a toe-wetting experience for a largely new batch of side players -- who will have their work cut out for them if they're along for the ride on a world tour that begins later this month (and, down the road, includes a Sept. 20 stop at the Hollywood Bowl).

The frontman acknowledged that it was "only about the fifth time we've played together" as he led his charges through a 14-song, favorites-laden set occasionally punctuated by technical clatter. None of those woes mattered to the Beck faithful; the show was mainly for "family and friends," management said, and surely many of those were keen to the 37-year-old's new material, right? Ahem.

For the record, the four new numbers -- "Modern Guilt," Gamma Ray," "Replica" and "Profanity PrayersPlayers" -- won't bend the ears of anybody used to Beck's sonic adventurousness. Solid guitar rock, all, especially the set-closing "Profanity," a pedal-to-the-metal blast seemingly made for highway driving with the windows rolled down.

Besides longtime band member Brian Lebarton on keys, Beck was joined by guitarist/backup singer Jessica Dobson, a twentysomething from Long Beach who has created some ripples herself as a singer-songwriter; bassist Bram Inscore, who has played in local outfits such as Colorforms and Electrocute and is finishing a solo album; and drummer Scott McPherson, who has played with Earlimart, Sea Wolf, several national acts and, once upon a time, Elliott Smith.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo of Beck, with Jessica Dobson, by Kevin Bronson

The Hollywood Black Film Festival kicked off its ninth year last Tuesday with the world premiere of "2 Turntables and a Microphone," a documentary chronicling the life and death of one of popular music's most famous turntablists, Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC. Born Jason Mizell, Jam Master Jay was murdered October 30, 2002 in a Queens recording studio. The HBFF event, which was attended by members of rap group Onyx and Ice-T (along with wife Cocoa), featured a Q&A by the filmmakers, who sported thick gold chains and "Godfather" hats, in the style originated by the venerated DJ.

Stephon “Phonz” Watford, a younger cousin to Jam Master Jay, multi-tasked on the film, acting as co-producer, narrator and interviewer. He also participated in the Q&A segment.

One of the first questions from the audience addressed the absence of DMC in the movie, which featured reminisces by Hollis, Queens neighborhood pals, Russell Simmons, Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, music industry executives, as well as a laundry list of music talent, including Kid Rock.

The film sets up early on that while JMJ went from rugged Queens DJ to the height of world-wide music success, his connections to his neighborhood never faltered, possibly to his detriment. "I've seen people be over-loyal," says a stoic 50 Cent in the movie. Fiddy relates a story of how JMJ, a mentor in Fiddy's fledgling days, taught him song structure, specifically to write his choruses first and then his lyrics. And we all know the success of 50 Cent's hooky raps.

I asked Watford after the show if the late '90s murders of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had overshadowed his cousin's similarly tragic death. Watford answered like he hears that question a lot.

"Well, he wasn't a rapper, so his voice is hardly heard. Biggie and Tupac are MCs. Jay was a DJ."

But that was his point in making the film: "Now [Jam Master Jay's] voice can be heard."

Nearly a week later, director and producer Guy Logan described the festival response to "2 Turntables and a Microphone" as "overwhelming. People laughed, they cried ... Reverend Run left midway through, it was so emotional for him."

The film is slated for DVD release at the end of the year. Details on screenings in L.A. and New York will be coming soon.

-- Camilo Smith

Photo of Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, left, and Don "Magic" Juan at the premiere by Matt Sayles/Associated Press; movie poster courtesy of the Hollywood Black Film Festival

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Matthew Sweet is back in the arms of his fans

Matthew Sweet has accumulated some devoted fans since his emergence in the early '90s with the celebrated garage opus “Girlfriend.” They’re conscientious too.

At a show Monday night at the Belly Up Tavern in Solana Beach, the singer-songwriter-guitarist marked the release of his latest CD, “Sunshine Lies” (on Shout Factory Records), with a preview of many of the new songs. But it was obvious some in the crowd had already heard them.

Hearing Punjabi music, particularly bhangra music played at a Sunset Strip nightclub, is a rare thing. But on Saturday, Brooklyn-based DJ Rekha spun a set at the Roxy that was enthusiastically welcomed with waving arms and rhythmic stepping in the bhangra dance style.

Unfortunately, the turnout wasn't as expected, partly due to an unrelated altercation that began at the Roxy's upstairs bar area. It resulted in two stabbings and three arrests, according to the West Hollywood sheriff's station, and the crime scene shut down the western portion of Sunset Boulevard during prime bar-hopping hours.

To say the least, those who did make it in got nearly two hours of some of the best in Eastern-flavored party music, which is now crossing over heavily into the huge Bollywood industry, even attracting Snoop Dogg's participation.

The line of hipsters stretching down the southern end of Hill Street on Thursday was every indication that something special was going on inside La Cita.  Its weekly Thursday jump-off, Dance Right, has been pretty surprising with its DJ picks for a couple of years now. It's even become something of a hipster Mecca for the grittier East Side contingent.

Still, despite the $3 whiskey special that ran until midnight, most of the crowd came downtown to see golden boy turntablist A-Trak do his thing. If there's an art to live mixing and mashing for a dance floor, A-Trak is something of a Rembrandt. 

In addition to his championship level cutting and scratching game, he's also co-owner of a pretty hot indie label, boyfriend to a pretty hot rapper you might have heard of and musical cohort to the likes of Jay-Z and Kanye West, with whom he's toured.

Anybody who's attended a !!! show, for instance, can attest to the joy of watching uninhibited singers invent dance moves too ridiculous and unsexy to attempt on your own. On Monday night, hotly tipped singer-songwriter-producer Janelle Monáe took the ridiculous-dancing practice a step further by maintaining the same catatonic facial expression throughout her spastic choreography, all while wearing a bouffant-cum-mohawk and a tuxedo, no less. Nevermind that she was just playing a mellow free show at Hollywood's Amoeba Records. With her dramatic refusal to break out of her dancing robot character, it may as well have been the Grammys. Or at least her show Tuesday night at the Viper Room, which drew in P. Diddy, Christina Millian and Ne-Yo, not to mention Prince, who stopped by for a chat about an hour after the show.

Lucas Field knows how to lock eyes with an audience. It's a frontman's skill; the best ones develop a gaze that seems to land on every person in the crowd, making some fans feel understood and others feel chosen. It can take years to gain the confidence to convince with this trick and the charisma to not make it seem hokey. But Field, who at 28 is just starting what might be a climb toward real rock stardom with his band, Low vs. Diamond, already has it down.

For some reason, Europe is home to some of the best electronic music. Case in point: Kap Bambino of Bordeaux, France.

The duo of singer Caroline Martial and beat-smith boyfriend Orion Bouvier ripped the smallish Cinespace stage to shreds Tuesday night, causing a mosh pit to form at times.

Martial's calamity-inducing vocals backed by hard-edged electro beats, along with her stage theatrics, reminded me of the energy of a young Iggy Pop, bending and weaving onstage, jumping on top of things and into the crowd at whim. By the end of her nearly half-hour set, she had brought the audience to a fever pitch. This was the duo's first performance in Los Angeles as part of a mini-tour across North America.

We have good news for anybody wondering what the Long Beach blues-punk Cold War Kids have been up to since releasing "Robbers & Cowards" in 2006. If their sort-of secret Friday show at R Bar in L.A.'s Koreatown was any indication, "Getting Awesomer" appeared to be pretty high on their '08 to-do list.

Shooting a documentary about high school teenagers must be like trying to capture a smoke ring in a jar, but director Nanette Burstein has spun a thousand hours of footage into gold with "American Teen," a documentary that follows four Indiana teenagers through their senior year of high school. Embarrassingly personal at times, goofy and hopeful at others, the film, which opens today, has been aptly described as a documentary version of "The Breakfast Club."

Bookended with anthemic paeans to the glories of youth, the soundtrack to "American Teen," which opens with Black Kids' "I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance With You" and closes with MGMT's "Kids," offers a cross-section of nearly every indie rock trend du jour. The soundtrack's neither deep nor particularly broad, but it makes a perfect backdrop for the film. You can listen to streams from the soundtrack at the end of this post.

"I love performing," said Randy Newman, brushing away the applause the VIP-list crowd gave him at a private show Wednesday at Largo at the Coronet. "Better than living. I think I'm better at it."

I haven't lived with Newman, so can't vouch for his veracity on that point. Judging by the stories he told, he's not the easiest companion: His teenage daughter Alice makes fun of him for thinking he's more famous than he is, and "I'd sell out my mother," he says, for a good punch line. But there's no doubt that he's fantastic live -- an easy ace on the piano, a man who knows how to maximize a vocal croak, and one of the masters of onstage patter, rolling out jokes as he keeps alive the twin American traditions of the tall tale and the jelly roll blues.

It's fitting that one of Nas' early promotional stops for his new album, "Untitled," was here on the West Coast. This is where N.W.A and Ice-T, not to mention proto-rappers the Watts Prophets, were among the first to use a racial epithet for African Americans in their own works, introducing casual usage into the mainstream consciousness.

There are performers who don't show you anything new about themselves live and then there are performers like Leslie Fiest, who blew open her pretty Canadian songstress image at Sunday night's Hollywood Bowl show.

In the last four years, the music of avant-garde cellist and disco producer Arthur Russell, who died of AIDS in 1992, has experienced a renaissance through a series of carefully curated re-releases and fanboys coming out of the woodwork such as LCD Soundsystem's James Murphy. Born in Oskaloosa, Iowa, the musician ran away from the Midwest in 1967, briefly detoured to a San Francisco commune before ending up in New York, where he created compositions with Allen Ginsberg and Ernie Brooks from the Modern Lovers, and premiered music by Philip Glass.

Being a negative creep has gained some measure of respect of late, with grunge swinging its long pretty hair into the 21st century. Having mercifully transcended that genre, and the decade, the Melvins never actually went away; they are maybe better than ever, as one veteran of many Melvins shows spanning 14 years and way too many bass player changes might venture to say.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve seen "Mamma Mia!" in London, New York, Las Vegas and Los Angeles, and I’ve never failed to be swept into the euphoria of the ABBA songs that propel the musical.

Although he hasn’t released a record since 1998’s “Bitchin,’ ” Johnny Legend -- known to admirers as the Rockabilly Rasputin -- is still in the game. Last Friday he kicked out the jams at Spike’s Bar in Rosemead, playing to a largely uninterested room of traditional rockabilly types.

Mick Hucknall, in his first post-Simply Red incarnation, takes on the repertoire of Bobby "Blue" Bland in "Tribute to Bobby," a new album of soul classics released last week.

There's a social script that goes on at seemingly every rock concert in the universe: Stand in place; watch band play loudly; maybe, just maybe, dance to the music; occasionally leave spot for refill of cheap beer. Repeat a few times a week/month/year until you label yourself "too old" to go to shows anymore.

The Sads, an L.A. foursome that builds their bedroom sound around moody lyrics and percolating soundscapes with soft synths, varied that script Saturday night with a "silent concert" in conjunction with "The Vision and Art of Shinjo Ito" exhibit at the Westwood Art Forum. Tucked into a warren of flowers and cables, the four members faced each other and played their digital instruments -- two keyboards, drums and a soundboard -- but the byproduct of their efforts came out through headphones that the audience listened to while sitting on brown pillows in a ring around the band. A handful of TVs were perched around, projecting images from popular movies of actors laughing, created by Mike Mills.

If you pulled off your headphones, you could hear the pinging sound of a hit on the digital drums or Aska Matsumiya singing a cappella into her microphone or David Scott Stone, longtime Eno-like multi-instrumentalist for the Melvins and former one for Unwound, shuffling around, twisting knobs and unraveling what looked like a noisy spool of wire, likely one of his homemade creations. But with headphones on, the music was intimate, enveloping and lush. The payoff wasn't in staring at the band, the usual protocol; it was in abandoning the visual and turning as inward as the music itself.

The Sads played two "silent" sets, at 8 and 9 p.m. The second one lasted 25 minutes -- it was just long enough to settle into the experience and wonder more than a few times why other bands don't try this from time to time. The concept is sharp, but the Sads, who played a similar show in New York, could explore the medium more. Certain instrumentations sound delicious through headphones; next time, the Sads will hopefully include more from Stone's formidable arsenal, but that's faint criticism for a show that flipped Buddhist wisdom on its head -- silent on the outside, noisy within.

-- Margaret Wappler

Left to right: David Scott Stone, Aaron Rose, Aska Matsumiya and Dan Monick; photo by Alex Foley

No, this post is not redundant -- for the second time in three days, Beck trotted his new band onstage at the Echo on Wednesday night for a surprise show. With three new band members joining him and keyboardist Brian Lebarton, Beck obviously wants to work some things out before the release of his new album, the Danger Mouse-produced "Modern Guilt," and the summer tour supporting it.

Wednesday's musical calisthenics spanned 12 songs and 43 minutes. The players seemed more comfortable and spirited, and if the energy seemed a notch lower than Monday's set, it was only due to the fact that the room was only about one-third full, word about the show not having leaked as it did earlier in the week.

Nobody on Wednesday's regular bill seemed to mind that Beck crashed the party. It was the EP release show for singer-songwriter Daniel Ahearn's "Pray for Me by Name." Once he got started, Ahearn (a familiar face in the venue since he pays some of his bills by tending bar at the Echo) thanked the man who preceded him onstage ... with a wink.

"Good local artist," Ahearn said. "I think he's going places."

-- Photo, post by Kevin Bronson

JUST IN:  A few moments ago, Beck fan club members were alerted that he's performing at the Echoplex tomorrow. Tickets go on sale at 5 p.m. today at ticketweb.com. The password is CHEMTRAILS; two-ticket limit. Looks like Beck can't stop showing off those sunglasses in the Eastside clubs.

"I don't think anyone from the L.A. Times is here tonight," Aimee Mann said before returning to a lengthy verbal sparring match with her opener, comedian Paul F. Tompkins. Maybe I should've stayed home, but then I would've missed another superlative night at Largo, or rather, Largo at the Coronet, where Mann's performance was her second in as many weeks. I would've also missed running into Jeff Goldblum in the bathroom, but I digress.

As Richard Cromelin noted in his review of last week's show, the Coronet is an intimate space; the farthest seats back are only Row N, if that's any indication. A sit-down theater can't help but add some seriousness to the old Largo's anything-goes environment, which may have been why the singer-songwriter tapped Tompkins to open. In his too-brief set, the comic riffed on white supremacists, the perils of living with his girlfriend and the worst apartment he ever lived in, an anecdote that concluded with his landlord's son inexplicably shouting, "Once I get my $200, I'm out of here like Steve Martin!" (If you get the reference, feel free to explain it in the comments.)

Still, at least until Tompkins joined her mid-set to duet on new song "Ballantines," Mann seemed more focused on singing than gabbing, offering banter-free guitar tuning and a dearth of song introductions. She did offer a whale of a tale for "Borrowing Time," a song she wrote (and rewrote and rewrote) for "Shrek the Third" that didn't make the cut.

Ogres aside, the songs were king. The show was billed as a full-band gig; due to various "difficulties," Mann was backed once more only by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards. No problem for Mann, who unleashed a career-spanning setlist that included "Red Vines" (a song about director pal P.T. Anderson, whose "Magnolia" helped relaunch Mann into the public eye), "Save Me" and a smattering of noteworthy tracks from her latest album (released last week), "@#%&*! Smilers." On June 2, she introduced it complete with unprintable profanity; last night, she just called it "Smilers." Is Mann cheering up? Let's hope not -- judging by new material like "Thirty One Today," the misanthropes who populate her music have a lot more to say.

-- David Greenwald

Photo of Mann on June 2 by Lawrence K. Ho/Los Angeles Times

Beck's invitation-only show Monday night at the Echo not only stoked the buzz for the upcoming release of his 10th album, "Modern Guilt," but it also was a toe-wetting experience for a largely new batch of side players -- who will have their work cut out for them if they're along for the ride on a world tour that begins later this month (and, down the road, includes a Sept. 20 stop at the Hollywood Bowl).

The frontman acknowledged that it was "only about the fifth time we've played together" as he led his charges through a 14-song, favorites-laden set occasionally punctuated by technical clatter. None of those woes mattered to the Beck faithful; the show was mainly for "family and friends," management said, and surely many of those were keen to the 37-year-old's new material, right? Ahem.

For the record, the four new numbers -- "Modern Guilt," Gamma Ray," "Replica" and "Profanity PrayersPlayers" -- won't bend the ears of anybody used to Beck's sonic adventurousness. Solid guitar rock, all, especially the set-closing "Profanity," a pedal-to-the-metal blast seemingly made for highway driving with the windows rolled down.

Besides longtime band member Brian Lebarton on keys, Beck was joined by guitarist/backup singer Jessica Dobson, a twentysomething from Long Beach who has created some ripples herself as a singer-songwriter; bassist Bram Inscore, who has played in local outfits such as Colorforms and Electrocute and is finishing a solo album; and drummer Scott McPherson, who has played with Earlimart, Sea Wolf, several national acts and, once upon a time, Elliott Smith.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo of Beck, with Jessica Dobson, by Kevin Bronson

The Hollywood Black Film Festival kicked off its ninth year last Tuesday with the world premiere of "2 Turntables and a Microphone," a documentary chronicling the life and death of one of popular music's most famous turntablists, Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC. Born Jason Mizell, Jam Master Jay was murdered October 30, 2002 in a Queens recording studio. The HBFF event, which was attended by members of rap group Onyx and Ice-T (along with wife Cocoa), featured a Q&A by the filmmakers, who sported thick gold chains and "Godfather" hats, in the style originated by the venerated DJ.

Stephon “Phonz” Watford, a younger cousin to Jam Master Jay, multi-tasked on the film, acting as co-producer, narrator and interviewer. He also participated in the Q&A segment.

One of the first questions from the audience addressed the absence of DMC in the movie, which featured reminisces by Hollis, Queens neighborhood pals, Russell Simmons, Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, music industry executives, as well as a laundry list of music talent, including Kid Rock.

The film sets up early on that while JMJ went from rugged Queens DJ to the height of world-wide music success, his connections to his neighborhood never faltered, possibly to his detriment. "I've seen people be over-loyal," says a stoic 50 Cent in the movie. Fiddy relates a story of how JMJ, a mentor in Fiddy's fledgling days, taught him song structure, specifically to write his choruses first and then his lyrics. And we all know the success of 50 Cent's hooky raps.

I asked Watford after the show if the late '90s murders of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had overshadowed his cousin's similarly tragic death. Watford answered like he hears that question a lot.

"Well, he wasn't a rapper, so his voice is hardly heard. Biggie and Tupac are MCs. Jay was a DJ."

But that was his point in making the film: "Now [Jam Master Jay's] voice can be heard."

Nearly a week later, director and producer Guy Logan described the festival response to "2 Turntables and a Microphone" as "overwhelming. People laughed, they cried ... Reverend Run left midway through, it was so emotional for him."

The film is slated for DVD release at the end of the year. Details on screenings in L.A. and New York will be coming soon.

-- Camilo Smith

Photo of Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, left, and Don "Magic" Juan at the premiere by Matt Sayles/Associated Press; movie poster courtesy of the Hollywood Black Film Festival

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

DJ Rekha spins bhangra at Roxy; stabbing hurts turnout

Hearing Punjabi music, particularly bhangra music played at a Sunset Strip nightclub, is a rare thing. But on Saturday, Brooklyn-based DJ Rekha spun a set at the Roxy that was enthusiastically welcomed with waving arms and rhythmic stepping in the bhangra dance style.

Unfortunately, the turnout wasn't as expected, partly due to an unrelated altercation that began at the Roxy's upstairs bar area. It resulted in two stabbings and three arrests, according to the West Hollywood sheriff's station, and the crime scene shut down the western portion of Sunset Boulevard during prime bar-hopping hours.

To say the least, those who did make it in got nearly two hours of some of the best in Eastern-flavored party music, which is now crossing over heavily into the huge Bollywood industry, even attracting Snoop Dogg's participation.

The line of hipsters stretching down the southern end of Hill Street on Thursday was every indication that something special was going on inside La Cita.  Its weekly Thursday jump-off, Dance Right, has been pretty surprising with its DJ picks for a couple of years now. It's even become something of a hipster Mecca for the grittier East Side contingent.

Still, despite the $3 whiskey special that ran until midnight, most of the crowd came downtown to see golden boy turntablist A-Trak do his thing. If there's an art to live mixing and mashing for a dance floor, A-Trak is something of a Rembrandt. 

In addition to his championship level cutting and scratching game, he's also co-owner of a pretty hot indie label, boyfriend to a pretty hot rapper you might have heard of and musical cohort to the likes of Jay-Z and Kanye West, with whom he's toured.

Anybody who's attended a !!! show, for instance, can attest to the joy of watching uninhibited singers invent dance moves too ridiculous and unsexy to attempt on your own. On Monday night, hotly tipped singer-songwriter-producer Janelle Monáe took the ridiculous-dancing practice a step further by maintaining the same catatonic facial expression throughout her spastic choreography, all while wearing a bouffant-cum-mohawk and a tuxedo, no less. Nevermind that she was just playing a mellow free show at Hollywood's Amoeba Records. With her dramatic refusal to break out of her dancing robot character, it may as well have been the Grammys. Or at least her show Tuesday night at the Viper Room, which drew in P. Diddy, Christina Millian and Ne-Yo, not to mention Prince, who stopped by for a chat about an hour after the show.

Lucas Field knows how to lock eyes with an audience. It's a frontman's skill; the best ones develop a gaze that seems to land on every person in the crowd, making some fans feel understood and others feel chosen. It can take years to gain the confidence to convince with this trick and the charisma to not make it seem hokey. But Field, who at 28 is just starting what might be a climb toward real rock stardom with his band, Low vs. Diamond, already has it down.

For some reason, Europe is home to some of the best electronic music. Case in point: Kap Bambino of Bordeaux, France.

The duo of singer Caroline Martial and beat-smith boyfriend Orion Bouvier ripped the smallish Cinespace stage to shreds Tuesday night, causing a mosh pit to form at times.

Martial's calamity-inducing vocals backed by hard-edged electro beats, along with her stage theatrics, reminded me of the energy of a young Iggy Pop, bending and weaving onstage, jumping on top of things and into the crowd at whim. By the end of her nearly half-hour set, she had brought the audience to a fever pitch. This was the duo's first performance in Los Angeles as part of a mini-tour across North America.

We have good news for anybody wondering what the Long Beach blues-punk Cold War Kids have been up to since releasing "Robbers & Cowards" in 2006. If their sort-of secret Friday show at R Bar in L.A.'s Koreatown was any indication, "Getting Awesomer" appeared to be pretty high on their '08 to-do list.

Shooting a documentary about high school teenagers must be like trying to capture a smoke ring in a jar, but director Nanette Burstein has spun a thousand hours of footage into gold with "American Teen," a documentary that follows four Indiana teenagers through their senior year of high school. Embarrassingly personal at times, goofy and hopeful at others, the film, which opens today, has been aptly described as a documentary version of "The Breakfast Club."

Bookended with anthemic paeans to the glories of youth, the soundtrack to "American Teen," which opens with Black Kids' "I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance With You" and closes with MGMT's "Kids," offers a cross-section of nearly every indie rock trend du jour. The soundtrack's neither deep nor particularly broad, but it makes a perfect backdrop for the film. You can listen to streams from the soundtrack at the end of this post.

"I love performing," said Randy Newman, brushing away the applause the VIP-list crowd gave him at a private show Wednesday at Largo at the Coronet. "Better than living. I think I'm better at it."

I haven't lived with Newman, so can't vouch for his veracity on that point. Judging by the stories he told, he's not the easiest companion: His teenage daughter Alice makes fun of him for thinking he's more famous than he is, and "I'd sell out my mother," he says, for a good punch line. But there's no doubt that he's fantastic live -- an easy ace on the piano, a man who knows how to maximize a vocal croak, and one of the masters of onstage patter, rolling out jokes as he keeps alive the twin American traditions of the tall tale and the jelly roll blues.

It's fitting that one of Nas' early promotional stops for his new album, "Untitled," was here on the West Coast. This is where N.W.A and Ice-T, not to mention proto-rappers the Watts Prophets, were among the first to use a racial epithet for African Americans in their own works, introducing casual usage into the mainstream consciousness.

There are performers who don't show you anything new about themselves live and then there are performers like Leslie Fiest, who blew open her pretty Canadian songstress image at Sunday night's Hollywood Bowl show.

In the last four years, the music of avant-garde cellist and disco producer Arthur Russell, who died of AIDS in 1992, has experienced a renaissance through a series of carefully curated re-releases and fanboys coming out of the woodwork such as LCD Soundsystem's James Murphy. Born in Oskaloosa, Iowa, the musician ran away from the Midwest in 1967, briefly detoured to a San Francisco commune before ending up in New York, where he created compositions with Allen Ginsberg and Ernie Brooks from the Modern Lovers, and premiered music by Philip Glass.

Being a negative creep has gained some measure of respect of late, with grunge swinging its long pretty hair into the 21st century. Having mercifully transcended that genre, and the decade, the Melvins never actually went away; they are maybe better than ever, as one veteran of many Melvins shows spanning 14 years and way too many bass player changes might venture to say.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve seen "Mamma Mia!" in London, New York, Las Vegas and Los Angeles, and I’ve never failed to be swept into the euphoria of the ABBA songs that propel the musical.

Although he hasn’t released a record since 1998’s “Bitchin,’ ” Johnny Legend -- known to admirers as the Rockabilly Rasputin -- is still in the game. Last Friday he kicked out the jams at Spike’s Bar in Rosemead, playing to a largely uninterested room of traditional rockabilly types.

Mick Hucknall, in his first post-Simply Red incarnation, takes on the repertoire of Bobby "Blue" Bland in "Tribute to Bobby," a new album of soul classics released last week.

There's a social script that goes on at seemingly every rock concert in the universe: Stand in place; watch band play loudly; maybe, just maybe, dance to the music; occasionally leave spot for refill of cheap beer. Repeat a few times a week/month/year until you label yourself "too old" to go to shows anymore.

The Sads, an L.A. foursome that builds their bedroom sound around moody lyrics and percolating soundscapes with soft synths, varied that script Saturday night with a "silent concert" in conjunction with "The Vision and Art of Shinjo Ito" exhibit at the Westwood Art Forum. Tucked into a warren of flowers and cables, the four members faced each other and played their digital instruments -- two keyboards, drums and a soundboard -- but the byproduct of their efforts came out through headphones that the audience listened to while sitting on brown pillows in a ring around the band. A handful of TVs were perched around, projecting images from popular movies of actors laughing, created by Mike Mills.

If you pulled off your headphones, you could hear the pinging sound of a hit on the digital drums or Aska Matsumiya singing a cappella into her microphone or David Scott Stone, longtime Eno-like multi-instrumentalist for the Melvins and former one for Unwound, shuffling around, twisting knobs and unraveling what looked like a noisy spool of wire, likely one of his homemade creations. But with headphones on, the music was intimate, enveloping and lush. The payoff wasn't in staring at the band, the usual protocol; it was in abandoning the visual and turning as inward as the music itself.

The Sads played two "silent" sets, at 8 and 9 p.m. The second one lasted 25 minutes -- it was just long enough to settle into the experience and wonder more than a few times why other bands don't try this from time to time. The concept is sharp, but the Sads, who played a similar show in New York, could explore the medium more. Certain instrumentations sound delicious through headphones; next time, the Sads will hopefully include more from Stone's formidable arsenal, but that's faint criticism for a show that flipped Buddhist wisdom on its head -- silent on the outside, noisy within.

-- Margaret Wappler

Left to right: David Scott Stone, Aaron Rose, Aska Matsumiya and Dan Monick; photo by Alex Foley

No, this post is not redundant -- for the second time in three days, Beck trotted his new band onstage at the Echo on Wednesday night for a surprise show. With three new band members joining him and keyboardist Brian Lebarton, Beck obviously wants to work some things out before the release of his new album, the Danger Mouse-produced "Modern Guilt," and the summer tour supporting it.

Wednesday's musical calisthenics spanned 12 songs and 43 minutes. The players seemed more comfortable and spirited, and if the energy seemed a notch lower than Monday's set, it was only due to the fact that the room was only about one-third full, word about the show not having leaked as it did earlier in the week.

Nobody on Wednesday's regular bill seemed to mind that Beck crashed the party. It was the EP release show for singer-songwriter Daniel Ahearn's "Pray for Me by Name." Once he got started, Ahearn (a familiar face in the venue since he pays some of his bills by tending bar at the Echo) thanked the man who preceded him onstage ... with a wink.

"Good local artist," Ahearn said. "I think he's going places."

-- Photo, post by Kevin Bronson

JUST IN:  A few moments ago, Beck fan club members were alerted that he's performing at the Echoplex tomorrow. Tickets go on sale at 5 p.m. today at ticketweb.com. The password is CHEMTRAILS; two-ticket limit. Looks like Beck can't stop showing off those sunglasses in the Eastside clubs.

"I don't think anyone from the L.A. Times is here tonight," Aimee Mann said before returning to a lengthy verbal sparring match with her opener, comedian Paul F. Tompkins. Maybe I should've stayed home, but then I would've missed another superlative night at Largo, or rather, Largo at the Coronet, where Mann's performance was her second in as many weeks. I would've also missed running into Jeff Goldblum in the bathroom, but I digress.

As Richard Cromelin noted in his review of last week's show, the Coronet is an intimate space; the farthest seats back are only Row N, if that's any indication. A sit-down theater can't help but add some seriousness to the old Largo's anything-goes environment, which may have been why the singer-songwriter tapped Tompkins to open. In his too-brief set, the comic riffed on white supremacists, the perils of living with his girlfriend and the worst apartment he ever lived in, an anecdote that concluded with his landlord's son inexplicably shouting, "Once I get my $200, I'm out of here like Steve Martin!" (If you get the reference, feel free to explain it in the comments.)

Still, at least until Tompkins joined her mid-set to duet on new song "Ballantines," Mann seemed more focused on singing than gabbing, offering banter-free guitar tuning and a dearth of song introductions. She did offer a whale of a tale for "Borrowing Time," a song she wrote (and rewrote and rewrote) for "Shrek the Third" that didn't make the cut.

Ogres aside, the songs were king. The show was billed as a full-band gig; due to various "difficulties," Mann was backed once more only by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards. No problem for Mann, who unleashed a career-spanning setlist that included "Red Vines" (a song about director pal P.T. Anderson, whose "Magnolia" helped relaunch Mann into the public eye), "Save Me" and a smattering of noteworthy tracks from her latest album (released last week), "@#%&*! Smilers." On June 2, she introduced it complete with unprintable profanity; last night, she just called it "Smilers." Is Mann cheering up? Let's hope not -- judging by new material like "Thirty One Today," the misanthropes who populate her music have a lot more to say.

-- David Greenwald

Photo of Mann on June 2 by Lawrence K. Ho/Los Angeles Times

Beck's invitation-only show Monday night at the Echo not only stoked the buzz for the upcoming release of his 10th album, "Modern Guilt," but it also was a toe-wetting experience for a largely new batch of side players -- who will have their work cut out for them if they're along for the ride on a world tour that begins later this month (and, down the road, includes a Sept. 20 stop at the Hollywood Bowl).

The frontman acknowledged that it was "only about the fifth time we've played together" as he led his charges through a 14-song, favorites-laden set occasionally punctuated by technical clatter. None of those woes mattered to the Beck faithful; the show was mainly for "family and friends," management said, and surely many of those were keen to the 37-year-old's new material, right? Ahem.

For the record, the four new numbers -- "Modern Guilt," Gamma Ray," "Replica" and "Profanity PrayersPlayers" -- won't bend the ears of anybody used to Beck's sonic adventurousness. Solid guitar rock, all, especially the set-closing "Profanity," a pedal-to-the-metal blast seemingly made for highway driving with the windows rolled down.

Besides longtime band member Brian Lebarton on keys, Beck was joined by guitarist/backup singer Jessica Dobson, a twentysomething from Long Beach who has created some ripples herself as a singer-songwriter; bassist Bram Inscore, who has played in local outfits such as Colorforms and Electrocute and is finishing a solo album; and drummer Scott McPherson, who has played with Earlimart, Sea Wolf, several national acts and, once upon a time, Elliott Smith.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo of Beck, with Jessica Dobson, by Kevin Bronson

The Hollywood Black Film Festival kicked off its ninth year last Tuesday with the world premiere of "2 Turntables and a Microphone," a documentary chronicling the life and death of one of popular music's most famous turntablists, Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC. Born Jason Mizell, Jam Master Jay was murdered October 30, 2002 in a Queens recording studio. The HBFF event, which was attended by members of rap group Onyx and Ice-T (along with wife Cocoa), featured a Q&A by the filmmakers, who sported thick gold chains and "Godfather" hats, in the style originated by the venerated DJ.

Stephon “Phonz” Watford, a younger cousin to Jam Master Jay, multi-tasked on the film, acting as co-producer, narrator and interviewer. He also participated in the Q&A segment.

One of the first questions from the audience addressed the absence of DMC in the movie, which featured reminisces by Hollis, Queens neighborhood pals, Russell Simmons, Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, music industry executives, as well as a laundry list of music talent, including Kid Rock.

The film sets up early on that while JMJ went from rugged Queens DJ to the height of world-wide music success, his connections to his neighborhood never faltered, possibly to his detriment. "I've seen people be over-loyal," says a stoic 50 Cent in the movie. Fiddy relates a story of how JMJ, a mentor in Fiddy's fledgling days, taught him song structure, specifically to write his choruses first and then his lyrics. And we all know the success of 50 Cent's hooky raps.

I asked Watford after the show if the late '90s murders of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had overshadowed his cousin's similarly tragic death. Watford answered like he hears that question a lot.

"Well, he wasn't a rapper, so his voice is hardly heard. Biggie and Tupac are MCs. Jay was a DJ."

But that was his point in making the film: "Now [Jam Master Jay's] voice can be heard."

Nearly a week later, director and producer Guy Logan described the festival response to "2 Turntables and a Microphone" as "overwhelming. People laughed, they cried ... Reverend Run left midway through, it was so emotional for him."

The film is slated for DVD release at the end of the year. Details on screenings in L.A. and New York will be coming soon.

-- Camilo Smith

Photo of Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, left, and Don "Magic" Juan at the premiere by Matt Sayles/Associated Press; movie poster courtesy of the Hollywood Black Film Festival

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

A-Trak gets crunk at Dance Right

The line of hipsters stretching down the southern end of Hill Street on Thursday was every indication that something special was going on inside La Cita.  Its weekly Thursday jump-off, Dance Right, has been pretty surprising with its DJ picks for a couple of years now. It's even become something of a hipster Mecca for the grittier East Side contingent.

Still, despite the $3 whiskey special that ran until midnight, most of the crowd came downtown to see golden boy turntablist A-Trak do his thing. If there's an art to live mixing and mashing for a dance floor, A-Trak is something of a Rembrandt. 

In addition to his championship level cutting and scratching game, he's also co-owner of a pretty hot indie label, boyfriend to a pretty hot rapper you might have heard of and musical cohort to the likes of Jay-Z and Kanye West, with whom he's toured.

Anybody who's attended a !!! show, for instance, can attest to the joy of watching uninhibited singers invent dance moves too ridiculous and unsexy to attempt on your own. On Monday night, hotly tipped singer-songwriter-producer Janelle Monáe took the ridiculous-dancing practice a step further by maintaining the same catatonic facial expression throughout her spastic choreography, all while wearing a bouffant-cum-mohawk and a tuxedo, no less. Nevermind that she was just playing a mellow free show at Hollywood's Amoeba Records. With her dramatic refusal to break out of her dancing robot character, it may as well have been the Grammys. Or at least her show Tuesday night at the Viper Room, which drew in P. Diddy, Christina Millian and Ne-Yo, not to mention Prince, who stopped by for a chat about an hour after the show.

Lucas Field knows how to lock eyes with an audience. It's a frontman's skill; the best ones develop a gaze that seems to land on every person in the crowd, making some fans feel understood and others feel chosen. It can take years to gain the confidence to convince with this trick and the charisma to not make it seem hokey. But Field, who at 28 is just starting what might be a climb toward real rock stardom with his band, Low vs. Diamond, already has it down.

For some reason, Europe is home to some of the best electronic music. Case in point: Kap Bambino of Bordeaux, France.

The duo of singer Caroline Martial and beat-smith boyfriend Orion Bouvier ripped the smallish Cinespace stage to shreds Tuesday night, causing a mosh pit to form at times.

Martial's calamity-inducing vocals backed by hard-edged electro beats, along with her stage theatrics, reminded me of the energy of a young Iggy Pop, bending and weaving onstage, jumping on top of things and into the crowd at whim. By the end of her nearly half-hour set, she had brought the audience to a fever pitch. This was the duo's first performance in Los Angeles as part of a mini-tour across North America.

We have good news for anybody wondering what the Long Beach blues-punk Cold War Kids have been up to since releasing "Robbers & Cowards" in 2006. If their sort-of secret Friday show at R Bar in L.A.'s Koreatown was any indication, "Getting Awesomer" appeared to be pretty high on their '08 to-do list.

Shooting a documentary about high school teenagers must be like trying to capture a smoke ring in a jar, but director Nanette Burstein has spun a thousand hours of footage into gold with "American Teen," a documentary that follows four Indiana teenagers through their senior year of high school. Embarrassingly personal at times, goofy and hopeful at others, the film, which opens today, has been aptly described as a documentary version of "The Breakfast Club."

Bookended with anthemic paeans to the glories of youth, the soundtrack to "American Teen," which opens with Black Kids' "I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance With You" and closes with MGMT's "Kids," offers a cross-section of nearly every indie rock trend du jour. The soundtrack's neither deep nor particularly broad, but it makes a perfect backdrop for the film. You can listen to streams from the soundtrack at the end of this post.

"I love performing," said Randy Newman, brushing away the applause the VIP-list crowd gave him at a private show Wednesday at Largo at the Coronet. "Better than living. I think I'm better at it."

I haven't lived with Newman, so can't vouch for his veracity on that point. Judging by the stories he told, he's not the easiest companion: His teenage daughter Alice makes fun of him for thinking he's more famous than he is, and "I'd sell out my mother," he says, for a good punch line. But there's no doubt that he's fantastic live -- an easy ace on the piano, a man who knows how to maximize a vocal croak, and one of the masters of onstage patter, rolling out jokes as he keeps alive the twin American traditions of the tall tale and the jelly roll blues.

It's fitting that one of Nas' early promotional stops for his new album, "Untitled," was here on the West Coast. This is where N.W.A and Ice-T, not to mention proto-rappers the Watts Prophets, were among the first to use a racial epithet for African Americans in their own works, introducing casual usage into the mainstream consciousness.

There are performers who don't show you anything new about themselves live and then there are performers like Leslie Fiest, who blew open her pretty Canadian songstress image at Sunday night's Hollywood Bowl show.

In the last four years, the music of avant-garde cellist and disco producer Arthur Russell, who died of AIDS in 1992, has experienced a renaissance through a series of carefully curated re-releases and fanboys coming out of the woodwork such as LCD Soundsystem's James Murphy. Born in Oskaloosa, Iowa, the musician ran away from the Midwest in 1967, briefly detoured to a San Francisco commune before ending up in New York, where he created compositions with Allen Ginsberg and Ernie Brooks from the Modern Lovers, and premiered music by Philip Glass.

Being a negative creep has gained some measure of respect of late, with grunge swinging its long pretty hair into the 21st century. Having mercifully transcended that genre, and the decade, the Melvins never actually went away; they are maybe better than ever, as one veteran of many Melvins shows spanning 14 years and way too many bass player changes might venture to say.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve seen "Mamma Mia!" in London, New York, Las Vegas and Los Angeles, and I’ve never failed to be swept into the euphoria of the ABBA songs that propel the musical.

Although he hasn’t released a record since 1998’s “Bitchin,’ ” Johnny Legend -- known to admirers as the Rockabilly Rasputin -- is still in the game. Last Friday he kicked out the jams at Spike’s Bar in Rosemead, playing to a largely uninterested room of traditional rockabilly types.

Mick Hucknall, in his first post-Simply Red incarnation, takes on the repertoire of Bobby "Blue" Bland in "Tribute to Bobby," a new album of soul classics released last week.

There's a social script that goes on at seemingly every rock concert in the universe: Stand in place; watch band play loudly; maybe, just maybe, dance to the music; occasionally leave spot for refill of cheap beer. Repeat a few times a week/month/year until you label yourself "too old" to go to shows anymore.

The Sads, an L.A. foursome that builds their bedroom sound around moody lyrics and percolating soundscapes with soft synths, varied that script Saturday night with a "silent concert" in conjunction with "The Vision and Art of Shinjo Ito" exhibit at the Westwood Art Forum. Tucked into a warren of flowers and cables, the four members faced each other and played their digital instruments -- two keyboards, drums and a soundboard -- but the byproduct of their efforts came out through headphones that the audience listened to while sitting on brown pillows in a ring around the band. A handful of TVs were perched around, projecting images from popular movies of actors laughing, created by Mike Mills.

If you pulled off your headphones, you could hear the pinging sound of a hit on the digital drums or Aska Matsumiya singing a cappella into her microphone or David Scott Stone, longtime Eno-like multi-instrumentalist for the Melvins and former one for Unwound, shuffling around, twisting knobs and unraveling what looked like a noisy spool of wire, likely one of his homemade creations. But with headphones on, the music was intimate, enveloping and lush. The payoff wasn't in staring at the band, the usual protocol; it was in abandoning the visual and turning as inward as the music itself.

The Sads played two "silent" sets, at 8 and 9 p.m. The second one lasted 25 minutes -- it was just long enough to settle into the experience and wonder more than a few times why other bands don't try this from time to time. The concept is sharp, but the Sads, who played a similar show in New York, could explore the medium more. Certain instrumentations sound delicious through headphones; next time, the Sads will hopefully include more from Stone's formidable arsenal, but that's faint criticism for a show that flipped Buddhist wisdom on its head -- silent on the outside, noisy within.

-- Margaret Wappler

Left to right: David Scott Stone, Aaron Rose, Aska Matsumiya and Dan Monick; photo by Alex Foley

No, this post is not redundant -- for the second time in three days, Beck trotted his new band onstage at the Echo on Wednesday night for a surprise show. With three new band members joining him and keyboardist Brian Lebarton, Beck obviously wants to work some things out before the release of his new album, the Danger Mouse-produced "Modern Guilt," and the summer tour supporting it.

Wednesday's musical calisthenics spanned 12 songs and 43 minutes. The players seemed more comfortable and spirited, and if the energy seemed a notch lower than Monday's set, it was only due to the fact that the room was only about one-third full, word about the show not having leaked as it did earlier in the week.

Nobody on Wednesday's regular bill seemed to mind that Beck crashed the party. It was the EP release show for singer-songwriter Daniel Ahearn's "Pray for Me by Name." Once he got started, Ahearn (a familiar face in the venue since he pays some of his bills by tending bar at the Echo) thanked the man who preceded him onstage ... with a wink.

"Good local artist," Ahearn said. "I think he's going places."

-- Photo, post by Kevin Bronson

JUST IN:  A few moments ago, Beck fan club members were alerted that he's performing at the Echoplex tomorrow. Tickets go on sale at 5 p.m. today at ticketweb.com. The password is CHEMTRAILS; two-ticket limit. Looks like Beck can't stop showing off those sunglasses in the Eastside clubs.

"I don't think anyone from the L.A. Times is here tonight," Aimee Mann said before returning to a lengthy verbal sparring match with her opener, comedian Paul F. Tompkins. Maybe I should've stayed home, but then I would've missed another superlative night at Largo, or rather, Largo at the Coronet, where Mann's performance was her second in as many weeks. I would've also missed running into Jeff Goldblum in the bathroom, but I digress.

As Richard Cromelin noted in his review of last week's show, the Coronet is an intimate space; the farthest seats back are only Row N, if that's any indication. A sit-down theater can't help but add some seriousness to the old Largo's anything-goes environment, which may have been why the singer-songwriter tapped Tompkins to open. In his too-brief set, the comic riffed on white supremacists, the perils of living with his girlfriend and the worst apartment he ever lived in, an anecdote that concluded with his landlord's son inexplicably shouting, "Once I get my $200, I'm out of here like Steve Martin!" (If you get the reference, feel free to explain it in the comments.)

Still, at least until Tompkins joined her mid-set to duet on new song "Ballantines," Mann seemed more focused on singing than gabbing, offering banter-free guitar tuning and a dearth of song introductions. She did offer a whale of a tale for "Borrowing Time," a song she wrote (and rewrote and rewrote) for "Shrek the Third" that didn't make the cut.

Ogres aside, the songs were king. The show was billed as a full-band gig; due to various "difficulties," Mann was backed once more only by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards. No problem for Mann, who unleashed a career-spanning setlist that included "Red Vines" (a song about director pal P.T. Anderson, whose "Magnolia" helped relaunch Mann into the public eye), "Save Me" and a smattering of noteworthy tracks from her latest album (released last week), "@#%&*! Smilers." On June 2, she introduced it complete with unprintable profanity; last night, she just called it "Smilers." Is Mann cheering up? Let's hope not -- judging by new material like "Thirty One Today," the misanthropes who populate her music have a lot more to say.

-- David Greenwald

Photo of Mann on June 2 by Lawrence K. Ho/Los Angeles Times

Beck's invitation-only show Monday night at the Echo not only stoked the buzz for the upcoming release of his 10th album, "Modern Guilt," but it also was a toe-wetting experience for a largely new batch of side players -- who will have their work cut out for them if they're along for the ride on a world tour that begins later this month (and, down the road, includes a Sept. 20 stop at the Hollywood Bowl).

The frontman acknowledged that it was "only about the fifth time we've played together" as he led his charges through a 14-song, favorites-laden set occasionally punctuated by technical clatter. None of those woes mattered to the Beck faithful; the show was mainly for "family and friends," management said, and surely many of those were keen to the 37-year-old's new material, right? Ahem.

For the record, the four new numbers -- "Modern Guilt," Gamma Ray," "Replica" and "Profanity PrayersPlayers" -- won't bend the ears of anybody used to Beck's sonic adventurousness. Solid guitar rock, all, especially the set-closing "Profanity," a pedal-to-the-metal blast seemingly made for highway driving with the windows rolled down.

Besides longtime band member Brian Lebarton on keys, Beck was joined by guitarist/backup singer Jessica Dobson, a twentysomething from Long Beach who has created some ripples herself as a singer-songwriter; bassist Bram Inscore, who has played in local outfits such as Colorforms and Electrocute and is finishing a solo album; and drummer Scott McPherson, who has played with Earlimart, Sea Wolf, several national acts and, once upon a time, Elliott Smith.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo of Beck, with Jessica Dobson, by Kevin Bronson

The Hollywood Black Film Festival kicked off its ninth year last Tuesday with the world premiere of "2 Turntables and a Microphone," a documentary chronicling the life and death of one of popular music's most famous turntablists, Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC. Born Jason Mizell, Jam Master Jay was murdered October 30, 2002 in a Queens recording studio. The HBFF event, which was attended by members of rap group Onyx and Ice-T (along with wife Cocoa), featured a Q&A by the filmmakers, who sported thick gold chains and "Godfather" hats, in the style originated by the venerated DJ.

Stephon “Phonz” Watford, a younger cousin to Jam Master Jay, multi-tasked on the film, acting as co-producer, narrator and interviewer. He also participated in the Q&A segment.

One of the first questions from the audience addressed the absence of DMC in the movie, which featured reminisces by Hollis, Queens neighborhood pals, Russell Simmons, Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, music industry executives, as well as a laundry list of music talent, including Kid Rock.

The film sets up early on that while JMJ went from rugged Queens DJ to the height of world-wide music success, his connections to his neighborhood never faltered, possibly to his detriment. "I've seen people be over-loyal," says a stoic 50 Cent in the movie. Fiddy relates a story of how JMJ, a mentor in Fiddy's fledgling days, taught him song structure, specifically to write his choruses first and then his lyrics. And we all know the success of 50 Cent's hooky raps.

I asked Watford after the show if the late '90s murders of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had overshadowed his cousin's similarly tragic death. Watford answered like he hears that question a lot.

"Well, he wasn't a rapper, so his voice is hardly heard. Biggie and Tupac are MCs. Jay was a DJ."

But that was his point in making the film: "Now [Jam Master Jay's] voice can be heard."

Nearly a week later, director and producer Guy Logan described the festival response to "2 Turntables and a Microphone" as "overwhelming. People laughed, they cried ... Reverend Run left midway through, it was so emotional for him."

The film is slated for DVD release at the end of the year. Details on screenings in L.A. and New York will be coming soon.

-- Camilo Smith

Photo of Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, left, and Don "Magic" Juan at the premiere by Matt Sayles/Associated Press; movie poster courtesy of the Hollywood Black Film Festival

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Janelle Monáe is fitter, happier, more productive...

Anybody who's attended a !!! show, for instance, can attest to the joy of watching uninhibited singers invent dance moves too ridiculous and unsexy to attempt on your own. On Monday night, hotly tipped singer-songwriter-producer Janelle Monáe took the ridiculous-dancing practice a step further by maintaining the same catatonic facial expression throughout her spastic choreography, all while wearing a bouffant-cum-mohawk and a tuxedo, no less. Nevermind that she was just playing a mellow free show at Hollywood's Amoeba Records. With her dramatic refusal to break out of her dancing robot character, it may as well have been the Grammys. Or at least her show Tuesday night at the Viper Room, which drew in P. Diddy, Christina Millian and Ne-Yo, not to mention Prince, who stopped by for a chat about an hour after the show.

Lucas Field knows how to lock eyes with an audience. It's a frontman's skill; the best ones develop a gaze that seems to land on every person in the crowd, making some fans feel understood and others feel chosen. It can take years to gain the confidence to convince with this trick and the charisma to not make it seem hokey. But Field, who at 28 is just starting what might be a climb toward real rock stardom with his band, Low vs. Diamond, already has it down.

For some reason, Europe is home to some of the best electronic music. Case in point: Kap Bambino of Bordeaux, France.

The duo of singer Caroline Martial and beat-smith boyfriend Orion Bouvier ripped the smallish Cinespace stage to shreds Tuesday night, causing a mosh pit to form at times.

Martial's calamity-inducing vocals backed by hard-edged electro beats, along with her stage theatrics, reminded me of the energy of a young Iggy Pop, bending and weaving onstage, jumping on top of things and into the crowd at whim. By the end of her nearly half-hour set, she had brought the audience to a fever pitch. This was the duo's first performance in Los Angeles as part of a mini-tour across North America.

We have good news for anybody wondering what the Long Beach blues-punk Cold War Kids have been up to since releasing "Robbers & Cowards" in 2006. If their sort-of secret Friday show at R Bar in L.A.'s Koreatown was any indication, "Getting Awesomer" appeared to be pretty high on their '08 to-do list.

Shooting a documentary about high school teenagers must be like trying to capture a smoke ring in a jar, but director Nanette Burstein has spun a thousand hours of footage into gold with "American Teen," a documentary that follows four Indiana teenagers through their senior year of high school. Embarrassingly personal at times, goofy and hopeful at others, the film, which opens today, has been aptly described as a documentary version of "The Breakfast Club."

Bookended with anthemic paeans to the glories of youth, the soundtrack to "American Teen," which opens with Black Kids' "I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance With You" and closes with MGMT's "Kids," offers a cross-section of nearly every indie rock trend du jour. The soundtrack's neither deep nor particularly broad, but it makes a perfect backdrop for the film. You can listen to streams from the soundtrack at the end of this post.

"I love performing," said Randy Newman, brushing away the applause the VIP-list crowd gave him at a private show Wednesday at Largo at the Coronet. "Better than living. I think I'm better at it."

I haven't lived with Newman, so can't vouch for his veracity on that point. Judging by the stories he told, he's not the easiest companion: His teenage daughter Alice makes fun of him for thinking he's more famous than he is, and "I'd sell out my mother," he says, for a good punch line. But there's no doubt that he's fantastic live -- an easy ace on the piano, a man who knows how to maximize a vocal croak, and one of the masters of onstage patter, rolling out jokes as he keeps alive the twin American traditions of the tall tale and the jelly roll blues.

It's fitting that one of Nas' early promotional stops for his new album, "Untitled," was here on the West Coast. This is where N.W.A and Ice-T, not to mention proto-rappers the Watts Prophets, were among the first to use a racial epithet for African Americans in their own works, introducing casual usage into the mainstream consciousness.

There are performers who don't show you anything new about themselves live and then there are performers like Leslie Fiest, who blew open her pretty Canadian songstress image at Sunday night's Hollywood Bowl show.

In the last four years, the music of avant-garde cellist and disco producer Arthur Russell, who died of AIDS in 1992, has experienced a renaissance through a series of carefully curated re-releases and fanboys coming out of the woodwork such as LCD Soundsystem's James Murphy. Born in Oskaloosa, Iowa, the musician ran away from the Midwest in 1967, briefly detoured to a San Francisco commune before ending up in New York, where he created compositions with Allen Ginsberg and Ernie Brooks from the Modern Lovers, and premiered music by Philip Glass.

Being a negative creep has gained some measure of respect of late, with grunge swinging its long pretty hair into the 21st century. Having mercifully transcended that genre, and the decade, the Melvins never actually went away; they are maybe better than ever, as one veteran of many Melvins shows spanning 14 years and way too many bass player changes might venture to say.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve seen "Mamma Mia!" in London, New York, Las Vegas and Los Angeles, and I’ve never failed to be swept into the euphoria of the ABBA songs that propel the musical.

Although he hasn’t released a record since 1998’s “Bitchin,’ ” Johnny Legend -- known to admirers as the Rockabilly Rasputin -- is still in the game. Last Friday he kicked out the jams at Spike’s Bar in Rosemead, playing to a largely uninterested room of traditional rockabilly types.

Mick Hucknall, in his first post-Simply Red incarnation, takes on the repertoire of Bobby "Blue" Bland in "Tribute to Bobby," a new album of soul classics released last week.

There's a social script that goes on at seemingly every rock concert in the universe: Stand in place; watch band play loudly; maybe, just maybe, dance to the music; occasionally leave spot for refill of cheap beer. Repeat a few times a week/month/year until you label yourself "too old" to go to shows anymore.

The Sads, an L.A. foursome that builds their bedroom sound around moody lyrics and percolating soundscapes with soft synths, varied that script Saturday night with a "silent concert" in conjunction with "The Vision and Art of Shinjo Ito" exhibit at the Westwood Art Forum. Tucked into a warren of flowers and cables, the four members faced each other and played their digital instruments -- two keyboards, drums and a soundboard -- but the byproduct of their efforts came out through headphones that the audience listened to while sitting on brown pillows in a ring around the band. A handful of TVs were perched around, projecting images from popular movies of actors laughing, created by Mike Mills.

If you pulled off your headphones, you could hear the pinging sound of a hit on the digital drums or Aska Matsumiya singing a cappella into her microphone or David Scott Stone, longtime Eno-like multi-instrumentalist for the Melvins and former one for Unwound, shuffling around, twisting knobs and unraveling what looked like a noisy spool of wire, likely one of his homemade creations. But with headphones on, the music was intimate, enveloping and lush. The payoff wasn't in staring at the band, the usual protocol; it was in abandoning the visual and turning as inward as the music itself.

The Sads played two "silent" sets, at 8 and 9 p.m. The second one lasted 25 minutes -- it was just long enough to settle into the experience and wonder more than a few times why other bands don't try this from time to time. The concept is sharp, but the Sads, who played a similar show in New York, could explore the medium more. Certain instrumentations sound delicious through headphones; next time, the Sads will hopefully include more from Stone's formidable arsenal, but that's faint criticism for a show that flipped Buddhist wisdom on its head -- silent on the outside, noisy within.

-- Margaret Wappler

Left to right: David Scott Stone, Aaron Rose, Aska Matsumiya and Dan Monick; photo by Alex Foley

No, this post is not redundant -- for the second time in three days, Beck trotted his new band onstage at the Echo on Wednesday night for a surprise show. With three new band members joining him and keyboardist Brian Lebarton, Beck obviously wants to work some things out before the release of his new album, the Danger Mouse-produced "Modern Guilt," and the summer tour supporting it.

Wednesday's musical calisthenics spanned 12 songs and 43 minutes. The players seemed more comfortable and spirited, and if the energy seemed a notch lower than Monday's set, it was only due to the fact that the room was only about one-third full, word about the show not having leaked as it did earlier in the week.

Nobody on Wednesday's regular bill seemed to mind that Beck crashed the party. It was the EP release show for singer-songwriter Daniel Ahearn's "Pray for Me by Name." Once he got started, Ahearn (a familiar face in the venue since he pays some of his bills by tending bar at the Echo) thanked the man who preceded him onstage ... with a wink.

"Good local artist," Ahearn said. "I think he's going places."

-- Photo, post by Kevin Bronson

JUST IN:  A few moments ago, Beck fan club members were alerted that he's performing at the Echoplex tomorrow. Tickets go on sale at 5 p.m. today at ticketweb.com. The password is CHEMTRAILS; two-ticket limit. Looks like Beck can't stop showing off those sunglasses in the Eastside clubs.

"I don't think anyone from the L.A. Times is here tonight," Aimee Mann said before returning to a lengthy verbal sparring match with her opener, comedian Paul F. Tompkins. Maybe I should've stayed home, but then I would've missed another superlative night at Largo, or rather, Largo at the Coronet, where Mann's performance was her second in as many weeks. I would've also missed running into Jeff Goldblum in the bathroom, but I digress.

As Richard Cromelin noted in his review of last week's show, the Coronet is an intimate space; the farthest seats back are only Row N, if that's any indication. A sit-down theater can't help but add some seriousness to the old Largo's anything-goes environment, which may have been why the singer-songwriter tapped Tompkins to open. In his too-brief set, the comic riffed on white supremacists, the perils of living with his girlfriend and the worst apartment he ever lived in, an anecdote that concluded with his landlord's son inexplicably shouting, "Once I get my $200, I'm out of here like Steve Martin!" (If you get the reference, feel free to explain it in the comments.)

Still, at least until Tompkins joined her mid-set to duet on new song "Ballantines," Mann seemed more focused on singing than gabbing, offering banter-free guitar tuning and a dearth of song introductions. She did offer a whale of a tale for "Borrowing Time," a song she wrote (and rewrote and rewrote) for "Shrek the Third" that didn't make the cut.

Ogres aside, the songs were king. The show was billed as a full-band gig; due to various "difficulties," Mann was backed once more only by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards. No problem for Mann, who unleashed a career-spanning setlist that included "Red Vines" (a song about director pal P.T. Anderson, whose "Magnolia" helped relaunch Mann into the public eye), "Save Me" and a smattering of noteworthy tracks from her latest album (released last week), "@#%&*! Smilers." On June 2, she introduced it complete with unprintable profanity; last night, she just called it "Smilers." Is Mann cheering up? Let's hope not -- judging by new material like "Thirty One Today," the misanthropes who populate her music have a lot more to say.

-- David Greenwald

Photo of Mann on June 2 by Lawrence K. Ho/Los Angeles Times

Beck's invitation-only show Monday night at the Echo not only stoked the buzz for the upcoming release of his 10th album, "Modern Guilt," but it also was a toe-wetting experience for a largely new batch of side players -- who will have their work cut out for them if they're along for the ride on a world tour that begins later this month (and, down the road, includes a Sept. 20 stop at the Hollywood Bowl).

The frontman acknowledged that it was "only about the fifth time we've played together" as he led his charges through a 14-song, favorites-laden set occasionally punctuated by technical clatter. None of those woes mattered to the Beck faithful; the show was mainly for "family and friends," management said, and surely many of those were keen to the 37-year-old's new material, right? Ahem.

For the record, the four new numbers -- "Modern Guilt," Gamma Ray," "Replica" and "Profanity PrayersPlayers" -- won't bend the ears of anybody used to Beck's sonic adventurousness. Solid guitar rock, all, especially the set-closing "Profanity," a pedal-to-the-metal blast seemingly made for highway driving with the windows rolled down.

Besides longtime band member Brian Lebarton on keys, Beck was joined by guitarist/backup singer Jessica Dobson, a twentysomething from Long Beach who has created some ripples herself as a singer-songwriter; bassist Bram Inscore, who has played in local outfits such as Colorforms and Electrocute and is finishing a solo album; and drummer Scott McPherson, who has played with Earlimart, Sea Wolf, several national acts and, once upon a time, Elliott Smith.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo of Beck, with Jessica Dobson, by Kevin Bronson

The Hollywood Black Film Festival kicked off its ninth year last Tuesday with the world premiere of "2 Turntables and a Microphone," a documentary chronicling the life and death of one of popular music's most famous turntablists, Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC. Born Jason Mizell, Jam Master Jay was murdered October 30, 2002 in a Queens recording studio. The HBFF event, which was attended by members of rap group Onyx and Ice-T (along with wife Cocoa), featured a Q&A by the filmmakers, who sported thick gold chains and "Godfather" hats, in the style originated by the venerated DJ.

Stephon “Phonz” Watford, a younger cousin to Jam Master Jay, multi-tasked on the film, acting as co-producer, narrator and interviewer. He also participated in the Q&A segment.

One of the first questions from the audience addressed the absence of DMC in the movie, which featured reminisces by Hollis, Queens neighborhood pals, Russell Simmons, Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, music industry executives, as well as a laundry list of music talent, including Kid Rock.

The film sets up early on that while JMJ went from rugged Queens DJ to the height of world-wide music success, his connections to his neighborhood never faltered, possibly to his detriment. "I've seen people be over-loyal," says a stoic 50 Cent in the movie. Fiddy relates a story of how JMJ, a mentor in Fiddy's fledgling days, taught him song structure, specifically to write his choruses first and then his lyrics. And we all know the success of 50 Cent's hooky raps.

I asked Watford after the show if the late '90s murders of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had overshadowed his cousin's similarly tragic death. Watford answered like he hears that question a lot.

"Well, he wasn't a rapper, so his voice is hardly heard. Biggie and Tupac are MCs. Jay was a DJ."

But that was his point in making the film: "Now [Jam Master Jay's] voice can be heard."

Nearly a week later, director and producer Guy Logan described the festival response to "2 Turntables and a Microphone" as "overwhelming. People laughed, they cried ... Reverend Run left midway through, it was so emotional for him."

The film is slated for DVD release at the end of the year. Details on screenings in L.A. and New York will be coming soon.

-- Camilo Smith

Photo of Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, left, and Don "Magic" Juan at the premiere by Matt Sayles/Associated Press; movie poster courtesy of the Hollywood Black Film Festival

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Low vs. Diamond live at the Troubadour

Lucas Field knows how to lock eyes with an audience. It's a frontman's skill; the best ones develop a gaze that seems to land on every person in the crowd, making some fans feel understood and others feel chosen. It can take years to gain the confidence to convince with this trick and the charisma to not make it seem hokey. But Field, who at 28 is just starting what might be a climb toward real rock stardom with his band, Low vs. Diamond, already has it down.

For some reason, Europe is home to some of the best electronic music. Case in point: Kap Bambino of Bordeaux, France.

The duo of singer Caroline Martial and beat-smith boyfriend Orion Bouvier ripped the smallish Cinespace stage to shreds Tuesday night, causing a mosh pit to form at times.

Martial's calamity-inducing vocals backed by hard-edged electro beats, along with her stage theatrics, reminded me of the energy of a young Iggy Pop, bending and weaving onstage, jumping on top of things and into the crowd at whim. By the end of her nearly half-hour set, she had brought the audience to a fever pitch. This was the duo's first performance in Los Angeles as part of a mini-tour across North America.

We have good news for anybody wondering what the Long Beach blues-punk Cold War Kids have been up to since releasing "Robbers & Cowards" in 2006. If their sort-of secret Friday show at R Bar in L.A.'s Koreatown was any indication, "Getting Awesomer" appeared to be pretty high on their '08 to-do list.

Shooting a documentary about high school teenagers must be like trying to capture a smoke ring in a jar, but director Nanette Burstein has spun a thousand hours of footage into gold with "American Teen," a documentary that follows four Indiana teenagers through their senior year of high school. Embarrassingly personal at times, goofy and hopeful at others, the film, which opens today, has been aptly described as a documentary version of "The Breakfast Club."

Bookended with anthemic paeans to the glories of youth, the soundtrack to "American Teen," which opens with Black Kids' "I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance With You" and closes with MGMT's "Kids," offers a cross-section of nearly every indie rock trend du jour. The soundtrack's neither deep nor particularly broad, but it makes a perfect backdrop for the film. You can listen to streams from the soundtrack at the end of this post.

"I love performing," said Randy Newman, brushing away the applause the VIP-list crowd gave him at a private show Wednesday at Largo at the Coronet. "Better than living. I think I'm better at it."

I haven't lived with Newman, so can't vouch for his veracity on that point. Judging by the stories he told, he's not the easiest companion: His teenage daughter Alice makes fun of him for thinking he's more famous than he is, and "I'd sell out my mother," he says, for a good punch line. But there's no doubt that he's fantastic live -- an easy ace on the piano, a man who knows how to maximize a vocal croak, and one of the masters of onstage patter, rolling out jokes as he keeps alive the twin American traditions of the tall tale and the jelly roll blues.

It's fitting that one of Nas' early promotional stops for his new album, "Untitled," was here on the West Coast. This is where N.W.A and Ice-T, not to mention proto-rappers the Watts Prophets, were among the first to use a racial epithet for African Americans in their own works, introducing casual usage into the mainstream consciousness.

There are performers who don't show you anything new about themselves live and then there are performers like Leslie Fiest, who blew open her pretty Canadian songstress image at Sunday night's Hollywood Bowl show.

In the last four years, the music of avant-garde cellist and disco producer Arthur Russell, who died of AIDS in 1992, has experienced a renaissance through a series of carefully curated re-releases and fanboys coming out of the woodwork such as LCD Soundsystem's James Murphy. Born in Oskaloosa, Iowa, the musician ran away from the Midwest in 1967, briefly detoured to a San Francisco commune before ending up in New York, where he created compositions with Allen Ginsberg and Ernie Brooks from the Modern Lovers, and premiered music by Philip Glass.

Being a negative creep has gained some measure of respect of late, with grunge swinging its long pretty hair into the 21st century. Having mercifully transcended that genre, and the decade, the Melvins never actually went away; they are maybe better than ever, as one veteran of many Melvins shows spanning 14 years and way too many bass player changes might venture to say.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve seen "Mamma Mia!" in London, New York, Las Vegas and Los Angeles, and I’ve never failed to be swept into the euphoria of the ABBA songs that propel the musical.

Although he hasn’t released a record since 1998’s “Bitchin,’ ” Johnny Legend -- known to admirers as the Rockabilly Rasputin -- is still in the game. Last Friday he kicked out the jams at Spike’s Bar in Rosemead, playing to a largely uninterested room of traditional rockabilly types.

Mick Hucknall, in his first post-Simply Red incarnation, takes on the repertoire of Bobby "Blue" Bland in "Tribute to Bobby," a new album of soul classics released last week.

There's a social script that goes on at seemingly every rock concert in the universe: Stand in place; watch band play loudly; maybe, just maybe, dance to the music; occasionally leave spot for refill of cheap beer. Repeat a few times a week/month/year until you label yourself "too old" to go to shows anymore.

The Sads, an L.A. foursome that builds their bedroom sound around moody lyrics and percolating soundscapes with soft synths, varied that script Saturday night with a "silent concert" in conjunction with "The Vision and Art of Shinjo Ito" exhibit at the Westwood Art Forum. Tucked into a warren of flowers and cables, the four members faced each other and played their digital instruments -- two keyboards, drums and a soundboard -- but the byproduct of their efforts came out through headphones that the audience listened to while sitting on brown pillows in a ring around the band. A handful of TVs were perched around, projecting images from popular movies of actors laughing, created by Mike Mills.

If you pulled off your headphones, you could hear the pinging sound of a hit on the digital drums or Aska Matsumiya singing a cappella into her microphone or David Scott Stone, longtime Eno-like multi-instrumentalist for the Melvins and former one for Unwound, shuffling around, twisting knobs and unraveling what looked like a noisy spool of wire, likely one of his homemade creations. But with headphones on, the music was intimate, enveloping and lush. The payoff wasn't in staring at the band, the usual protocol; it was in abandoning the visual and turning as inward as the music itself.

The Sads played two "silent" sets, at 8 and 9 p.m. The second one lasted 25 minutes -- it was just long enough to settle into the experience and wonder more than a few times why other bands don't try this from time to time. The concept is sharp, but the Sads, who played a similar show in New York, could explore the medium more. Certain instrumentations sound delicious through headphones; next time, the Sads will hopefully include more from Stone's formidable arsenal, but that's faint criticism for a show that flipped Buddhist wisdom on its head -- silent on the outside, noisy within.

-- Margaret Wappler

Left to right: David Scott Stone, Aaron Rose, Aska Matsumiya and Dan Monick; photo by Alex Foley

No, this post is not redundant -- for the second time in three days, Beck trotted his new band onstage at the Echo on Wednesday night for a surprise show. With three new band members joining him and keyboardist Brian Lebarton, Beck obviously wants to work some things out before the release of his new album, the Danger Mouse-produced "Modern Guilt," and the summer tour supporting it.

Wednesday's musical calisthenics spanned 12 songs and 43 minutes. The players seemed more comfortable and spirited, and if the energy seemed a notch lower than Monday's set, it was only due to the fact that the room was only about one-third full, word about the show not having leaked as it did earlier in the week.

Nobody on Wednesday's regular bill seemed to mind that Beck crashed the party. It was the EP release show for singer-songwriter Daniel Ahearn's "Pray for Me by Name." Once he got started, Ahearn (a familiar face in the venue since he pays some of his bills by tending bar at the Echo) thanked the man who preceded him onstage ... with a wink.

"Good local artist," Ahearn said. "I think he's going places."

-- Photo, post by Kevin Bronson

JUST IN:  A few moments ago, Beck fan club members were alerted that he's performing at the Echoplex tomorrow. Tickets go on sale at 5 p.m. today at ticketweb.com. The password is CHEMTRAILS; two-ticket limit. Looks like Beck can't stop showing off those sunglasses in the Eastside clubs.

"I don't think anyone from the L.A. Times is here tonight," Aimee Mann said before returning to a lengthy verbal sparring match with her opener, comedian Paul F. Tompkins. Maybe I should've stayed home, but then I would've missed another superlative night at Largo, or rather, Largo at the Coronet, where Mann's performance was her second in as many weeks. I would've also missed running into Jeff Goldblum in the bathroom, but I digress.

As Richard Cromelin noted in his review of last week's show, the Coronet is an intimate space; the farthest seats back are only Row N, if that's any indication. A sit-down theater can't help but add some seriousness to the old Largo's anything-goes environment, which may have been why the singer-songwriter tapped Tompkins to open. In his too-brief set, the comic riffed on white supremacists, the perils of living with his girlfriend and the worst apartment he ever lived in, an anecdote that concluded with his landlord's son inexplicably shouting, "Once I get my $200, I'm out of here like Steve Martin!" (If you get the reference, feel free to explain it in the comments.)

Still, at least until Tompkins joined her mid-set to duet on new song "Ballantines," Mann seemed more focused on singing than gabbing, offering banter-free guitar tuning and a dearth of song introductions. She did offer a whale of a tale for "Borrowing Time," a song she wrote (and rewrote and rewrote) for "Shrek the Third" that didn't make the cut.

Ogres aside, the songs were king. The show was billed as a full-band gig; due to various "difficulties," Mann was backed once more only by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards. No problem for Mann, who unleashed a career-spanning setlist that included "Red Vines" (a song about director pal P.T. Anderson, whose "Magnolia" helped relaunch Mann into the public eye), "Save Me" and a smattering of noteworthy tracks from her latest album (released last week), "@#%&*! Smilers." On June 2, she introduced it complete with unprintable profanity; last night, she just called it "Smilers." Is Mann cheering up? Let's hope not -- judging by new material like "Thirty One Today," the misanthropes who populate her music have a lot more to say.

-- David Greenwald

Photo of Mann on June 2 by Lawrence K. Ho/Los Angeles Times

Beck's invitation-only show Monday night at the Echo not only stoked the buzz for the upcoming release of his 10th album, "Modern Guilt," but it also was a toe-wetting experience for a largely new batch of side players -- who will have their work cut out for them if they're along for the ride on a world tour that begins later this month (and, down the road, includes a Sept. 20 stop at the Hollywood Bowl).

The frontman acknowledged that it was "only about the fifth time we've played together" as he led his charges through a 14-song, favorites-laden set occasionally punctuated by technical clatter. None of those woes mattered to the Beck faithful; the show was mainly for "family and friends," management said, and surely many of those were keen to the 37-year-old's new material, right? Ahem.

For the record, the four new numbers -- "Modern Guilt," Gamma Ray," "Replica" and "Profanity PrayersPlayers" -- won't bend the ears of anybody used to Beck's sonic adventurousness. Solid guitar rock, all, especially the set-closing "Profanity," a pedal-to-the-metal blast seemingly made for highway driving with the windows rolled down.

Besides longtime band member Brian Lebarton on keys, Beck was joined by guitarist/backup singer Jessica Dobson, a twentysomething from Long Beach who has created some ripples herself as a singer-songwriter; bassist Bram Inscore, who has played in local outfits such as Colorforms and Electrocute and is finishing a solo album; and drummer Scott McPherson, who has played with Earlimart, Sea Wolf, several national acts and, once upon a time, Elliott Smith.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo of Beck, with Jessica Dobson, by Kevin Bronson

The Hollywood Black Film Festival kicked off its ninth year last Tuesday with the world premiere of "2 Turntables and a Microphone," a documentary chronicling the life and death of one of popular music's most famous turntablists, Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC. Born Jason Mizell, Jam Master Jay was murdered October 30, 2002 in a Queens recording studio. The HBFF event, which was attended by members of rap group Onyx and Ice-T (along with wife Cocoa), featured a Q&A by the filmmakers, who sported thick gold chains and "Godfather" hats, in the style originated by the venerated DJ.

Stephon “Phonz” Watford, a younger cousin to Jam Master Jay, multi-tasked on the film, acting as co-producer, narrator and interviewer. He also participated in the Q&A segment.

One of the first questions from the audience addressed the absence of DMC in the movie, which featured reminisces by Hollis, Queens neighborhood pals, Russell Simmons, Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, music industry executives, as well as a laundry list of music talent, including Kid Rock.

The film sets up early on that while JMJ went from rugged Queens DJ to the height of world-wide music success, his connections to his neighborhood never faltered, possibly to his detriment. "I've seen people be over-loyal," says a stoic 50 Cent in the movie. Fiddy relates a story of how JMJ, a mentor in Fiddy's fledgling days, taught him song structure, specifically to write his choruses first and then his lyrics. And we all know the success of 50 Cent's hooky raps.

I asked Watford after the show if the late '90s murders of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had overshadowed his cousin's similarly tragic death. Watford answered like he hears that question a lot.

"Well, he wasn't a rapper, so his voice is hardly heard. Biggie and Tupac are MCs. Jay was a DJ."

But that was his point in making the film: "Now [Jam Master Jay's] voice can be heard."

Nearly a week later, director and producer Guy Logan described the festival response to "2 Turntables and a Microphone" as "overwhelming. People laughed, they cried ... Reverend Run left midway through, it was so emotional for him."

The film is slated for DVD release at the end of the year. Details on screenings in L.A. and New York will be coming soon.

-- Camilo Smith

Photo of Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, left, and Don "Magic" Juan at the premiere by Matt Sayles/Associated Press; movie poster courtesy of the Hollywood Black Film Festival

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Bordeaux's Kap Bambino tears up Cinespace; another show tonight in LBC

For some reason, Europe is home to some of the best electronic music. Case in point: Kap Bambino of Bordeaux, France.

The duo of singer Caroline Martial and beat-smith boyfriend Orion Bouvier ripped the smallish Cinespace stage to shreds Tuesday night, causing a mosh pit to form at times.

Martial's calamity-inducing vocals backed by hard-edged electro beats, along with her stage theatrics, reminded me of the energy of a young Iggy Pop, bending and weaving onstage, jumping on top of things and into the crowd at whim. By the end of her nearly half-hour set, she had brought the audience to a fever pitch. This was the duo's first performance in Los Angeles as part of a mini-tour across North America.

We have good news for anybody wondering what the Long Beach blues-punk Cold War Kids have been up to since releasing "Robbers & Cowards" in 2006. If their sort-of secret Friday show at R Bar in L.A.'s Koreatown was any indication, "Getting Awesomer" appeared to be pretty high on their '08 to-do list.

Shooting a documentary about high school teenagers must be like trying to capture a smoke ring in a jar, but director Nanette Burstein has spun a thousand hours of footage into gold with "American Teen," a documentary that follows four Indiana teenagers through their senior year of high school. Embarrassingly personal at times, goofy and hopeful at others, the film, which opens today, has been aptly described as a documentary version of "The Breakfast Club."

Bookended with anthemic paeans to the glories of youth, the soundtrack to "American Teen," which opens with Black Kids' "I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance With You" and closes with MGMT's "Kids," offers a cross-section of nearly every indie rock trend du jour. The soundtrack's neither deep nor particularly broad, but it makes a perfect backdrop for the film. You can listen to streams from the soundtrack at the end of this post.

"I love performing," said Randy Newman, brushing away the applause the VIP-list crowd gave him at a private show Wednesday at Largo at the Coronet. "Better than living. I think I'm better at it."

I haven't lived with Newman, so can't vouch for his veracity on that point. Judging by the stories he told, he's not the easiest companion: His teenage daughter Alice makes fun of him for thinking he's more famous than he is, and "I'd sell out my mother," he says, for a good punch line. But there's no doubt that he's fantastic live -- an easy ace on the piano, a man who knows how to maximize a vocal croak, and one of the masters of onstage patter, rolling out jokes as he keeps alive the twin American traditions of the tall tale and the jelly roll blues.

It's fitting that one of Nas' early promotional stops for his new album, "Untitled," was here on the West Coast. This is where N.W.A and Ice-T, not to mention proto-rappers the Watts Prophets, were among the first to use a racial epithet for African Americans in their own works, introducing casual usage into the mainstream consciousness.

There are performers who don't show you anything new about themselves live and then there are performers like Leslie Fiest, who blew open her pretty Canadian songstress image at Sunday night's Hollywood Bowl show.

In the last four years, the music of avant-garde cellist and disco producer Arthur Russell, who died of AIDS in 1992, has experienced a renaissance through a series of carefully curated re-releases and fanboys coming out of the woodwork such as LCD Soundsystem's James Murphy. Born in Oskaloosa, Iowa, the musician ran away from the Midwest in 1967, briefly detoured to a San Francisco commune before ending up in New York, where he created compositions with Allen Ginsberg and Ernie Brooks from the Modern Lovers, and premiered music by Philip Glass.

Being a negative creep has gained some measure of respect of late, with grunge swinging its long pretty hair into the 21st century. Having mercifully transcended that genre, and the decade, the Melvins never actually went away; they are maybe better than ever, as one veteran of many Melvins shows spanning 14 years and way too many bass player changes might venture to say.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve seen "Mamma Mia!" in London, New York, Las Vegas and Los Angeles, and I’ve never failed to be swept into the euphoria of the ABBA songs that propel the musical.

Although he hasn’t released a record since 1998’s “Bitchin,’ ” Johnny Legend -- known to admirers as the Rockabilly Rasputin -- is still in the game. Last Friday he kicked out the jams at Spike’s Bar in Rosemead, playing to a largely uninterested room of traditional rockabilly types.

Mick Hucknall, in his first post-Simply Red incarnation, takes on the repertoire of Bobby "Blue" Bland in "Tribute to Bobby," a new album of soul classics released last week.

There's a social script that goes on at seemingly every rock concert in the universe: Stand in place; watch band play loudly; maybe, just maybe, dance to the music; occasionally leave spot for refill of cheap beer. Repeat a few times a week/month/year until you label yourself "too old" to go to shows anymore.

The Sads, an L.A. foursome that builds their bedroom sound around moody lyrics and percolating soundscapes with soft synths, varied that script Saturday night with a "silent concert" in conjunction with "The Vision and Art of Shinjo Ito" exhibit at the Westwood Art Forum. Tucked into a warren of flowers and cables, the four members faced each other and played their digital instruments -- two keyboards, drums and a soundboard -- but the byproduct of their efforts came out through headphones that the audience listened to while sitting on brown pillows in a ring around the band. A handful of TVs were perched around, projecting images from popular movies of actors laughing, created by Mike Mills.

If you pulled off your headphones, you could hear the pinging sound of a hit on the digital drums or Aska Matsumiya singing a cappella into her microphone or David Scott Stone, longtime Eno-like multi-instrumentalist for the Melvins and former one for Unwound, shuffling around, twisting knobs and unraveling what looked like a noisy spool of wire, likely one of his homemade creations. But with headphones on, the music was intimate, enveloping and lush. The payoff wasn't in staring at the band, the usual protocol; it was in abandoning the visual and turning as inward as the music itself.

The Sads played two "silent" sets, at 8 and 9 p.m. The second one lasted 25 minutes -- it was just long enough to settle into the experience and wonder more than a few times why other bands don't try this from time to time. The concept is sharp, but the Sads, who played a similar show in New York, could explore the medium more. Certain instrumentations sound delicious through headphones; next time, the Sads will hopefully include more from Stone's formidable arsenal, but that's faint criticism for a show that flipped Buddhist wisdom on its head -- silent on the outside, noisy within.

-- Margaret Wappler

Left to right: David Scott Stone, Aaron Rose, Aska Matsumiya and Dan Monick; photo by Alex Foley

No, this post is not redundant -- for the second time in three days, Beck trotted his new band onstage at the Echo on Wednesday night for a surprise show. With three new band members joining him and keyboardist Brian Lebarton, Beck obviously wants to work some things out before the release of his new album, the Danger Mouse-produced "Modern Guilt," and the summer tour supporting it.

Wednesday's musical calisthenics spanned 12 songs and 43 minutes. The players seemed more comfortable and spirited, and if the energy seemed a notch lower than Monday's set, it was only due to the fact that the room was only about one-third full, word about the show not having leaked as it did earlier in the week.

Nobody on Wednesday's regular bill seemed to mind that Beck crashed the party. It was the EP release show for singer-songwriter Daniel Ahearn's "Pray for Me by Name." Once he got started, Ahearn (a familiar face in the venue since he pays some of his bills by tending bar at the Echo) thanked the man who preceded him onstage ... with a wink.

"Good local artist," Ahearn said. "I think he's going places."

-- Photo, post by Kevin Bronson

JUST IN:  A few moments ago, Beck fan club members were alerted that he's performing at the Echoplex tomorrow. Tickets go on sale at 5 p.m. today at ticketweb.com. The password is CHEMTRAILS; two-ticket limit. Looks like Beck can't stop showing off those sunglasses in the Eastside clubs.

"I don't think anyone from the L.A. Times is here tonight," Aimee Mann said before returning to a lengthy verbal sparring match with her opener, comedian Paul F. Tompkins. Maybe I should've stayed home, but then I would've missed another superlative night at Largo, or rather, Largo at the Coronet, where Mann's performance was her second in as many weeks. I would've also missed running into Jeff Goldblum in the bathroom, but I digress.

As Richard Cromelin noted in his review of last week's show, the Coronet is an intimate space; the farthest seats back are only Row N, if that's any indication. A sit-down theater can't help but add some seriousness to the old Largo's anything-goes environment, which may have been why the singer-songwriter tapped Tompkins to open. In his too-brief set, the comic riffed on white supremacists, the perils of living with his girlfriend and the worst apartment he ever lived in, an anecdote that concluded with his landlord's son inexplicably shouting, "Once I get my $200, I'm out of here like Steve Martin!" (If you get the reference, feel free to explain it in the comments.)

Still, at least until Tompkins joined her mid-set to duet on new song "Ballantines," Mann seemed more focused on singing than gabbing, offering banter-free guitar tuning and a dearth of song introductions. She did offer a whale of a tale for "Borrowing Time," a song she wrote (and rewrote and rewrote) for "Shrek the Third" that didn't make the cut.

Ogres aside, the songs were king. The show was billed as a full-band gig; due to various "difficulties," Mann was backed once more only by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards. No problem for Mann, who unleashed a career-spanning setlist that included "Red Vines" (a song about director pal P.T. Anderson, whose "Magnolia" helped relaunch Mann into the public eye), "Save Me" and a smattering of noteworthy tracks from her latest album (released last week), "@#%&*! Smilers." On June 2, she introduced it complete with unprintable profanity; last night, she just called it "Smilers." Is Mann cheering up? Let's hope not -- judging by new material like "Thirty One Today," the misanthropes who populate her music have a lot more to say.

-- David Greenwald

Photo of Mann on June 2 by Lawrence K. Ho/Los Angeles Times

Beck's invitation-only show Monday night at the Echo not only stoked the buzz for the upcoming release of his 10th album, "Modern Guilt," but it also was a toe-wetting experience for a largely new batch of side players -- who will have their work cut out for them if they're along for the ride on a world tour that begins later this month (and, down the road, includes a Sept. 20 stop at the Hollywood Bowl).

The frontman acknowledged that it was "only about the fifth time we've played together" as he led his charges through a 14-song, favorites-laden set occasionally punctuated by technical clatter. None of those woes mattered to the Beck faithful; the show was mainly for "family and friends," management said, and surely many of those were keen to the 37-year-old's new material, right? Ahem.

For the record, the four new numbers -- "Modern Guilt," Gamma Ray," "Replica" and "Profanity PrayersPlayers" -- won't bend the ears of anybody used to Beck's sonic adventurousness. Solid guitar rock, all, especially the set-closing "Profanity," a pedal-to-the-metal blast seemingly made for highway driving with the windows rolled down.

Besides longtime band member Brian Lebarton on keys, Beck was joined by guitarist/backup singer Jessica Dobson, a twentysomething from Long Beach who has created some ripples herself as a singer-songwriter; bassist Bram Inscore, who has played in local outfits such as Colorforms and Electrocute and is finishing a solo album; and drummer Scott McPherson, who has played with Earlimart, Sea Wolf, several national acts and, once upon a time, Elliott Smith.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo of Beck, with Jessica Dobson, by Kevin Bronson

The Hollywood Black Film Festival kicked off its ninth year last Tuesday with the world premiere of "2 Turntables and a Microphone," a documentary chronicling the life and death of one of popular music's most famous turntablists, Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC. Born Jason Mizell, Jam Master Jay was murdered October 30, 2002 in a Queens recording studio. The HBFF event, which was attended by members of rap group Onyx and Ice-T (along with wife Cocoa), featured a Q&A by the filmmakers, who sported thick gold chains and "Godfather" hats, in the style originated by the venerated DJ.

Stephon “Phonz” Watford, a younger cousin to Jam Master Jay, multi-tasked on the film, acting as co-producer, narrator and interviewer. He also participated in the Q&A segment.

One of the first questions from the audience addressed the absence of DMC in the movie, which featured reminisces by Hollis, Queens neighborhood pals, Russell Simmons, Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, music industry executives, as well as a laundry list of music talent, including Kid Rock.

The film sets up early on that while JMJ went from rugged Queens DJ to the height of world-wide music success, his connections to his neighborhood never faltered, possibly to his detriment. "I've seen people be over-loyal," says a stoic 50 Cent in the movie. Fiddy relates a story of how JMJ, a mentor in Fiddy's fledgling days, taught him song structure, specifically to write his choruses first and then his lyrics. And we all know the success of 50 Cent's hooky raps.

I asked Watford after the show if the late '90s murders of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had overshadowed his cousin's similarly tragic death. Watford answered like he hears that question a lot.

"Well, he wasn't a rapper, so his voice is hardly heard. Biggie and Tupac are MCs. Jay was a DJ."

But that was his point in making the film: "Now [Jam Master Jay's] voice can be heard."

Nearly a week later, director and producer Guy Logan described the festival response to "2 Turntables and a Microphone" as "overwhelming. People laughed, they cried ... Reverend Run left midway through, it was so emotional for him."

The film is slated for DVD release at the end of the year. Details on screenings in L.A. and New York will be coming soon.

-- Camilo Smith

Photo of Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, left, and Don "Magic" Juan at the premiere by Matt Sayles/Associated Press; movie poster courtesy of the Hollywood Black Film Festival

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Cold War Kids get sweaty at R Bar

We have good news for anybody wondering what the Long Beach blues-punk Cold War Kids have been up to since releasing "Robbers & Cowards" in 2006. If their sort-of secret Friday show at R Bar in L.A.'s Koreatown was any indication, "Getting Awesomer" appeared to be pretty high on their '08 to-do list.

Shooting a documentary about high school teenagers must be like trying to capture a smoke ring in a jar, but director Nanette Burstein has spun a thousand hours of footage into gold with "American Teen," a documentary that follows four Indiana teenagers through their senior year of high school. Embarrassingly personal at times, goofy and hopeful at others, the film, which opens today, has been aptly described as a documentary version of "The Breakfast Club."

Bookended with anthemic paeans to the glories of youth, the soundtrack to "American Teen," which opens with Black Kids' "I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance With You" and closes with MGMT's "Kids," offers a cross-section of nearly every indie rock trend du jour. The soundtrack's neither deep nor particularly broad, but it makes a perfect backdrop for the film. You can listen to streams from the soundtrack at the end of this post.

"I love performing," said Randy Newman, brushing away the applause the VIP-list crowd gave him at a private show Wednesday at Largo at the Coronet. "Better than living. I think I'm better at it."

I haven't lived with Newman, so can't vouch for his veracity on that point. Judging by the stories he told, he's not the easiest companion: His teenage daughter Alice makes fun of him for thinking he's more famous than he is, and "I'd sell out my mother," he says, for a good punch line. But there's no doubt that he's fantastic live -- an easy ace on the piano, a man who knows how to maximize a vocal croak, and one of the masters of onstage patter, rolling out jokes as he keeps alive the twin American traditions of the tall tale and the jelly roll blues.

It's fitting that one of Nas' early promotional stops for his new album, "Untitled," was here on the West Coast. This is where N.W.A and Ice-T, not to mention proto-rappers the Watts Prophets, were among the first to use a racial epithet for African Americans in their own works, introducing casual usage into the mainstream consciousness.

There are performers who don't show you anything new about themselves live and then there are performers like Leslie Fiest, who blew open her pretty Canadian songstress image at Sunday night's Hollywood Bowl show.

In the last four years, the music of avant-garde cellist and disco producer Arthur Russell, who died of AIDS in 1992, has experienced a renaissance through a series of carefully curated re-releases and fanboys coming out of the woodwork such as LCD Soundsystem's James Murphy. Born in Oskaloosa, Iowa, the musician ran away from the Midwest in 1967, briefly detoured to a San Francisco commune before ending up in New York, where he created compositions with Allen Ginsberg and Ernie Brooks from the Modern Lovers, and premiered music by Philip Glass.

Being a negative creep has gained some measure of respect of late, with grunge swinging its long pretty hair into the 21st century. Having mercifully transcended that genre, and the decade, the Melvins never actually went away; they are maybe better than ever, as one veteran of many Melvins shows spanning 14 years and way too many bass player changes might venture to say.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve seen "Mamma Mia!" in London, New York, Las Vegas and Los Angeles, and I’ve never failed to be swept into the euphoria of the ABBA songs that propel the musical.

Although he hasn’t released a record since 1998’s “Bitchin,’ ” Johnny Legend -- known to admirers as the Rockabilly Rasputin -- is still in the game. Last Friday he kicked out the jams at Spike’s Bar in Rosemead, playing to a largely uninterested room of traditional rockabilly types.

Mick Hucknall, in his first post-Simply Red incarnation, takes on the repertoire of Bobby "Blue" Bland in "Tribute to Bobby," a new album of soul classics released last week.

There's a social script that goes on at seemingly every rock concert in the universe: Stand in place; watch band play loudly; maybe, just maybe, dance to the music; occasionally leave spot for refill of cheap beer. Repeat a few times a week/month/year until you label yourself "too old" to go to shows anymore.

The Sads, an L.A. foursome that builds their bedroom sound around moody lyrics and percolating soundscapes with soft synths, varied that script Saturday night with a "silent concert" in conjunction with "The Vision and Art of Shinjo Ito" exhibit at the Westwood Art Forum. Tucked into a warren of flowers and cables, the four members faced each other and played their digital instruments -- two keyboards, drums and a soundboard -- but the byproduct of their efforts came out through headphones that the audience listened to while sitting on brown pillows in a ring around the band. A handful of TVs were perched around, projecting images from popular movies of actors laughing, created by Mike Mills.

If you pulled off your headphones, you could hear the pinging sound of a hit on the digital drums or Aska Matsumiya singing a cappella into her microphone or David Scott Stone, longtime Eno-like multi-instrumentalist for the Melvins and former one for Unwound, shuffling around, twisting knobs and unraveling what looked like a noisy spool of wire, likely one of his homemade creations. But with headphones on, the music was intimate, enveloping and lush. The payoff wasn't in staring at the band, the usual protocol; it was in abandoning the visual and turning as inward as the music itself.

The Sads played two "silent" sets, at 8 and 9 p.m. The second one lasted 25 minutes -- it was just long enough to settle into the experience and wonder more than a few times why other bands don't try this from time to time. The concept is sharp, but the Sads, who played a similar show in New York, could explore the medium more. Certain instrumentations sound delicious through headphones; next time, the Sads will hopefully include more from Stone's formidable arsenal, but that's faint criticism for a show that flipped Buddhist wisdom on its head -- silent on the outside, noisy within.

-- Margaret Wappler

Left to right: David Scott Stone, Aaron Rose, Aska Matsumiya and Dan Monick; photo by Alex Foley

No, this post is not redundant -- for the second time in three days, Beck trotted his new band onstage at the Echo on Wednesday night for a surprise show. With three new band members joining him and keyboardist Brian Lebarton, Beck obviously wants to work some things out before the release of his new album, the Danger Mouse-produced "Modern Guilt," and the summer tour supporting it.

Wednesday's musical calisthenics spanned 12 songs and 43 minutes. The players seemed more comfortable and spirited, and if the energy seemed a notch lower than Monday's set, it was only due to the fact that the room was only about one-third full, word about the show not having leaked as it did earlier in the week.

Nobody on Wednesday's regular bill seemed to mind that Beck crashed the party. It was the EP release show for singer-songwriter Daniel Ahearn's "Pray for Me by Name." Once he got started, Ahearn (a familiar face in the venue since he pays some of his bills by tending bar at the Echo) thanked the man who preceded him onstage ... with a wink.

"Good local artist," Ahearn said. "I think he's going places."

-- Photo, post by Kevin Bronson

JUST IN:  A few moments ago, Beck fan club members were alerted that he's performing at the Echoplex tomorrow. Tickets go on sale at 5 p.m. today at ticketweb.com. The password is CHEMTRAILS; two-ticket limit. Looks like Beck can't stop showing off those sunglasses in the Eastside clubs.

"I don't think anyone from the L.A. Times is here tonight," Aimee Mann said before returning to a lengthy verbal sparring match with her opener, comedian Paul F. Tompkins. Maybe I should've stayed home, but then I would've missed another superlative night at Largo, or rather, Largo at the Coronet, where Mann's performance was her second in as many weeks. I would've also missed running into Jeff Goldblum in the bathroom, but I digress.

As Richard Cromelin noted in his review of last week's show, the Coronet is an intimate space; the farthest seats back are only Row N, if that's any indication. A sit-down theater can't help but add some seriousness to the old Largo's anything-goes environment, which may have been why the singer-songwriter tapped Tompkins to open. In his too-brief set, the comic riffed on white supremacists, the perils of living with his girlfriend and the worst apartment he ever lived in, an anecdote that concluded with his landlord's son inexplicably shouting, "Once I get my $200, I'm out of here like Steve Martin!" (If you get the reference, feel free to explain it in the comments.)

Still, at least until Tompkins joined her mid-set to duet on new song "Ballantines," Mann seemed more focused on singing than gabbing, offering banter-free guitar tuning and a dearth of song introductions. She did offer a whale of a tale for "Borrowing Time," a song she wrote (and rewrote and rewrote) for "Shrek the Third" that didn't make the cut.

Ogres aside, the songs were king. The show was billed as a full-band gig; due to various "difficulties," Mann was backed once more only by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards. No problem for Mann, who unleashed a career-spanning setlist that included "Red Vines" (a song about director pal P.T. Anderson, whose "Magnolia" helped relaunch Mann into the public eye), "Save Me" and a smattering of noteworthy tracks from her latest album (released last week), "@#%&*! Smilers." On June 2, she introduced it complete with unprintable profanity; last night, she just called it "Smilers." Is Mann cheering up? Let's hope not -- judging by new material like "Thirty One Today," the misanthropes who populate her music have a lot more to say.

-- David Greenwald

Photo of Mann on June 2 by Lawrence K. Ho/Los Angeles Times

Beck's invitation-only show Monday night at the Echo not only stoked the buzz for the upcoming release of his 10th album, "Modern Guilt," but it also was a toe-wetting experience for a largely new batch of side players -- who will have their work cut out for them if they're along for the ride on a world tour that begins later this month (and, down the road, includes a Sept. 20 stop at the Hollywood Bowl).

The frontman acknowledged that it was "only about the fifth time we've played together" as he led his charges through a 14-song, favorites-laden set occasionally punctuated by technical clatter. None of those woes mattered to the Beck faithful; the show was mainly for "family and friends," management said, and surely many of those were keen to the 37-year-old's new material, right? Ahem.

For the record, the four new numbers -- "Modern Guilt," Gamma Ray," "Replica" and "Profanity PrayersPlayers" -- won't bend the ears of anybody used to Beck's sonic adventurousness. Solid guitar rock, all, especially the set-closing "Profanity," a pedal-to-the-metal blast seemingly made for highway driving with the windows rolled down.

Besides longtime band member Brian Lebarton on keys, Beck was joined by guitarist/backup singer Jessica Dobson, a twentysomething from Long Beach who has created some ripples herself as a singer-songwriter; bassist Bram Inscore, who has played in local outfits such as Colorforms and Electrocute and is finishing a solo album; and drummer Scott McPherson, who has played with Earlimart, Sea Wolf, several national acts and, once upon a time, Elliott Smith.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo of Beck, with Jessica Dobson, by Kevin Bronson

The Hollywood Black Film Festival kicked off its ninth year last Tuesday with the world premiere of "2 Turntables and a Microphone," a documentary chronicling the life and death of one of popular music's most famous turntablists, Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC. Born Jason Mizell, Jam Master Jay was murdered October 30, 2002 in a Queens recording studio. The HBFF event, which was attended by members of rap group Onyx and Ice-T (along with wife Cocoa), featured a Q&A by the filmmakers, who sported thick gold chains and "Godfather" hats, in the style originated by the venerated DJ.

Stephon “Phonz” Watford, a younger cousin to Jam Master Jay, multi-tasked on the film, acting as co-producer, narrator and interviewer. He also participated in the Q&A segment.

One of the first questions from the audience addressed the absence of DMC in the movie, which featured reminisces by Hollis, Queens neighborhood pals, Russell Simmons, Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, music industry executives, as well as a laundry list of music talent, including Kid Rock.

The film sets up early on that while JMJ went from rugged Queens DJ to the height of world-wide music success, his connections to his neighborhood never faltered, possibly to his detriment. "I've seen people be over-loyal," says a stoic 50 Cent in the movie. Fiddy relates a story of how JMJ, a mentor in Fiddy's fledgling days, taught him song structure, specifically to write his choruses first and then his lyrics. And we all know the success of 50 Cent's hooky raps.

I asked Watford after the show if the late '90s murders of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had overshadowed his cousin's similarly tragic death. Watford answered like he hears that question a lot.

"Well, he wasn't a rapper, so his voice is hardly heard. Biggie and Tupac are MCs. Jay was a DJ."

But that was his point in making the film: "Now [Jam Master Jay's] voice can be heard."

Nearly a week later, director and producer Guy Logan described the festival response to "2 Turntables and a Microphone" as "overwhelming. People laughed, they cried ... Reverend Run left midway through, it was so emotional for him."

The film is slated for DVD release at the end of the year. Details on screenings in L.A. and New York will be coming soon.

-- Camilo Smith

Photo of Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, left, and Don "Magic" Juan at the premiere by Matt Sayles/Associated Press; movie poster courtesy of the Hollywood Black Film Festival

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

The ‘American Teen’ soundtrack isn’t very deep but it fits the movie

Shooting a documentary about high school teenagers must be like trying to capture a smoke ring in a jar, but director Nanette Burstein has spun a thousand hours of footage into gold with "American Teen," a documentary that follows four Indiana teenagers through their senior year of high school. Embarrassingly personal at times, goofy and hopeful at others, the film, which opens today, has been aptly described as a documentary version of "The Breakfast Club."

Bookended with anthemic paeans to the glories of youth, the soundtrack to "American Teen," which opens with Black Kids' "I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance With You" and closes with MGMT's "Kids," offers a cross-section of nearly every indie rock trend du jour. The soundtrack's neither deep nor particularly broad, but it makes a perfect backdrop for the film. You can listen to streams from the soundtrack at the end of this post.

"I love performing," said Randy Newman, brushing away the applause the VIP-list crowd gave him at a private show Wednesday at Largo at the Coronet. "Better than living. I think I'm better at it."

I haven't lived with Newman, so can't vouch for his veracity on that point. Judging by the stories he told, he's not the easiest companion: His teenage daughter Alice makes fun of him for thinking he's more famous than he is, and "I'd sell out my mother," he says, for a good punch line. But there's no doubt that he's fantastic live -- an easy ace on the piano, a man who knows how to maximize a vocal croak, and one of the masters of onstage patter, rolling out jokes as he keeps alive the twin American traditions of the tall tale and the jelly roll blues.

It's fitting that one of Nas' early promotional stops for his new album, "Untitled," was here on the West Coast. This is where N.W.A and Ice-T, not to mention proto-rappers the Watts Prophets, were among the first to use a racial epithet for African Americans in their own works, introducing casual usage into the mainstream consciousness.

There are performers who don't show you anything new about themselves live and then there are performers like Leslie Fiest, who blew open her pretty Canadian songstress image at Sunday night's Hollywood Bowl show.

In the last four years, the music of avant-garde cellist and disco producer Arthur Russell, who died of AIDS in 1992, has experienced a renaissance through a series of carefully curated re-releases and fanboys coming out of the woodwork such as LCD Soundsystem's James Murphy. Born in Oskaloosa, Iowa, the musician ran away from the Midwest in 1967, briefly detoured to a San Francisco commune before ending up in New York, where he created compositions with Allen Ginsberg and Ernie Brooks from the Modern Lovers, and premiered music by Philip Glass.

Being a negative creep has gained some measure of respect of late, with grunge swinging its long pretty hair into the 21st century. Having mercifully transcended that genre, and the decade, the Melvins never actually went away; they are maybe better than ever, as one veteran of many Melvins shows spanning 14 years and way too many bass player changes might venture to say.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve seen "Mamma Mia!" in London, New York, Las Vegas and Los Angeles, and I’ve never failed to be swept into the euphoria of the ABBA songs that propel the musical.

Although he hasn’t released a record since 1998’s “Bitchin,’ ” Johnny Legend -- known to admirers as the Rockabilly Rasputin -- is still in the game. Last Friday he kicked out the jams at Spike’s Bar in Rosemead, playing to a largely uninterested room of traditional rockabilly types.

Mick Hucknall, in his first post-Simply Red incarnation, takes on the repertoire of Bobby "Blue" Bland in "Tribute to Bobby," a new album of soul classics released last week.

There's a social script that goes on at seemingly every rock concert in the universe: Stand in place; watch band play loudly; maybe, just maybe, dance to the music; occasionally leave spot for refill of cheap beer. Repeat a few times a week/month/year until you label yourself "too old" to go to shows anymore.

The Sads, an L.A. foursome that builds their bedroom sound around moody lyrics and percolating soundscapes with soft synths, varied that script Saturday night with a "silent concert" in conjunction with "The Vision and Art of Shinjo Ito" exhibit at the Westwood Art Forum. Tucked into a warren of flowers and cables, the four members faced each other and played their digital instruments -- two keyboards, drums and a soundboard -- but the byproduct of their efforts came out through headphones that the audience listened to while sitting on brown pillows in a ring around the band. A handful of TVs were perched around, projecting images from popular movies of actors laughing, created by Mike Mills.

If you pulled off your headphones, you could hear the pinging sound of a hit on the digital drums or Aska Matsumiya singing a cappella into her microphone or David Scott Stone, longtime Eno-like multi-instrumentalist for the Melvins and former one for Unwound, shuffling around, twisting knobs and unraveling what looked like a noisy spool of wire, likely one of his homemade creations. But with headphones on, the music was intimate, enveloping and lush. The payoff wasn't in staring at the band, the usual protocol; it was in abandoning the visual and turning as inward as the music itself.

The Sads played two "silent" sets, at 8 and 9 p.m. The second one lasted 25 minutes -- it was just long enough to settle into the experience and wonder more than a few times why other bands don't try this from time to time. The concept is sharp, but the Sads, who played a similar show in New York, could explore the medium more. Certain instrumentations sound delicious through headphones; next time, the Sads will hopefully include more from Stone's formidable arsenal, but that's faint criticism for a show that flipped Buddhist wisdom on its head -- silent on the outside, noisy within.

-- Margaret Wappler

Left to right: David Scott Stone, Aaron Rose, Aska Matsumiya and Dan Monick; photo by Alex Foley

No, this post is not redundant -- for the second time in three days, Beck trotted his new band onstage at the Echo on Wednesday night for a surprise show. With three new band members joining him and keyboardist Brian Lebarton, Beck obviously wants to work some things out before the release of his new album, the Danger Mouse-produced "Modern Guilt," and the summer tour supporting it.

Wednesday's musical calisthenics spanned 12 songs and 43 minutes. The players seemed more comfortable and spirited, and if the energy seemed a notch lower than Monday's set, it was only due to the fact that the room was only about one-third full, word about the show not having leaked as it did earlier in the week.

Nobody on Wednesday's regular bill seemed to mind that Beck crashed the party. It was the EP release show for singer-songwriter Daniel Ahearn's "Pray for Me by Name." Once he got started, Ahearn (a familiar face in the venue since he pays some of his bills by tending bar at the Echo) thanked the man who preceded him onstage ... with a wink.

"Good local artist," Ahearn said. "I think he's going places."

-- Photo, post by Kevin Bronson

JUST IN:  A few moments ago, Beck fan club members were alerted that he's performing at the Echoplex tomorrow. Tickets go on sale at 5 p.m. today at ticketweb.com. The password is CHEMTRAILS; two-ticket limit. Looks like Beck can't stop showing off those sunglasses in the Eastside clubs.

"I don't think anyone from the L.A. Times is here tonight," Aimee Mann said before returning to a lengthy verbal sparring match with her opener, comedian Paul F. Tompkins. Maybe I should've stayed home, but then I would've missed another superlative night at Largo, or rather, Largo at the Coronet, where Mann's performance was her second in as many weeks. I would've also missed running into Jeff Goldblum in the bathroom, but I digress.

As Richard Cromelin noted in his review of last week's show, the Coronet is an intimate space; the farthest seats back are only Row N, if that's any indication. A sit-down theater can't help but add some seriousness to the old Largo's anything-goes environment, which may have been why the singer-songwriter tapped Tompkins to open. In his too-brief set, the comic riffed on white supremacists, the perils of living with his girlfriend and the worst apartment he ever lived in, an anecdote that concluded with his landlord's son inexplicably shouting, "Once I get my $200, I'm out of here like Steve Martin!" (If you get the reference, feel free to explain it in the comments.)

Still, at least until Tompkins joined her mid-set to duet on new song "Ballantines," Mann seemed more focused on singing than gabbing, offering banter-free guitar tuning and a dearth of song introductions. She did offer a whale of a tale for "Borrowing Time," a song she wrote (and rewrote and rewrote) for "Shrek the Third" that didn't make the cut.

Ogres aside, the songs were king. The show was billed as a full-band gig; due to various "difficulties," Mann was backed once more only by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards. No problem for Mann, who unleashed a career-spanning setlist that included "Red Vines" (a song about director pal P.T. Anderson, whose "Magnolia" helped relaunch Mann into the public eye), "Save Me" and a smattering of noteworthy tracks from her latest album (released last week), "@#%&*! Smilers." On June 2, she introduced it complete with unprintable profanity; last night, she just called it "Smilers." Is Mann cheering up? Let's hope not -- judging by new material like "Thirty One Today," the misanthropes who populate her music have a lot more to say.

-- David Greenwald

Photo of Mann on June 2 by Lawrence K. Ho/Los Angeles Times

Beck's invitation-only show Monday night at the Echo not only stoked the buzz for the upcoming release of his 10th album, "Modern Guilt," but it also was a toe-wetting experience for a largely new batch of side players -- who will have their work cut out for them if they're along for the ride on a world tour that begins later this month (and, down the road, includes a Sept. 20 stop at the Hollywood Bowl).

The frontman acknowledged that it was "only about the fifth time we've played together" as he led his charges through a 14-song, favorites-laden set occasionally punctuated by technical clatter. None of those woes mattered to the Beck faithful; the show was mainly for "family and friends," management said, and surely many of those were keen to the 37-year-old's new material, right? Ahem.

For the record, the four new numbers -- "Modern Guilt," Gamma Ray," "Replica" and "Profanity PrayersPlayers" -- won't bend the ears of anybody used to Beck's sonic adventurousness. Solid guitar rock, all, especially the set-closing "Profanity," a pedal-to-the-metal blast seemingly made for highway driving with the windows rolled down.

Besides longtime band member Brian Lebarton on keys, Beck was joined by guitarist/backup singer Jessica Dobson, a twentysomething from Long Beach who has created some ripples herself as a singer-songwriter; bassist Bram Inscore, who has played in local outfits such as Colorforms and Electrocute and is finishing a solo album; and drummer Scott McPherson, who has played with Earlimart, Sea Wolf, several national acts and, once upon a time, Elliott Smith.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo of Beck, with Jessica Dobson, by Kevin Bronson

The Hollywood Black Film Festival kicked off its ninth year last Tuesday with the world premiere of "2 Turntables and a Microphone," a documentary chronicling the life and death of one of popular music's most famous turntablists, Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC. Born Jason Mizell, Jam Master Jay was murdered October 30, 2002 in a Queens recording studio. The HBFF event, which was attended by members of rap group Onyx and Ice-T (along with wife Cocoa), featured a Q&A by the filmmakers, who sported thick gold chains and "Godfather" hats, in the style originated by the venerated DJ.

Stephon “Phonz” Watford, a younger cousin to Jam Master Jay, multi-tasked on the film, acting as co-producer, narrator and interviewer. He also participated in the Q&A segment.

One of the first questions from the audience addressed the absence of DMC in the movie, which featured reminisces by Hollis, Queens neighborhood pals, Russell Simmons, Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, music industry executives, as well as a laundry list of music talent, including Kid Rock.

The film sets up early on that while JMJ went from rugged Queens DJ to the height of world-wide music success, his connections to his neighborhood never faltered, possibly to his detriment. "I've seen people be over-loyal," says a stoic 50 Cent in the movie. Fiddy relates a story of how JMJ, a mentor in Fiddy's fledgling days, taught him song structure, specifically to write his choruses first and then his lyrics. And we all know the success of 50 Cent's hooky raps.

I asked Watford after the show if the late '90s murders of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had overshadowed his cousin's similarly tragic death. Watford answered like he hears that question a lot.

"Well, he wasn't a rapper, so his voice is hardly heard. Biggie and Tupac are MCs. Jay was a DJ."

But that was his point in making the film: "Now [Jam Master Jay's] voice can be heard."

Nearly a week later, director and producer Guy Logan described the festival response to "2 Turntables and a Microphone" as "overwhelming. People laughed, they cried ... Reverend Run left midway through, it was so emotional for him."

The film is slated for DVD release at the end of the year. Details on screenings in L.A. and New York will be coming soon.

-- Camilo Smith

Photo of Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, left, and Don "Magic" Juan at the premiere by Matt Sayles/Associated Press; movie poster courtesy of the Hollywood Black Film Festival

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Randy Newman performs new songs and some classics at Largo at the Coronet

"I love performing," said Randy Newman, brushing away the applause the VIP-list crowd gave him at a private show Wednesday at Largo at the Coronet. "Better than living. I think I'm better at it."

I haven't lived with Newman, so can't vouch for his veracity on that point. Judging by the stories he told, he's not the easiest companion: His teenage daughter Alice makes fun of him for thinking he's more famous than he is, and "I'd sell out my mother," he says, for a good punch line. But there's no doubt that he's fantastic live -- an easy ace on the piano, a man who knows how to maximize a vocal croak, and one of the masters of onstage patter, rolling out jokes as he keeps alive the twin American traditions of the tall tale and the jelly roll blues.

It's fitting that one of Nas' early promotional stops for his new album, "Untitled," was here on the West Coast. This is where N.W.A and Ice-T, not to mention proto-rappers the Watts Prophets, were among the first to use a racial epithet for African Americans in their own works, introducing casual usage into the mainstream consciousness.

There are performers who don't show you anything new about themselves live and then there are performers like Leslie Fiest, who blew open her pretty Canadian songstress image at Sunday night's Hollywood Bowl show.

In the last four years, the music of avant-garde cellist and disco producer Arthur Russell, who died of AIDS in 1992, has experienced a renaissance through a series of carefully curated re-releases and fanboys coming out of the woodwork such as LCD Soundsystem's James Murphy. Born in Oskaloosa, Iowa, the musician ran away from the Midwest in 1967, briefly detoured to a San Francisco commune before ending up in New York, where he created compositions with Allen Ginsberg and Ernie Brooks from the Modern Lovers, and premiered music by Philip Glass.

Being a negative creep has gained some measure of respect of late, with grunge swinging its long pretty hair into the 21st century. Having mercifully transcended that genre, and the decade, the Melvins never actually went away; they are maybe better than ever, as one veteran of many Melvins shows spanning 14 years and way too many bass player changes might venture to say.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve seen "Mamma Mia!" in London, New York, Las Vegas and Los Angeles, and I’ve never failed to be swept into the euphoria of the ABBA songs that propel the musical.

Although he hasn’t released a record since 1998’s “Bitchin,’ ” Johnny Legend -- known to admirers as the Rockabilly Rasputin -- is still in the game. Last Friday he kicked out the jams at Spike’s Bar in Rosemead, playing to a largely uninterested room of traditional rockabilly types.

Mick Hucknall, in his first post-Simply Red incarnation, takes on the repertoire of Bobby "Blue" Bland in "Tribute to Bobby," a new album of soul classics released last week.

There's a social script that goes on at seemingly every rock concert in the universe: Stand in place; watch band play loudly; maybe, just maybe, dance to the music; occasionally leave spot for refill of cheap beer. Repeat a few times a week/month/year until you label yourself "too old" to go to shows anymore.

The Sads, an L.A. foursome that builds their bedroom sound around moody lyrics and percolating soundscapes with soft synths, varied that script Saturday night with a "silent concert" in conjunction with "The Vision and Art of Shinjo Ito" exhibit at the Westwood Art Forum. Tucked into a warren of flowers and cables, the four members faced each other and played their digital instruments -- two keyboards, drums and a soundboard -- but the byproduct of their efforts came out through headphones that the audience listened to while sitting on brown pillows in a ring around the band. A handful of TVs were perched around, projecting images from popular movies of actors laughing, created by Mike Mills.

If you pulled off your headphones, you could hear the pinging sound of a hit on the digital drums or Aska Matsumiya singing a cappella into her microphone or David Scott Stone, longtime Eno-like multi-instrumentalist for the Melvins and former one for Unwound, shuffling around, twisting knobs and unraveling what looked like a noisy spool of wire, likely one of his homemade creations. But with headphones on, the music was intimate, enveloping and lush. The payoff wasn't in staring at the band, the usual protocol; it was in abandoning the visual and turning as inward as the music itself.

The Sads played two "silent" sets, at 8 and 9 p.m. The second one lasted 25 minutes -- it was just long enough to settle into the experience and wonder more than a few times why other bands don't try this from time to time. The concept is sharp, but the Sads, who played a similar show in New York, could explore the medium more. Certain instrumentations sound delicious through headphones; next time, the Sads will hopefully include more from Stone's formidable arsenal, but that's faint criticism for a show that flipped Buddhist wisdom on its head -- silent on the outside, noisy within.

-- Margaret Wappler

Left to right: David Scott Stone, Aaron Rose, Aska Matsumiya and Dan Monick; photo by Alex Foley

No, this post is not redundant -- for the second time in three days, Beck trotted his new band onstage at the Echo on Wednesday night for a surprise show. With three new band members joining him and keyboardist Brian Lebarton, Beck obviously wants to work some things out before the release of his new album, the Danger Mouse-produced "Modern Guilt," and the summer tour supporting it.

Wednesday's musical calisthenics spanned 12 songs and 43 minutes. The players seemed more comfortable and spirited, and if the energy seemed a notch lower than Monday's set, it was only due to the fact that the room was only about one-third full, word about the show not having leaked as it did earlier in the week.

Nobody on Wednesday's regular bill seemed to mind that Beck crashed the party. It was the EP release show for singer-songwriter Daniel Ahearn's "Pray for Me by Name." Once he got started, Ahearn (a familiar face in the venue since he pays some of his bills by tending bar at the Echo) thanked the man who preceded him onstage ... with a wink.

"Good local artist," Ahearn said. "I think he's going places."

-- Photo, post by Kevin Bronson

JUST IN:  A few moments ago, Beck fan club members were alerted that he's performing at the Echoplex tomorrow. Tickets go on sale at 5 p.m. today at ticketweb.com. The password is CHEMTRAILS; two-ticket limit. Looks like Beck can't stop showing off those sunglasses in the Eastside clubs.

"I don't think anyone from the L.A. Times is here tonight," Aimee Mann said before returning to a lengthy verbal sparring match with her opener, comedian Paul F. Tompkins. Maybe I should've stayed home, but then I would've missed another superlative night at Largo, or rather, Largo at the Coronet, where Mann's performance was her second in as many weeks. I would've also missed running into Jeff Goldblum in the bathroom, but I digress.

As Richard Cromelin noted in his review of last week's show, the Coronet is an intimate space; the farthest seats back are only Row N, if that's any indication. A sit-down theater can't help but add some seriousness to the old Largo's anything-goes environment, which may have been why the singer-songwriter tapped Tompkins to open. In his too-brief set, the comic riffed on white supremacists, the perils of living with his girlfriend and the worst apartment he ever lived in, an anecdote that concluded with his landlord's son inexplicably shouting, "Once I get my $200, I'm out of here like Steve Martin!" (If you get the reference, feel free to explain it in the comments.)

Still, at least until Tompkins joined her mid-set to duet on new song "Ballantines," Mann seemed more focused on singing than gabbing, offering banter-free guitar tuning and a dearth of song introductions. She did offer a whale of a tale for "Borrowing Time," a song she wrote (and rewrote and rewrote) for "Shrek the Third" that didn't make the cut.

Ogres aside, the songs were king. The show was billed as a full-band gig; due to various "difficulties," Mann was backed once more only by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards. No problem for Mann, who unleashed a career-spanning setlist that included "Red Vines" (a song about director pal P.T. Anderson, whose "Magnolia" helped relaunch Mann into the public eye), "Save Me" and a smattering of noteworthy tracks from her latest album (released last week), "@#%&*! Smilers." On June 2, she introduced it complete with unprintable profanity; last night, she just called it "Smilers." Is Mann cheering up? Let's hope not -- judging by new material like "Thirty One Today," the misanthropes who populate her music have a lot more to say.

-- David Greenwald

Photo of Mann on June 2 by Lawrence K. Ho/Los Angeles Times

Beck's invitation-only show Monday night at the Echo not only stoked the buzz for the upcoming release of his 10th album, "Modern Guilt," but it also was a toe-wetting experience for a largely new batch of side players -- who will have their work cut out for them if they're along for the ride on a world tour that begins later this month (and, down the road, includes a Sept. 20 stop at the Hollywood Bowl).

The frontman acknowledged that it was "only about the fifth time we've played together" as he led his charges through a 14-song, favorites-laden set occasionally punctuated by technical clatter. None of those woes mattered to the Beck faithful; the show was mainly for "family and friends," management said, and surely many of those were keen to the 37-year-old's new material, right? Ahem.

For the record, the four new numbers -- "Modern Guilt," Gamma Ray," "Replica" and "Profanity PrayersPlayers" -- won't bend the ears of anybody used to Beck's sonic adventurousness. Solid guitar rock, all, especially the set-closing "Profanity," a pedal-to-the-metal blast seemingly made for highway driving with the windows rolled down.

Besides longtime band member Brian Lebarton on keys, Beck was joined by guitarist/backup singer Jessica Dobson, a twentysomething from Long Beach who has created some ripples herself as a singer-songwriter; bassist Bram Inscore, who has played in local outfits such as Colorforms and Electrocute and is finishing a solo album; and drummer Scott McPherson, who has played with Earlimart, Sea Wolf, several national acts and, once upon a time, Elliott Smith.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo of Beck, with Jessica Dobson, by Kevin Bronson

The Hollywood Black Film Festival kicked off its ninth year last Tuesday with the world premiere of "2 Turntables and a Microphone," a documentary chronicling the life and death of one of popular music's most famous turntablists, Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC. Born Jason Mizell, Jam Master Jay was murdered October 30, 2002 in a Queens recording studio. The HBFF event, which was attended by members of rap group Onyx and Ice-T (along with wife Cocoa), featured a Q&A by the filmmakers, who sported thick gold chains and "Godfather" hats, in the style originated by the venerated DJ.

Stephon “Phonz” Watford, a younger cousin to Jam Master Jay, multi-tasked on the film, acting as co-producer, narrator and interviewer. He also participated in the Q&A segment.

One of the first questions from the audience addressed the absence of DMC in the movie, which featured reminisces by Hollis, Queens neighborhood pals, Russell Simmons, Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, music industry executives, as well as a laundry list of music talent, including Kid Rock.

The film sets up early on that while JMJ went from rugged Queens DJ to the height of world-wide music success, his connections to his neighborhood never faltered, possibly to his detriment. "I've seen people be over-loyal," says a stoic 50 Cent in the movie. Fiddy relates a story of how JMJ, a mentor in Fiddy's fledgling days, taught him song structure, specifically to write his choruses first and then his lyrics. And we all know the success of 50 Cent's hooky raps.

I asked Watford after the show if the late '90s murders of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had overshadowed his cousin's similarly tragic death. Watford answered like he hears that question a lot.

"Well, he wasn't a rapper, so his voice is hardly heard. Biggie and Tupac are MCs. Jay was a DJ."

But that was his point in making the film: "Now [Jam Master Jay's] voice can be heard."

Nearly a week later, director and producer Guy Logan described the festival response to "2 Turntables and a Microphone" as "overwhelming. People laughed, they cried ... Reverend Run left midway through, it was so emotional for him."

The film is slated for DVD release at the end of the year. Details on screenings in L.A. and New York will be coming soon.

-- Camilo Smith

Photo of Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, left, and Don "Magic" Juan at the premiere by Matt Sayles/Associated Press; movie poster courtesy of the Hollywood Black Film Festival

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Nas gropes for greatness, settles for disses

It's fitting that one of Nas' early promotional stops for his new album, "Untitled," was here on the West Coast. This is where N.W.A and Ice-T, not to mention proto-rappers the Watts Prophets, were among the first to use a racial epithet for African Americans in their own works, introducing casual usage into the mainstream consciousness.

There are performers who don't show you anything new about themselves live and then there are performers like Leslie Fiest, who blew open her pretty Canadian songstress image at Sunday night's Hollywood Bowl show.

In the last four years, the music of avant-garde cellist and disco producer Arthur Russell, who died of AIDS in 1992, has experienced a renaissance through a series of carefully curated re-releases and fanboys coming out of the woodwork such as LCD Soundsystem's James Murphy. Born in Oskaloosa, Iowa, the musician ran away from the Midwest in 1967, briefly detoured to a San Francisco commune before ending up in New York, where he created compositions with Allen Ginsberg and Ernie Brooks from the Modern Lovers, and premiered music by Philip Glass.

Being a negative creep has gained some measure of respect of late, with grunge swinging its long pretty hair into the 21st century. Having mercifully transcended that genre, and the decade, the Melvins never actually went away; they are maybe better than ever, as one veteran of many Melvins shows spanning 14 years and way too many bass player changes might venture to say.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve seen "Mamma Mia!" in London, New York, Las Vegas and Los Angeles, and I’ve never failed to be swept into the euphoria of the ABBA songs that propel the musical.

Although he hasn’t released a record since 1998’s “Bitchin,’ ” Johnny Legend -- known to admirers as the Rockabilly Rasputin -- is still in the game. Last Friday he kicked out the jams at Spike’s Bar in Rosemead, playing to a largely uninterested room of traditional rockabilly types.

Mick Hucknall, in his first post-Simply Red incarnation, takes on the repertoire of Bobby "Blue" Bland in "Tribute to Bobby," a new album of soul classics released last week.

There's a social script that goes on at seemingly every rock concert in the universe: Stand in place; watch band play loudly; maybe, just maybe, dance to the music; occasionally leave spot for refill of cheap beer. Repeat a few times a week/month/year until you label yourself "too old" to go to shows anymore.

The Sads, an L.A. foursome that builds their bedroom sound around moody lyrics and percolating soundscapes with soft synths, varied that script Saturday night with a "silent concert" in conjunction with "The Vision and Art of Shinjo Ito" exhibit at the Westwood Art Forum. Tucked into a warren of flowers and cables, the four members faced each other and played their digital instruments -- two keyboards, drums and a soundboard -- but the byproduct of their efforts came out through headphones that the audience listened to while sitting on brown pillows in a ring around the band. A handful of TVs were perched around, projecting images from popular movies of actors laughing, created by Mike Mills.

If you pulled off your headphones, you could hear the pinging sound of a hit on the digital drums or Aska Matsumiya singing a cappella into her microphone or David Scott Stone, longtime Eno-like multi-instrumentalist for the Melvins and former one for Unwound, shuffling around, twisting knobs and unraveling what looked like a noisy spool of wire, likely one of his homemade creations. But with headphones on, the music was intimate, enveloping and lush. The payoff wasn't in staring at the band, the usual protocol; it was in abandoning the visual and turning as inward as the music itself.

The Sads played two "silent" sets, at 8 and 9 p.m. The second one lasted 25 minutes -- it was just long enough to settle into the experience and wonder more than a few times why other bands don't try this from time to time. The concept is sharp, but the Sads, who played a similar show in New York, could explore the medium more. Certain instrumentations sound delicious through headphones; next time, the Sads will hopefully include more from Stone's formidable arsenal, but that's faint criticism for a show that flipped Buddhist wisdom on its head -- silent on the outside, noisy within.

-- Margaret Wappler

Left to right: David Scott Stone, Aaron Rose, Aska Matsumiya and Dan Monick; photo by Alex Foley

No, this post is not redundant -- for the second time in three days, Beck trotted his new band onstage at the Echo on Wednesday night for a surprise show. With three new band members joining him and keyboardist Brian Lebarton, Beck obviously wants to work some things out before the release of his new album, the Danger Mouse-produced "Modern Guilt," and the summer tour supporting it.

Wednesday's musical calisthenics spanned 12 songs and 43 minutes. The players seemed more comfortable and spirited, and if the energy seemed a notch lower than Monday's set, it was only due to the fact that the room was only about one-third full, word about the show not having leaked as it did earlier in the week.

Nobody on Wednesday's regular bill seemed to mind that Beck crashed the party. It was the EP release show for singer-songwriter Daniel Ahearn's "Pray for Me by Name." Once he got started, Ahearn (a familiar face in the venue since he pays some of his bills by tending bar at the Echo) thanked the man who preceded him onstage ... with a wink.

"Good local artist," Ahearn said. "I think he's going places."

-- Photo, post by Kevin Bronson

JUST IN:  A few moments ago, Beck fan club members were alerted that he's performing at the Echoplex tomorrow. Tickets go on sale at 5 p.m. today at ticketweb.com. The password is CHEMTRAILS; two-ticket limit. Looks like Beck can't stop showing off those sunglasses in the Eastside clubs.

"I don't think anyone from the L.A. Times is here tonight," Aimee Mann said before returning to a lengthy verbal sparring match with her opener, comedian Paul F. Tompkins. Maybe I should've stayed home, but then I would've missed another superlative night at Largo, or rather, Largo at the Coronet, where Mann's performance was her second in as many weeks. I would've also missed running into Jeff Goldblum in the bathroom, but I digress.

As Richard Cromelin noted in his review of last week's show, the Coronet is an intimate space; the farthest seats back are only Row N, if that's any indication. A sit-down theater can't help but add some seriousness to the old Largo's anything-goes environment, which may have been why the singer-songwriter tapped Tompkins to open. In his too-brief set, the comic riffed on white supremacists, the perils of living with his girlfriend and the worst apartment he ever lived in, an anecdote that concluded with his landlord's son inexplicably shouting, "Once I get my $200, I'm out of here like Steve Martin!" (If you get the reference, feel free to explain it in the comments.)

Still, at least until Tompkins joined her mid-set to duet on new song "Ballantines," Mann seemed more focused on singing than gabbing, offering banter-free guitar tuning and a dearth of song introductions. She did offer a whale of a tale for "Borrowing Time," a song she wrote (and rewrote and rewrote) for "Shrek the Third" that didn't make the cut.

Ogres aside, the songs were king. The show was billed as a full-band gig; due to various "difficulties," Mann was backed once more only by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards. No problem for Mann, who unleashed a career-spanning setlist that included "Red Vines" (a song about director pal P.T. Anderson, whose "Magnolia" helped relaunch Mann into the public eye), "Save Me" and a smattering of noteworthy tracks from her latest album (released last week), "@#%&*! Smilers." On June 2, she introduced it complete with unprintable profanity; last night, she just called it "Smilers." Is Mann cheering up? Let's hope not -- judging by new material like "Thirty One Today," the misanthropes who populate her music have a lot more to say.

-- David Greenwald

Photo of Mann on June 2 by Lawrence K. Ho/Los Angeles Times

Beck's invitation-only show Monday night at the Echo not only stoked the buzz for the upcoming release of his 10th album, "Modern Guilt," but it also was a toe-wetting experience for a largely new batch of side players -- who will have their work cut out for them if they're along for the ride on a world tour that begins later this month (and, down the road, includes a Sept. 20 stop at the Hollywood Bowl).

The frontman acknowledged that it was "only about the fifth time we've played together" as he led his charges through a 14-song, favorites-laden set occasionally punctuated by technical clatter. None of those woes mattered to the Beck faithful; the show was mainly for "family and friends," management said, and surely many of those were keen to the 37-year-old's new material, right? Ahem.

For the record, the four new numbers -- "Modern Guilt," Gamma Ray," "Replica" and "Profanity PrayersPlayers" -- won't bend the ears of anybody used to Beck's sonic adventurousness. Solid guitar rock, all, especially the set-closing "Profanity," a pedal-to-the-metal blast seemingly made for highway driving with the windows rolled down.

Besides longtime band member Brian Lebarton on keys, Beck was joined by guitarist/backup singer Jessica Dobson, a twentysomething from Long Beach who has created some ripples herself as a singer-songwriter; bassist Bram Inscore, who has played in local outfits such as Colorforms and Electrocute and is finishing a solo album; and drummer Scott McPherson, who has played with Earlimart, Sea Wolf, several national acts and, once upon a time, Elliott Smith.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo of Beck, with Jessica Dobson, by Kevin Bronson

The Hollywood Black Film Festival kicked off its ninth year last Tuesday with the world premiere of "2 Turntables and a Microphone," a documentary chronicling the life and death of one of popular music's most famous turntablists, Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC. Born Jason Mizell, Jam Master Jay was murdered October 30, 2002 in a Queens recording studio. The HBFF event, which was attended by members of rap group Onyx and Ice-T (along with wife Cocoa), featured a Q&A by the filmmakers, who sported thick gold chains and "Godfather" hats, in the style originated by the venerated DJ.

Stephon “Phonz” Watford, a younger cousin to Jam Master Jay, multi-tasked on the film, acting as co-producer, narrator and interviewer. He also participated in the Q&A segment.

One of the first questions from the audience addressed the absence of DMC in the movie, which featured reminisces by Hollis, Queens neighborhood pals, Russell Simmons, Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, music industry executives, as well as a laundry list of music talent, including Kid Rock.

The film sets up early on that while JMJ went from rugged Queens DJ to the height of world-wide music success, his connections to his neighborhood never faltered, possibly to his detriment. "I've seen people be over-loyal," says a stoic 50 Cent in the movie. Fiddy relates a story of how JMJ, a mentor in Fiddy's fledgling days, taught him song structure, specifically to write his choruses first and then his lyrics. And we all know the success of 50 Cent's hooky raps.

I asked Watford after the show if the late '90s murders of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had overshadowed his cousin's similarly tragic death. Watford answered like he hears that question a lot.

"Well, he wasn't a rapper, so his voice is hardly heard. Biggie and Tupac are MCs. Jay was a DJ."

But that was his point in making the film: "Now [Jam Master Jay's] voice can be heard."

Nearly a week later, director and producer Guy Logan described the festival response to "2 Turntables and a Microphone" as "overwhelming. People laughed, they cried ... Reverend Run left midway through, it was so emotional for him."

The film is slated for DVD release at the end of the year. Details on screenings in L.A. and New York will be coming soon.

-- Camilo Smith

Photo of Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, left, and Don "Magic" Juan at the premiere by Matt Sayles/Associated Press; movie poster courtesy of the Hollywood Black Film Festival

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Feist plays it easy at the Hollywood Bowl

There are performers who don't show you anything new about themselves live and then there are performers like Leslie Fiest, who blew open her pretty Canadian songstress image at Sunday night's Hollywood Bowl show.

In the last four years, the music of avant-garde cellist and disco producer Arthur Russell, who died of AIDS in 1992, has experienced a renaissance through a series of carefully curated re-releases and fanboys coming out of the woodwork such as LCD Soundsystem's James Murphy. Born in Oskaloosa, Iowa, the musician ran away from the Midwest in 1967, briefly detoured to a San Francisco commune before ending up in New York, where he created compositions with Allen Ginsberg and Ernie Brooks from the Modern Lovers, and premiered music by Philip Glass.

Being a negative creep has gained some measure of respect of late, with grunge swinging its long pretty hair into the 21st century. Having mercifully transcended that genre, and the decade, the Melvins never actually went away; they are maybe better than ever, as one veteran of many Melvins shows spanning 14 years and way too many bass player changes might venture to say.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve seen "Mamma Mia!" in London, New York, Las Vegas and Los Angeles, and I’ve never failed to be swept into the euphoria of the ABBA songs that propel the musical.

Although he hasn’t released a record since 1998’s “Bitchin,’ ” Johnny Legend -- known to admirers as the Rockabilly Rasputin -- is still in the game. Last Friday he kicked out the jams at Spike’s Bar in Rosemead, playing to a largely uninterested room of traditional rockabilly types.

Mick Hucknall, in his first post-Simply Red incarnation, takes on the repertoire of Bobby "Blue" Bland in "Tribute to Bobby," a new album of soul classics released last week.

There's a social script that goes on at seemingly every rock concert in the universe: Stand in place; watch band play loudly; maybe, just maybe, dance to the music; occasionally leave spot for refill of cheap beer. Repeat a few times a week/month/year until you label yourself "too old" to go to shows anymore.

The Sads, an L.A. foursome that builds their bedroom sound around moody lyrics and percolating soundscapes with soft synths, varied that script Saturday night with a "silent concert" in conjunction with "The Vision and Art of Shinjo Ito" exhibit at the Westwood Art Forum. Tucked into a warren of flowers and cables, the four members faced each other and played their digital instruments -- two keyboards, drums and a soundboard -- but the byproduct of their efforts came out through headphones that the audience listened to while sitting on brown pillows in a ring around the band. A handful of TVs were perched around, projecting images from popular movies of actors laughing, created by Mike Mills.

If you pulled off your headphones, you could hear the pinging sound of a hit on the digital drums or Aska Matsumiya singing a cappella into her microphone or David Scott Stone, longtime Eno-like multi-instrumentalist for the Melvins and former one for Unwound, shuffling around, twisting knobs and unraveling what looked like a noisy spool of wire, likely one of his homemade creations. But with headphones on, the music was intimate, enveloping and lush. The payoff wasn't in staring at the band, the usual protocol; it was in abandoning the visual and turning as inward as the music itself.

The Sads played two "silent" sets, at 8 and 9 p.m. The second one lasted 25 minutes -- it was just long enough to settle into the experience and wonder more than a few times why other bands don't try this from time to time. The concept is sharp, but the Sads, who played a similar show in New York, could explore the medium more. Certain instrumentations sound delicious through headphones; next time, the Sads will hopefully include more from Stone's formidable arsenal, but that's faint criticism for a show that flipped Buddhist wisdom on its head -- silent on the outside, noisy within.

-- Margaret Wappler

Left to right: David Scott Stone, Aaron Rose, Aska Matsumiya and Dan Monick; photo by Alex Foley

No, this post is not redundant -- for the second time in three days, Beck trotted his new band onstage at the Echo on Wednesday night for a surprise show. With three new band members joining him and keyboardist Brian Lebarton, Beck obviously wants to work some things out before the release of his new album, the Danger Mouse-produced "Modern Guilt," and the summer tour supporting it.

Wednesday's musical calisthenics spanned 12 songs and 43 minutes. The players seemed more comfortable and spirited, and if the energy seemed a notch lower than Monday's set, it was only due to the fact that the room was only about one-third full, word about the show not having leaked as it did earlier in the week.

Nobody on Wednesday's regular bill seemed to mind that Beck crashed the party. It was the EP release show for singer-songwriter Daniel Ahearn's "Pray for Me by Name." Once he got started, Ahearn (a familiar face in the venue since he pays some of his bills by tending bar at the Echo) thanked the man who preceded him onstage ... with a wink.

"Good local artist," Ahearn said. "I think he's going places."

-- Photo, post by Kevin Bronson

JUST IN:  A few moments ago, Beck fan club members were alerted that he's performing at the Echoplex tomorrow. Tickets go on sale at 5 p.m. today at ticketweb.com. The password is CHEMTRAILS; two-ticket limit. Looks like Beck can't stop showing off those sunglasses in the Eastside clubs.

"I don't think anyone from the L.A. Times is here tonight," Aimee Mann said before returning to a lengthy verbal sparring match with her opener, comedian Paul F. Tompkins. Maybe I should've stayed home, but then I would've missed another superlative night at Largo, or rather, Largo at the Coronet, where Mann's performance was her second in as many weeks. I would've also missed running into Jeff Goldblum in the bathroom, but I digress.

As Richard Cromelin noted in his review of last week's show, the Coronet is an intimate space; the farthest seats back are only Row N, if that's any indication. A sit-down theater can't help but add some seriousness to the old Largo's anything-goes environment, which may have been why the singer-songwriter tapped Tompkins to open. In his too-brief set, the comic riffed on white supremacists, the perils of living with his girlfriend and the worst apartment he ever lived in, an anecdote that concluded with his landlord's son inexplicably shouting, "Once I get my $200, I'm out of here like Steve Martin!" (If you get the reference, feel free to explain it in the comments.)

Still, at least until Tompkins joined her mid-set to duet on new song "Ballantines," Mann seemed more focused on singing than gabbing, offering banter-free guitar tuning and a dearth of song introductions. She did offer a whale of a tale for "Borrowing Time," a song she wrote (and rewrote and rewrote) for "Shrek the Third" that didn't make the cut.

Ogres aside, the songs were king. The show was billed as a full-band gig; due to various "difficulties," Mann was backed once more only by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards. No problem for Mann, who unleashed a career-spanning setlist that included "Red Vines" (a song about director pal P.T. Anderson, whose "Magnolia" helped relaunch Mann into the public eye), "Save Me" and a smattering of noteworthy tracks from her latest album (released last week), "@#%&*! Smilers." On June 2, she introduced it complete with unprintable profanity; last night, she just called it "Smilers." Is Mann cheering up? Let's hope not -- judging by new material like "Thirty One Today," the misanthropes who populate her music have a lot more to say.

-- David Greenwald

Photo of Mann on June 2 by Lawrence K. Ho/Los Angeles Times

Beck's invitation-only show Monday night at the Echo not only stoked the buzz for the upcoming release of his 10th album, "Modern Guilt," but it also was a toe-wetting experience for a largely new batch of side players -- who will have their work cut out for them if they're along for the ride on a world tour that begins later this month (and, down the road, includes a Sept. 20 stop at the Hollywood Bowl).

The frontman acknowledged that it was "only about the fifth time we've played together" as he led his charges through a 14-song, favorites-laden set occasionally punctuated by technical clatter. None of those woes mattered to the Beck faithful; the show was mainly for "family and friends," management said, and surely many of those were keen to the 37-year-old's new material, right? Ahem.

For the record, the four new numbers -- "Modern Guilt," Gamma Ray," "Replica" and "Profanity PrayersPlayers" -- won't bend the ears of anybody used to Beck's sonic adventurousness. Solid guitar rock, all, especially the set-closing "Profanity," a pedal-to-the-metal blast seemingly made for highway driving with the windows rolled down.

Besides longtime band member Brian Lebarton on keys, Beck was joined by guitarist/backup singer Jessica Dobson, a twentysomething from Long Beach who has created some ripples herself as a singer-songwriter; bassist Bram Inscore, who has played in local outfits such as Colorforms and Electrocute and is finishing a solo album; and drummer Scott McPherson, who has played with Earlimart, Sea Wolf, several national acts and, once upon a time, Elliott Smith.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo of Beck, with Jessica Dobson, by Kevin Bronson

The Hollywood Black Film Festival kicked off its ninth year last Tuesday with the world premiere of "2 Turntables and a Microphone," a documentary chronicling the life and death of one of popular music's most famous turntablists, Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC. Born Jason Mizell, Jam Master Jay was murdered October 30, 2002 in a Queens recording studio. The HBFF event, which was attended by members of rap group Onyx and Ice-T (along with wife Cocoa), featured a Q&A by the filmmakers, who sported thick gold chains and "Godfather" hats, in the style originated by the venerated DJ.

Stephon “Phonz” Watford, a younger cousin to Jam Master Jay, multi-tasked on the film, acting as co-producer, narrator and interviewer. He also participated in the Q&A segment.

One of the first questions from the audience addressed the absence of DMC in the movie, which featured reminisces by Hollis, Queens neighborhood pals, Russell Simmons, Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, music industry executives, as well as a laundry list of music talent, including Kid Rock.

The film sets up early on that while JMJ went from rugged Queens DJ to the height of world-wide music success, his connections to his neighborhood never faltered, possibly to his detriment. "I've seen people be over-loyal," says a stoic 50 Cent in the movie. Fiddy relates a story of how JMJ, a mentor in Fiddy's fledgling days, taught him song structure, specifically to write his choruses first and then his lyrics. And we all know the success of 50 Cent's hooky raps.

I asked Watford after the show if the late '90s murders of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had overshadowed his cousin's similarly tragic death. Watford answered like he hears that question a lot.

"Well, he wasn't a rapper, so his voice is hardly heard. Biggie and Tupac are MCs. Jay was a DJ."

But that was his point in making the film: "Now [Jam Master Jay's] voice can be heard."

Nearly a week later, director and producer Guy Logan described the festival response to "2 Turntables and a Microphone" as "overwhelming. People laughed, they cried ... Reverend Run left midway through, it was so emotional for him."

The film is slated for DVD release at the end of the year. Details on screenings in L.A. and New York will be coming soon.

-- Camilo Smith

Photo of Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, left, and Don "Magic" Juan at the premiere by Matt Sayles/Associated Press; movie poster courtesy of the Hollywood Black Film Festival

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Arthur Russell documentary has the same spirit as the artist’s music

In the last four years, the music of avant-garde cellist and disco producer Arthur Russell, who died of AIDS in 1992, has experienced a renaissance through a series of carefully curated re-releases and fanboys coming out of the woodwork such as LCD Soundsystem's James Murphy. Born in Oskaloosa, Iowa, the musician ran away from the Midwest in 1967, briefly detoured to a San Francisco commune before ending up in New York, where he created compositions with Allen Ginsberg and Ernie Brooks from the Modern Lovers, and premiered music by Philip Glass.

Being a negative creep has gained some measure of respect of late, with grunge swinging its long pretty hair into the 21st century. Having mercifully transcended that genre, and the decade, the Melvins never actually went away; they are maybe better than ever, as one veteran of many Melvins shows spanning 14 years and way too many bass player changes might venture to say.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve seen "Mamma Mia!" in London, New York, Las Vegas and Los Angeles, and I’ve never failed to be swept into the euphoria of the ABBA songs that propel the musical.

Although he hasn’t released a record since 1998’s “Bitchin,’ ” Johnny Legend -- known to admirers as the Rockabilly Rasputin -- is still in the game. Last Friday he kicked out the jams at Spike’s Bar in Rosemead, playing to a largely uninterested room of traditional rockabilly types.

Mick Hucknall, in his first post-Simply Red incarnation, takes on the repertoire of Bobby "Blue" Bland in "Tribute to Bobby," a new album of soul classics released last week.

There's a social script that goes on at seemingly every rock concert in the universe: Stand in place; watch band play loudly; maybe, just maybe, dance to the music; occasionally leave spot for refill of cheap beer. Repeat a few times a week/month/year until you label yourself "too old" to go to shows anymore.

The Sads, an L.A. foursome that builds their bedroom sound around moody lyrics and percolating soundscapes with soft synths, varied that script Saturday night with a "silent concert" in conjunction with "The Vision and Art of Shinjo Ito" exhibit at the Westwood Art Forum. Tucked into a warren of flowers and cables, the four members faced each other and played their digital instruments -- two keyboards, drums and a soundboard -- but the byproduct of their efforts came out through headphones that the audience listened to while sitting on brown pillows in a ring around the band. A handful of TVs were perched around, projecting images from popular movies of actors laughing, created by Mike Mills.

If you pulled off your headphones, you could hear the pinging sound of a hit on the digital drums or Aska Matsumiya singing a cappella into her microphone or David Scott Stone, longtime Eno-like multi-instrumentalist for the Melvins and former one for Unwound, shuffling around, twisting knobs and unraveling what looked like a noisy spool of wire, likely one of his homemade creations. But with headphones on, the music was intimate, enveloping and lush. The payoff wasn't in staring at the band, the usual protocol; it was in abandoning the visual and turning as inward as the music itself.

The Sads played two "silent" sets, at 8 and 9 p.m. The second one lasted 25 minutes -- it was just long enough to settle into the experience and wonder more than a few times why other bands don't try this from time to time. The concept is sharp, but the Sads, who played a similar show in New York, could explore the medium more. Certain instrumentations sound delicious through headphones; next time, the Sads will hopefully include more from Stone's formidable arsenal, but that's faint criticism for a show that flipped Buddhist wisdom on its head -- silent on the outside, noisy within.

-- Margaret Wappler

Left to right: David Scott Stone, Aaron Rose, Aska Matsumiya and Dan Monick; photo by Alex Foley

No, this post is not redundant -- for the second time in three days, Beck trotted his new band onstage at the Echo on Wednesday night for a surprise show. With three new band members joining him and keyboardist Brian Lebarton, Beck obviously wants to work some things out before the release of his new album, the Danger Mouse-produced "Modern Guilt," and the summer tour supporting it.

Wednesday's musical calisthenics spanned 12 songs and 43 minutes. The players seemed more comfortable and spirited, and if the energy seemed a notch lower than Monday's set, it was only due to the fact that the room was only about one-third full, word about the show not having leaked as it did earlier in the week.

Nobody on Wednesday's regular bill seemed to mind that Beck crashed the party. It was the EP release show for singer-songwriter Daniel Ahearn's "Pray for Me by Name." Once he got started, Ahearn (a familiar face in the venue since he pays some of his bills by tending bar at the Echo) thanked the man who preceded him onstage ... with a wink.

"Good local artist," Ahearn said. "I think he's going places."

-- Photo, post by Kevin Bronson

JUST IN:  A few moments ago, Beck fan club members were alerted that he's performing at the Echoplex tomorrow. Tickets go on sale at 5 p.m. today at ticketweb.com. The password is CHEMTRAILS; two-ticket limit. Looks like Beck can't stop showing off those sunglasses in the Eastside clubs.

"I don't think anyone from the L.A. Times is here tonight," Aimee Mann said before returning to a lengthy verbal sparring match with her opener, comedian Paul F. Tompkins. Maybe I should've stayed home, but then I would've missed another superlative night at Largo, or rather, Largo at the Coronet, where Mann's performance was her second in as many weeks. I would've also missed running into Jeff Goldblum in the bathroom, but I digress.

As Richard Cromelin noted in his review of last week's show, the Coronet is an intimate space; the farthest seats back are only Row N, if that's any indication. A sit-down theater can't help but add some seriousness to the old Largo's anything-goes environment, which may have been why the singer-songwriter tapped Tompkins to open. In his too-brief set, the comic riffed on white supremacists, the perils of living with his girlfriend and the worst apartment he ever lived in, an anecdote that concluded with his landlord's son inexplicably shouting, "Once I get my $200, I'm out of here like Steve Martin!" (If you get the reference, feel free to explain it in the comments.)

Still, at least until Tompkins joined her mid-set to duet on new song "Ballantines," Mann seemed more focused on singing than gabbing, offering banter-free guitar tuning and a dearth of song introductions. She did offer a whale of a tale for "Borrowing Time," a song she wrote (and rewrote and rewrote) for "Shrek the Third" that didn't make the cut.

Ogres aside, the songs were king. The show was billed as a full-band gig; due to various "difficulties," Mann was backed once more only by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards. No problem for Mann, who unleashed a career-spanning setlist that included "Red Vines" (a song about director pal P.T. Anderson, whose "Magnolia" helped relaunch Mann into the public eye), "Save Me" and a smattering of noteworthy tracks from her latest album (released last week), "@#%&*! Smilers." On June 2, she introduced it complete with unprintable profanity; last night, she just called it "Smilers." Is Mann cheering up? Let's hope not -- judging by new material like "Thirty One Today," the misanthropes who populate her music have a lot more to say.

-- David Greenwald

Photo of Mann on June 2 by Lawrence K. Ho/Los Angeles Times

Beck's invitation-only show Monday night at the Echo not only stoked the buzz for the upcoming release of his 10th album, "Modern Guilt," but it also was a toe-wetting experience for a largely new batch of side players -- who will have their work cut out for them if they're along for the ride on a world tour that begins later this month (and, down the road, includes a Sept. 20 stop at the Hollywood Bowl).

The frontman acknowledged that it was "only about the fifth time we've played together" as he led his charges through a 14-song, favorites-laden set occasionally punctuated by technical clatter. None of those woes mattered to the Beck faithful; the show was mainly for "family and friends," management said, and surely many of those were keen to the 37-year-old's new material, right? Ahem.

For the record, the four new numbers -- "Modern Guilt," Gamma Ray," "Replica" and "Profanity PrayersPlayers" -- won't bend the ears of anybody used to Beck's sonic adventurousness. Solid guitar rock, all, especially the set-closing "Profanity," a pedal-to-the-metal blast seemingly made for highway driving with the windows rolled down.

Besides longtime band member Brian Lebarton on keys, Beck was joined by guitarist/backup singer Jessica Dobson, a twentysomething from Long Beach who has created some ripples herself as a singer-songwriter; bassist Bram Inscore, who has played in local outfits such as Colorforms and Electrocute and is finishing a solo album; and drummer Scott McPherson, who has played with Earlimart, Sea Wolf, several national acts and, once upon a time, Elliott Smith.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo of Beck, with Jessica Dobson, by Kevin Bronson

The Hollywood Black Film Festival kicked off its ninth year last Tuesday with the world premiere of "2 Turntables and a Microphone," a documentary chronicling the life and death of one of popular music's most famous turntablists, Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC. Born Jason Mizell, Jam Master Jay was murdered October 30, 2002 in a Queens recording studio. The HBFF event, which was attended by members of rap group Onyx and Ice-T (along with wife Cocoa), featured a Q&A by the filmmakers, who sported thick gold chains and "Godfather" hats, in the style originated by the venerated DJ.

Stephon “Phonz” Watford, a younger cousin to Jam Master Jay, multi-tasked on the film, acting as co-producer, narrator and interviewer. He also participated in the Q&A segment.

One of the first questions from the audience addressed the absence of DMC in the movie, which featured reminisces by Hollis, Queens neighborhood pals, Russell Simmons, Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, music industry executives, as well as a laundry list of music talent, including Kid Rock.

The film sets up early on that while JMJ went from rugged Queens DJ to the height of world-wide music success, his connections to his neighborhood never faltered, possibly to his detriment. "I've seen people be over-loyal," says a stoic 50 Cent in the movie. Fiddy relates a story of how JMJ, a mentor in Fiddy's fledgling days, taught him song structure, specifically to write his choruses first and then his lyrics. And we all know the success of 50 Cent's hooky raps.

I asked Watford after the show if the late '90s murders of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had overshadowed his cousin's similarly tragic death. Watford answered like he hears that question a lot.

"Well, he wasn't a rapper, so his voice is hardly heard. Biggie and Tupac are MCs. Jay was a DJ."

But that was his point in making the film: "Now [Jam Master Jay's] voice can be heard."

Nearly a week later, director and producer Guy Logan described the festival response to "2 Turntables and a Microphone" as "overwhelming. People laughed, they cried ... Reverend Run left midway through, it was so emotional for him."

The film is slated for DVD release at the end of the year. Details on screenings in L.A. and New York will be coming soon.

-- Camilo Smith

Photo of Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, left, and Don "Magic" Juan at the premiere by Matt Sayles/Associated Press; movie poster courtesy of the Hollywood Black Film Festival

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Melvins show at Amoeba brings racket and weirdness

Being a negative creep has gained some measure of respect of late, with grunge swinging its long pretty hair into the 21st century. Having mercifully transcended that genre, and the decade, the Melvins never actually went away; they are maybe better than ever, as one veteran of many Melvins shows spanning 14 years and way too many bass player changes might venture to say.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve seen "Mamma Mia!" in London, New York, Las Vegas and Los Angeles, and I’ve never failed to be swept into the euphoria of the ABBA songs that propel the musical.

Although he hasn’t released a record since 1998’s “Bitchin,’ ” Johnny Legend -- known to admirers as the Rockabilly Rasputin -- is still in the game. Last Friday he kicked out the jams at Spike’s Bar in Rosemead, playing to a largely uninterested room of traditional rockabilly types.

Mick Hucknall, in his first post-Simply Red incarnation, takes on the repertoire of Bobby "Blue" Bland in "Tribute to Bobby," a new album of soul classics released last week.

There's a social script that goes on at seemingly every rock concert in the universe: Stand in place; watch band play loudly; maybe, just maybe, dance to the music; occasionally leave spot for refill of cheap beer. Repeat a few times a week/month/year until you label yourself "too old" to go to shows anymore.

The Sads, an L.A. foursome that builds their bedroom sound around moody lyrics and percolating soundscapes with soft synths, varied that script Saturday night with a "silent concert" in conjunction with "The Vision and Art of Shinjo Ito" exhibit at the Westwood Art Forum. Tucked into a warren of flowers and cables, the four members faced each other and played their digital instruments -- two keyboards, drums and a soundboard -- but the byproduct of their efforts came out through headphones that the audience listened to while sitting on brown pillows in a ring around the band. A handful of TVs were perched around, projecting images from popular movies of actors laughing, created by Mike Mills.

If you pulled off your headphones, you could hear the pinging sound of a hit on the digital drums or Aska Matsumiya singing a cappella into her microphone or David Scott Stone, longtime Eno-like multi-instrumentalist for the Melvins and former one for Unwound, shuffling around, twisting knobs and unraveling what looked like a noisy spool of wire, likely one of his homemade creations. But with headphones on, the music was intimate, enveloping and lush. The payoff wasn't in staring at the band, the usual protocol; it was in abandoning the visual and turning as inward as the music itself.

The Sads played two "silent" sets, at 8 and 9 p.m. The second one lasted 25 minutes -- it was just long enough to settle into the experience and wonder more than a few times why other bands don't try this from time to time. The concept is sharp, but the Sads, who played a similar show in New York, could explore the medium more. Certain instrumentations sound delicious through headphones; next time, the Sads will hopefully include more from Stone's formidable arsenal, but that's faint criticism for a show that flipped Buddhist wisdom on its head -- silent on the outside, noisy within.

-- Margaret Wappler

Left to right: David Scott Stone, Aaron Rose, Aska Matsumiya and Dan Monick; photo by Alex Foley

No, this post is not redundant -- for the second time in three days, Beck trotted his new band onstage at the Echo on Wednesday night for a surprise show. With three new band members joining him and keyboardist Brian Lebarton, Beck obviously wants to work some things out before the release of his new album, the Danger Mouse-produced "Modern Guilt," and the summer tour supporting it.

Wednesday's musical calisthenics spanned 12 songs and 43 minutes. The players seemed more comfortable and spirited, and if the energy seemed a notch lower than Monday's set, it was only due to the fact that the room was only about one-third full, word about the show not having leaked as it did earlier in the week.

Nobody on Wednesday's regular bill seemed to mind that Beck crashed the party. It was the EP release show for singer-songwriter Daniel Ahearn's "Pray for Me by Name." Once he got started, Ahearn (a familiar face in the venue since he pays some of his bills by tending bar at the Echo) thanked the man who preceded him onstage ... with a wink.

"Good local artist," Ahearn said. "I think he's going places."

-- Photo, post by Kevin Bronson

JUST IN:  A few moments ago, Beck fan club members were alerted that he's performing at the Echoplex tomorrow. Tickets go on sale at 5 p.m. today at ticketweb.com. The password is CHEMTRAILS; two-ticket limit. Looks like Beck can't stop showing off those sunglasses in the Eastside clubs.

"I don't think anyone from the L.A. Times is here tonight," Aimee Mann said before returning to a lengthy verbal sparring match with her opener, comedian Paul F. Tompkins. Maybe I should've stayed home, but then I would've missed another superlative night at Largo, or rather, Largo at the Coronet, where Mann's performance was her second in as many weeks. I would've also missed running into Jeff Goldblum in the bathroom, but I digress.

As Richard Cromelin noted in his review of last week's show, the Coronet is an intimate space; the farthest seats back are only Row N, if that's any indication. A sit-down theater can't help but add some seriousness to the old Largo's anything-goes environment, which may have been why the singer-songwriter tapped Tompkins to open. In his too-brief set, the comic riffed on white supremacists, the perils of living with his girlfriend and the worst apartment he ever lived in, an anecdote that concluded with his landlord's son inexplicably shouting, "Once I get my $200, I'm out of here like Steve Martin!" (If you get the reference, feel free to explain it in the comments.)

Still, at least until Tompkins joined her mid-set to duet on new song "Ballantines," Mann seemed more focused on singing than gabbing, offering banter-free guitar tuning and a dearth of song introductions. She did offer a whale of a tale for "Borrowing Time," a song she wrote (and rewrote and rewrote) for "Shrek the Third" that didn't make the cut.

Ogres aside, the songs were king. The show was billed as a full-band gig; due to various "difficulties," Mann was backed once more only by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards. No problem for Mann, who unleashed a career-spanning setlist that included "Red Vines" (a song about director pal P.T. Anderson, whose "Magnolia" helped relaunch Mann into the public eye), "Save Me" and a smattering of noteworthy tracks from her latest album (released last week), "@#%&*! Smilers." On June 2, she introduced it complete with unprintable profanity; last night, she just called it "Smilers." Is Mann cheering up? Let's hope not -- judging by new material like "Thirty One Today," the misanthropes who populate her music have a lot more to say.

-- David Greenwald

Photo of Mann on June 2 by Lawrence K. Ho/Los Angeles Times

Beck's invitation-only show Monday night at the Echo not only stoked the buzz for the upcoming release of his 10th album, "Modern Guilt," but it also was a toe-wetting experience for a largely new batch of side players -- who will have their work cut out for them if they're along for the ride on a world tour that begins later this month (and, down the road, includes a Sept. 20 stop at the Hollywood Bowl).

The frontman acknowledged that it was "only about the fifth time we've played together" as he led his charges through a 14-song, favorites-laden set occasionally punctuated by technical clatter. None of those woes mattered to the Beck faithful; the show was mainly for "family and friends," management said, and surely many of those were keen to the 37-year-old's new material, right? Ahem.

For the record, the four new numbers -- "Modern Guilt," Gamma Ray," "Replica" and "Profanity PrayersPlayers" -- won't bend the ears of anybody used to Beck's sonic adventurousness. Solid guitar rock, all, especially the set-closing "Profanity," a pedal-to-the-metal blast seemingly made for highway driving with the windows rolled down.

Besides longtime band member Brian Lebarton on keys, Beck was joined by guitarist/backup singer Jessica Dobson, a twentysomething from Long Beach who has created some ripples herself as a singer-songwriter; bassist Bram Inscore, who has played in local outfits such as Colorforms and Electrocute and is finishing a solo album; and drummer Scott McPherson, who has played with Earlimart, Sea Wolf, several national acts and, once upon a time, Elliott Smith.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo of Beck, with Jessica Dobson, by Kevin Bronson

The Hollywood Black Film Festival kicked off its ninth year last Tuesday with the world premiere of "2 Turntables and a Microphone," a documentary chronicling the life and death of one of popular music's most famous turntablists, Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC. Born Jason Mizell, Jam Master Jay was murdered October 30, 2002 in a Queens recording studio. The HBFF event, which was attended by members of rap group Onyx and Ice-T (along with wife Cocoa), featured a Q&A by the filmmakers, who sported thick gold chains and "Godfather" hats, in the style originated by the venerated DJ.

Stephon “Phonz” Watford, a younger cousin to Jam Master Jay, multi-tasked on the film, acting as co-producer, narrator and interviewer. He also participated in the Q&A segment.

One of the first questions from the audience addressed the absence of DMC in the movie, which featured reminisces by Hollis, Queens neighborhood pals, Russell Simmons, Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, music industry executives, as well as a laundry list of music talent, including Kid Rock.

The film sets up early on that while JMJ went from rugged Queens DJ to the height of world-wide music success, his connections to his neighborhood never faltered, possibly to his detriment. "I've seen people be over-loyal," says a stoic 50 Cent in the movie. Fiddy relates a story of how JMJ, a mentor in Fiddy's fledgling days, taught him song structure, specifically to write his choruses first and then his lyrics. And we all know the success of 50 Cent's hooky raps.

I asked Watford after the show if the late '90s murders of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had overshadowed his cousin's similarly tragic death. Watford answered like he hears that question a lot.

"Well, he wasn't a rapper, so his voice is hardly heard. Biggie and Tupac are MCs. Jay was a DJ."

But that was his point in making the film: "Now [Jam Master Jay's] voice can be heard."

Nearly a week later, director and producer Guy Logan described the festival response to "2 Turntables and a Microphone" as "overwhelming. People laughed, they cried ... Reverend Run left midway through, it was so emotional for him."

The film is slated for DVD release at the end of the year. Details on screenings in L.A. and New York will be coming soon.

-- Camilo Smith

Photo of Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, left, and Don "Magic" Juan at the premiere by Matt Sayles/Associated Press; movie poster courtesy of the Hollywood Black Film Festival

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

See that girl, watch that scene…

Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve seen "Mamma Mia!" in London, New York, Las Vegas and Los Angeles, and I’ve never failed to be swept into the euphoria of the ABBA songs that propel the musical.

Although he hasn’t released a record since 1998’s “Bitchin,’ ” Johnny Legend -- known to admirers as the Rockabilly Rasputin -- is still in the game. Last Friday he kicked out the jams at Spike’s Bar in Rosemead, playing to a largely uninterested room of traditional rockabilly types.

Mick Hucknall, in his first post-Simply Red incarnation, takes on the repertoire of Bobby "Blue" Bland in "Tribute to Bobby," a new album of soul classics released last week.

There's a social script that goes on at seemingly every rock concert in the universe: Stand in place; watch band play loudly; maybe, just maybe, dance to the music; occasionally leave spot for refill of cheap beer. Repeat a few times a week/month/year until you label yourself "too old" to go to shows anymore.

The Sads, an L.A. foursome that builds their bedroom sound around moody lyrics and percolating soundscapes with soft synths, varied that script Saturday night with a "silent concert" in conjunction with "The Vision and Art of Shinjo Ito" exhibit at the Westwood Art Forum. Tucked into a warren of flowers and cables, the four members faced each other and played their digital instruments -- two keyboards, drums and a soundboard -- but the byproduct of their efforts came out through headphones that the audience listened to while sitting on brown pillows in a ring around the band. A handful of TVs were perched around, projecting images from popular movies of actors laughing, created by Mike Mills.

If you pulled off your headphones, you could hear the pinging sound of a hit on the digital drums or Aska Matsumiya singing a cappella into her microphone or David Scott Stone, longtime Eno-like multi-instrumentalist for the Melvins and former one for Unwound, shuffling around, twisting knobs and unraveling what looked like a noisy spool of wire, likely one of his homemade creations. But with headphones on, the music was intimate, enveloping and lush. The payoff wasn't in staring at the band, the usual protocol; it was in abandoning the visual and turning as inward as the music itself.

The Sads played two "silent" sets, at 8 and 9 p.m. The second one lasted 25 minutes -- it was just long enough to settle into the experience and wonder more than a few times why other bands don't try this from time to time. The concept is sharp, but the Sads, who played a similar show in New York, could explore the medium more. Certain instrumentations sound delicious through headphones; next time, the Sads will hopefully include more from Stone's formidable arsenal, but that's faint criticism for a show that flipped Buddhist wisdom on its head -- silent on the outside, noisy within.

-- Margaret Wappler

Left to right: David Scott Stone, Aaron Rose, Aska Matsumiya and Dan Monick; photo by Alex Foley

No, this post is not redundant -- for the second time in three days, Beck trotted his new band onstage at the Echo on Wednesday night for a surprise show. With three new band members joining him and keyboardist Brian Lebarton, Beck obviously wants to work some things out before the release of his new album, the Danger Mouse-produced "Modern Guilt," and the summer tour supporting it.

Wednesday's musical calisthenics spanned 12 songs and 43 minutes. The players seemed more comfortable and spirited, and if the energy seemed a notch lower than Monday's set, it was only due to the fact that the room was only about one-third full, word about the show not having leaked as it did earlier in the week.

Nobody on Wednesday's regular bill seemed to mind that Beck crashed the party. It was the EP release show for singer-songwriter Daniel Ahearn's "Pray for Me by Name." Once he got started, Ahearn (a familiar face in the venue since he pays some of his bills by tending bar at the Echo) thanked the man who preceded him onstage ... with a wink.

"Good local artist," Ahearn said. "I think he's going places."

-- Photo, post by Kevin Bronson

JUST IN:  A few moments ago, Beck fan club members were alerted that he's performing at the Echoplex tomorrow. Tickets go on sale at 5 p.m. today at ticketweb.com. The password is CHEMTRAILS; two-ticket limit. Looks like Beck can't stop showing off those sunglasses in the Eastside clubs.

"I don't think anyone from the L.A. Times is here tonight," Aimee Mann said before returning to a lengthy verbal sparring match with her opener, comedian Paul F. Tompkins. Maybe I should've stayed home, but then I would've missed another superlative night at Largo, or rather, Largo at the Coronet, where Mann's performance was her second in as many weeks. I would've also missed running into Jeff Goldblum in the bathroom, but I digress.

As Richard Cromelin noted in his review of last week's show, the Coronet is an intimate space; the farthest seats back are only Row N, if that's any indication. A sit-down theater can't help but add some seriousness to the old Largo's anything-goes environment, which may have been why the singer-songwriter tapped Tompkins to open. In his too-brief set, the comic riffed on white supremacists, the perils of living with his girlfriend and the worst apartment he ever lived in, an anecdote that concluded with his landlord's son inexplicably shouting, "Once I get my $200, I'm out of here like Steve Martin!" (If you get the reference, feel free to explain it in the comments.)

Still, at least until Tompkins joined her mid-set to duet on new song "Ballantines," Mann seemed more focused on singing than gabbing, offering banter-free guitar tuning and a dearth of song introductions. She did offer a whale of a tale for "Borrowing Time," a song she wrote (and rewrote and rewrote) for "Shrek the Third" that didn't make the cut.

Ogres aside, the songs were king. The show was billed as a full-band gig; due to various "difficulties," Mann was backed once more only by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards. No problem for Mann, who unleashed a career-spanning setlist that included "Red Vines" (a song about director pal P.T. Anderson, whose "Magnolia" helped relaunch Mann into the public eye), "Save Me" and a smattering of noteworthy tracks from her latest album (released last week), "@#%&*! Smilers." On June 2, she introduced it complete with unprintable profanity; last night, she just called it "Smilers." Is Mann cheering up? Let's hope not -- judging by new material like "Thirty One Today," the misanthropes who populate her music have a lot more to say.

-- David Greenwald

Photo of Mann on June 2 by Lawrence K. Ho/Los Angeles Times

Beck's invitation-only show Monday night at the Echo not only stoked the buzz for the upcoming release of his 10th album, "Modern Guilt," but it also was a toe-wetting experience for a largely new batch of side players -- who will have their work cut out for them if they're along for the ride on a world tour that begins later this month (and, down the road, includes a Sept. 20 stop at the Hollywood Bowl).

The frontman acknowledged that it was "only about the fifth time we've played together" as he led his charges through a 14-song, favorites-laden set occasionally punctuated by technical clatter. None of those woes mattered to the Beck faithful; the show was mainly for "family and friends," management said, and surely many of those were keen to the 37-year-old's new material, right? Ahem.

For the record, the four new numbers -- "Modern Guilt," Gamma Ray," "Replica" and "Profanity PrayersPlayers" -- won't bend the ears of anybody used to Beck's sonic adventurousness. Solid guitar rock, all, especially the set-closing "Profanity," a pedal-to-the-metal blast seemingly made for highway driving with the windows rolled down.

Besides longtime band member Brian Lebarton on keys, Beck was joined by guitarist/backup singer Jessica Dobson, a twentysomething from Long Beach who has created some ripples herself as a singer-songwriter; bassist Bram Inscore, who has played in local outfits such as Colorforms and Electrocute and is finishing a solo album; and drummer Scott McPherson, who has played with Earlimart, Sea Wolf, several national acts and, once upon a time, Elliott Smith.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo of Beck, with Jessica Dobson, by Kevin Bronson

The Hollywood Black Film Festival kicked off its ninth year last Tuesday with the world premiere of "2 Turntables and a Microphone," a documentary chronicling the life and death of one of popular music's most famous turntablists, Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC. Born Jason Mizell, Jam Master Jay was murdered October 30, 2002 in a Queens recording studio. The HBFF event, which was attended by members of rap group Onyx and Ice-T (along with wife Cocoa), featured a Q&A by the filmmakers, who sported thick gold chains and "Godfather" hats, in the style originated by the venerated DJ.

Stephon “Phonz” Watford, a younger cousin to Jam Master Jay, multi-tasked on the film, acting as co-producer, narrator and interviewer. He also participated in the Q&A segment.

One of the first questions from the audience addressed the absence of DMC in the movie, which featured reminisces by Hollis, Queens neighborhood pals, Russell Simmons, Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, music industry executives, as well as a laundry list of music talent, including Kid Rock.

The film sets up early on that while JMJ went from rugged Queens DJ to the height of world-wide music success, his connections to his neighborhood never faltered, possibly to his detriment. "I've seen people be over-loyal," says a stoic 50 Cent in the movie. Fiddy relates a story of how JMJ, a mentor in Fiddy's fledgling days, taught him song structure, specifically to write his choruses first and then his lyrics. And we all know the success of 50 Cent's hooky raps.

I asked Watford after the show if the late '90s murders of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had overshadowed his cousin's similarly tragic death. Watford answered like he hears that question a lot.

"Well, he wasn't a rapper, so his voice is hardly heard. Biggie and Tupac are MCs. Jay was a DJ."

But that was his point in making the film: "Now [Jam Master Jay's] voice can be heard."

Nearly a week later, director and producer Guy Logan described the festival response to "2 Turntables and a Microphone" as "overwhelming. People laughed, they cried ... Reverend Run left midway through, it was so emotional for him."

The film is slated for DVD release at the end of the year. Details on screenings in L.A. and New York will be coming soon.

-- Camilo Smith

Photo of Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, left, and Don "Magic" Juan at the premiere by Matt Sayles/Associated Press; movie poster courtesy of the Hollywood Black Film Festival

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Magnanimous Collector: The Rockabilly Rasputin is alive and kicking

Although he hasn’t released a record since 1998’s “Bitchin,’ ” Johnny Legend -- known to admirers as the Rockabilly Rasputin -- is still in the game. Last Friday he kicked out the jams at Spike’s Bar in Rosemead, playing to a largely uninterested room of traditional rockabilly types.

Mick Hucknall, in his first post-Simply Red incarnation, takes on the repertoire of Bobby "Blue" Bland in "Tribute to Bobby," a new album of soul classics released last week.

There's a social script that goes on at seemingly every rock concert in the universe: Stand in place; watch band play loudly; maybe, just maybe, dance to the music; occasionally leave spot for refill of cheap beer. Repeat a few times a week/month/year until you label yourself "too old" to go to shows anymore.

The Sads, an L.A. foursome that builds their bedroom sound around moody lyrics and percolating soundscapes with soft synths, varied that script Saturday night with a "silent concert" in conjunction with "The Vision and Art of Shinjo Ito" exhibit at the Westwood Art Forum. Tucked into a warren of flowers and cables, the four members faced each other and played their digital instruments -- two keyboards, drums and a soundboard -- but the byproduct of their efforts came out through headphones that the audience listened to while sitting on brown pillows in a ring around the band. A handful of TVs were perched around, projecting images from popular movies of actors laughing, created by Mike Mills.

If you pulled off your headphones, you could hear the pinging sound of a hit on the digital drums or Aska Matsumiya singing a cappella into her microphone or David Scott Stone, longtime Eno-like multi-instrumentalist for the Melvins and former one for Unwound, shuffling around, twisting knobs and unraveling what looked like a noisy spool of wire, likely one of his homemade creations. But with headphones on, the music was intimate, enveloping and lush. The payoff wasn't in staring at the band, the usual protocol; it was in abandoning the visual and turning as inward as the music itself.

The Sads played two "silent" sets, at 8 and 9 p.m. The second one lasted 25 minutes -- it was just long enough to settle into the experience and wonder more than a few times why other bands don't try this from time to time. The concept is sharp, but the Sads, who played a similar show in New York, could explore the medium more. Certain instrumentations sound delicious through headphones; next time, the Sads will hopefully include more from Stone's formidable arsenal, but that's faint criticism for a show that flipped Buddhist wisdom on its head -- silent on the outside, noisy within.

-- Margaret Wappler

Left to right: David Scott Stone, Aaron Rose, Aska Matsumiya and Dan Monick; photo by Alex Foley

No, this post is not redundant -- for the second time in three days, Beck trotted his new band onstage at the Echo on Wednesday night for a surprise show. With three new band members joining him and keyboardist Brian Lebarton, Beck obviously wants to work some things out before the release of his new album, the Danger Mouse-produced "Modern Guilt," and the summer tour supporting it.

Wednesday's musical calisthenics spanned 12 songs and 43 minutes. The players seemed more comfortable and spirited, and if the energy seemed a notch lower than Monday's set, it was only due to the fact that the room was only about one-third full, word about the show not having leaked as it did earlier in the week.

Nobody on Wednesday's regular bill seemed to mind that Beck crashed the party. It was the EP release show for singer-songwriter Daniel Ahearn's "Pray for Me by Name." Once he got started, Ahearn (a familiar face in the venue since he pays some of his bills by tending bar at the Echo) thanked the man who preceded him onstage ... with a wink.

"Good local artist," Ahearn said. "I think he's going places."

-- Photo, post by Kevin Bronson

JUST IN:  A few moments ago, Beck fan club members were alerted that he's performing at the Echoplex tomorrow. Tickets go on sale at 5 p.m. today at ticketweb.com. The password is CHEMTRAILS; two-ticket limit. Looks like Beck can't stop showing off those sunglasses in the Eastside clubs.

"I don't think anyone from the L.A. Times is here tonight," Aimee Mann said before returning to a lengthy verbal sparring match with her opener, comedian Paul F. Tompkins. Maybe I should've stayed home, but then I would've missed another superlative night at Largo, or rather, Largo at the Coronet, where Mann's performance was her second in as many weeks. I would've also missed running into Jeff Goldblum in the bathroom, but I digress.

As Richard Cromelin noted in his review of last week's show, the Coronet is an intimate space; the farthest seats back are only Row N, if that's any indication. A sit-down theater can't help but add some seriousness to the old Largo's anything-goes environment, which may have been why the singer-songwriter tapped Tompkins to open. In his too-brief set, the comic riffed on white supremacists, the perils of living with his girlfriend and the worst apartment he ever lived in, an anecdote that concluded with his landlord's son inexplicably shouting, "Once I get my $200, I'm out of here like Steve Martin!" (If you get the reference, feel free to explain it in the comments.)

Still, at least until Tompkins joined her mid-set to duet on new song "Ballantines," Mann seemed more focused on singing than gabbing, offering banter-free guitar tuning and a dearth of song introductions. She did offer a whale of a tale for "Borrowing Time," a song she wrote (and rewrote and rewrote) for "Shrek the Third" that didn't make the cut.

Ogres aside, the songs were king. The show was billed as a full-band gig; due to various "difficulties," Mann was backed once more only by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards. No problem for Mann, who unleashed a career-spanning setlist that included "Red Vines" (a song about director pal P.T. Anderson, whose "Magnolia" helped relaunch Mann into the public eye), "Save Me" and a smattering of noteworthy tracks from her latest album (released last week), "@#%&*! Smilers." On June 2, she introduced it complete with unprintable profanity; last night, she just called it "Smilers." Is Mann cheering up? Let's hope not -- judging by new material like "Thirty One Today," the misanthropes who populate her music have a lot more to say.

-- David Greenwald

Photo of Mann on June 2 by Lawrence K. Ho/Los Angeles Times

Beck's invitation-only show Monday night at the Echo not only stoked the buzz for the upcoming release of his 10th album, "Modern Guilt," but it also was a toe-wetting experience for a largely new batch of side players -- who will have their work cut out for them if they're along for the ride on a world tour that begins later this month (and, down the road, includes a Sept. 20 stop at the Hollywood Bowl).

The frontman acknowledged that it was "only about the fifth time we've played together" as he led his charges through a 14-song, favorites-laden set occasionally punctuated by technical clatter. None of those woes mattered to the Beck faithful; the show was mainly for "family and friends," management said, and surely many of those were keen to the 37-year-old's new material, right? Ahem.

For the record, the four new numbers -- "Modern Guilt," Gamma Ray," "Replica" and "Profanity PrayersPlayers" -- won't bend the ears of anybody used to Beck's sonic adventurousness. Solid guitar rock, all, especially the set-closing "Profanity," a pedal-to-the-metal blast seemingly made for highway driving with the windows rolled down.

Besides longtime band member Brian Lebarton on keys, Beck was joined by guitarist/backup singer Jessica Dobson, a twentysomething from Long Beach who has created some ripples herself as a singer-songwriter; bassist Bram Inscore, who has played in local outfits such as Colorforms and Electrocute and is finishing a solo album; and drummer Scott McPherson, who has played with Earlimart, Sea Wolf, several national acts and, once upon a time, Elliott Smith.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo of Beck, with Jessica Dobson, by Kevin Bronson

The Hollywood Black Film Festival kicked off its ninth year last Tuesday with the world premiere of "2 Turntables and a Microphone," a documentary chronicling the life and death of one of popular music's most famous turntablists, Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC. Born Jason Mizell, Jam Master Jay was murdered October 30, 2002 in a Queens recording studio. The HBFF event, which was attended by members of rap group Onyx and Ice-T (along with wife Cocoa), featured a Q&A by the filmmakers, who sported thick gold chains and "Godfather" hats, in the style originated by the venerated DJ.

Stephon “Phonz” Watford, a younger cousin to Jam Master Jay, multi-tasked on the film, acting as co-producer, narrator and interviewer. He also participated in the Q&A segment.

One of the first questions from the audience addressed the absence of DMC in the movie, which featured reminisces by Hollis, Queens neighborhood pals, Russell Simmons, Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, music industry executives, as well as a laundry list of music talent, including Kid Rock.

The film sets up early on that while JMJ went from rugged Queens DJ to the height of world-wide music success, his connections to his neighborhood never faltered, possibly to his detriment. "I've seen people be over-loyal," says a stoic 50 Cent in the movie. Fiddy relates a story of how JMJ, a mentor in Fiddy's fledgling days, taught him song structure, specifically to write his choruses first and then his lyrics. And we all know the success of 50 Cent's hooky raps.

I asked Watford after the show if the late '90s murders of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had overshadowed his cousin's similarly tragic death. Watford answered like he hears that question a lot.

"Well, he wasn't a rapper, so his voice is hardly heard. Biggie and Tupac are MCs. Jay was a DJ."

But that was his point in making the film: "Now [Jam Master Jay's] voice can be heard."

Nearly a week later, director and producer Guy Logan described the festival response to "2 Turntables and a Microphone" as "overwhelming. People laughed, they cried ... Reverend Run left midway through, it was so emotional for him."

The film is slated for DVD release at the end of the year. Details on screenings in L.A. and New York will be coming soon.

-- Camilo Smith

Photo of Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, left, and Don "Magic" Juan at the premiere by Matt Sayles/Associated Press; movie poster courtesy of the Hollywood Black Film Festival

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Simply Red’s Mick Hucknall covers Bobby ‘Blue’ Bland

Mick Hucknall, in his first post-Simply Red incarnation, takes on the repertoire of Bobby "Blue" Bland in "Tribute to Bobby," a new album of soul classics released last week.

There's a social script that goes on at seemingly every rock concert in the universe: Stand in place; watch band play loudly; maybe, just maybe, dance to the music; occasionally leave spot for refill of cheap beer. Repeat a few times a week/month/year until you label yourself "too old" to go to shows anymore.

The Sads, an L.A. foursome that builds their bedroom sound around moody lyrics and percolating soundscapes with soft synths, varied that script Saturday night with a "silent concert" in conjunction with "The Vision and Art of Shinjo Ito" exhibit at the Westwood Art Forum. Tucked into a warren of flowers and cables, the four members faced each other and played their digital instruments -- two keyboards, drums and a soundboard -- but the byproduct of their efforts came out through headphones that the audience listened to while sitting on brown pillows in a ring around the band. A handful of TVs were perched around, projecting images from popular movies of actors laughing, created by Mike Mills.

If you pulled off your headphones, you could hear the pinging sound of a hit on the digital drums or Aska Matsumiya singing a cappella into her microphone or David Scott Stone, longtime Eno-like multi-instrumentalist for the Melvins and former one for Unwound, shuffling around, twisting knobs and unraveling what looked like a noisy spool of wire, likely one of his homemade creations. But with headphones on, the music was intimate, enveloping and lush. The payoff wasn't in staring at the band, the usual protocol; it was in abandoning the visual and turning as inward as the music itself.

The Sads played two "silent" sets, at 8 and 9 p.m. The second one lasted 25 minutes -- it was just long enough to settle into the experience and wonder more than a few times why other bands don't try this from time to time. The concept is sharp, but the Sads, who played a similar show in New York, could explore the medium more. Certain instrumentations sound delicious through headphones; next time, the Sads will hopefully include more from Stone's formidable arsenal, but that's faint criticism for a show that flipped Buddhist wisdom on its head -- silent on the outside, noisy within.

-- Margaret Wappler

Left to right: David Scott Stone, Aaron Rose, Aska Matsumiya and Dan Monick; photo by Alex Foley

No, this post is not redundant -- for the second time in three days, Beck trotted his new band onstage at the Echo on Wednesday night for a surprise show. With three new band members joining him and keyboardist Brian Lebarton, Beck obviously wants to work some things out before the release of his new album, the Danger Mouse-produced "Modern Guilt," and the summer tour supporting it.

Wednesday's musical calisthenics spanned 12 songs and 43 minutes. The players seemed more comfortable and spirited, and if the energy seemed a notch lower than Monday's set, it was only due to the fact that the room was only about one-third full, word about the show not having leaked as it did earlier in the week.

Nobody on Wednesday's regular bill seemed to mind that Beck crashed the party. It was the EP release show for singer-songwriter Daniel Ahearn's "Pray for Me by Name." Once he got started, Ahearn (a familiar face in the venue since he pays some of his bills by tending bar at the Echo) thanked the man who preceded him onstage ... with a wink.

"Good local artist," Ahearn said. "I think he's going places."

-- Photo, post by Kevin Bronson

JUST IN:  A few moments ago, Beck fan club members were alerted that he's performing at the Echoplex tomorrow. Tickets go on sale at 5 p.m. today at ticketweb.com. The password is CHEMTRAILS; two-ticket limit. Looks like Beck can't stop showing off those sunglasses in the Eastside clubs.

"I don't think anyone from the L.A. Times is here tonight," Aimee Mann said before returning to a lengthy verbal sparring match with her opener, comedian Paul F. Tompkins. Maybe I should've stayed home, but then I would've missed another superlative night at Largo, or rather, Largo at the Coronet, where Mann's performance was her second in as many weeks. I would've also missed running into Jeff Goldblum in the bathroom, but I digress.

As Richard Cromelin noted in his review of last week's show, the Coronet is an intimate space; the farthest seats back are only Row N, if that's any indication. A sit-down theater can't help but add some seriousness to the old Largo's anything-goes environment, which may have been why the singer-songwriter tapped Tompkins to open. In his too-brief set, the comic riffed on white supremacists, the perils of living with his girlfriend and the worst apartment he ever lived in, an anecdote that concluded with his landlord's son inexplicably shouting, "Once I get my $200, I'm out of here like Steve Martin!" (If you get the reference, feel free to explain it in the comments.)

Still, at least until Tompkins joined her mid-set to duet on new song "Ballantines," Mann seemed more focused on singing than gabbing, offering banter-free guitar tuning and a dearth of song introductions. She did offer a whale of a tale for "Borrowing Time," a song she wrote (and rewrote and rewrote) for "Shrek the Third" that didn't make the cut.

Ogres aside, the songs were king. The show was billed as a full-band gig; due to various "difficulties," Mann was backed once more only by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards. No problem for Mann, who unleashed a career-spanning setlist that included "Red Vines" (a song about director pal P.T. Anderson, whose "Magnolia" helped relaunch Mann into the public eye), "Save Me" and a smattering of noteworthy tracks from her latest album (released last week), "@#%&*! Smilers." On June 2, she introduced it complete with unprintable profanity; last night, she just called it "Smilers." Is Mann cheering up? Let's hope not -- judging by new material like "Thirty One Today," the misanthropes who populate her music have a lot more to say.

-- David Greenwald

Photo of Mann on June 2 by Lawrence K. Ho/Los Angeles Times

Beck's invitation-only show Monday night at the Echo not only stoked the buzz for the upcoming release of his 10th album, "Modern Guilt," but it also was a toe-wetting experience for a largely new batch of side players -- who will have their work cut out for them if they're along for the ride on a world tour that begins later this month (and, down the road, includes a Sept. 20 stop at the Hollywood Bowl).

The frontman acknowledged that it was "only about the fifth time we've played together" as he led his charges through a 14-song, favorites-laden set occasionally punctuated by technical clatter. None of those woes mattered to the Beck faithful; the show was mainly for "family and friends," management said, and surely many of those were keen to the 37-year-old's new material, right? Ahem.

For the record, the four new numbers -- "Modern Guilt," Gamma Ray," "Replica" and "Profanity PrayersPlayers" -- won't bend the ears of anybody used to Beck's sonic adventurousness. Solid guitar rock, all, especially the set-closing "Profanity," a pedal-to-the-metal blast seemingly made for highway driving with the windows rolled down.

Besides longtime band member Brian Lebarton on keys, Beck was joined by guitarist/backup singer Jessica Dobson, a twentysomething from Long Beach who has created some ripples herself as a singer-songwriter; bassist Bram Inscore, who has played in local outfits such as Colorforms and Electrocute and is finishing a solo album; and drummer Scott McPherson, who has played with Earlimart, Sea Wolf, several national acts and, once upon a time, Elliott Smith.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo of Beck, with Jessica Dobson, by Kevin Bronson

The Hollywood Black Film Festival kicked off its ninth year last Tuesday with the world premiere of "2 Turntables and a Microphone," a documentary chronicling the life and death of one of popular music's most famous turntablists, Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC. Born Jason Mizell, Jam Master Jay was murdered October 30, 2002 in a Queens recording studio. The HBFF event, which was attended by members of rap group Onyx and Ice-T (along with wife Cocoa), featured a Q&A by the filmmakers, who sported thick gold chains and "Godfather" hats, in the style originated by the venerated DJ.

Stephon “Phonz” Watford, a younger cousin to Jam Master Jay, multi-tasked on the film, acting as co-producer, narrator and interviewer. He also participated in the Q&A segment.

One of the first questions from the audience addressed the absence of DMC in the movie, which featured reminisces by Hollis, Queens neighborhood pals, Russell Simmons, Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, music industry executives, as well as a laundry list of music talent, including Kid Rock.

The film sets up early on that while JMJ went from rugged Queens DJ to the height of world-wide music success, his connections to his neighborhood never faltered, possibly to his detriment. "I've seen people be over-loyal," says a stoic 50 Cent in the movie. Fiddy relates a story of how JMJ, a mentor in Fiddy's fledgling days, taught him song structure, specifically to write his choruses first and then his lyrics. And we all know the success of 50 Cent's hooky raps.

I asked Watford after the show if the late '90s murders of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had overshadowed his cousin's similarly tragic death. Watford answered like he hears that question a lot.

"Well, he wasn't a rapper, so his voice is hardly heard. Biggie and Tupac are MCs. Jay was a DJ."

But that was his point in making the film: "Now [Jam Master Jay's] voice can be heard."

Nearly a week later, director and producer Guy Logan described the festival response to "2 Turntables and a Microphone" as "overwhelming. People laughed, they cried ... Reverend Run left midway through, it was so emotional for him."

The film is slated for DVD release at the end of the year. Details on screenings in L.A. and New York will be coming soon.

-- Camilo Smith

Photo of Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, left, and Don "Magic" Juan at the premiere by Matt Sayles/Associated Press; movie poster courtesy of the Hollywood Black Film Festival

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

The Sads enjoy the silence

There's a social script that goes on at seemingly every rock concert in the universe: Stand in place; watch band play loudly; maybe, just maybe, dance to the music; occasionally leave spot for refill of cheap beer. Repeat a few times a week/month/year until you label yourself "too old" to go to shows anymore.

The Sads, an L.A. foursome that builds their bedroom sound around moody lyrics and percolating soundscapes with soft synths, varied that script Saturday night with a "silent concert" in conjunction with "The Vision and Art of Shinjo Ito" exhibit at the Westwood Art Forum. Tucked into a warren of flowers and cables, the four members faced each other and played their digital instruments -- two keyboards, drums and a soundboard -- but the byproduct of their efforts came out through headphones that the audience listened to while sitting on brown pillows in a ring around the band. A handful of TVs were perched around, projecting images from popular movies of actors laughing, created by Mike Mills.

If you pulled off your headphones, you could hear the pinging sound of a hit on the digital drums or Aska Matsumiya singing a cappella into her microphone or David Scott Stone, longtime Eno-like multi-instrumentalist for the Melvins and former one for Unwound, shuffling around, twisting knobs and unraveling what looked like a noisy spool of wire, likely one of his homemade creations. But with headphones on, the music was intimate, enveloping and lush. The payoff wasn't in staring at the band, the usual protocol; it was in abandoning the visual and turning as inward as the music itself.

The Sads played two "silent" sets, at 8 and 9 p.m. The second one lasted 25 minutes -- it was just long enough to settle into the experience and wonder more than a few times why other bands don't try this from time to time. The concept is sharp, but the Sads, who played a similar show in New York, could explore the medium more. Certain instrumentations sound delicious through headphones; next time, the Sads will hopefully include more from Stone's formidable arsenal, but that's faint criticism for a show that flipped Buddhist wisdom on its head -- silent on the outside, noisy within.

-- Margaret Wappler

Left to right: David Scott Stone, Aaron Rose, Aska Matsumiya and Dan Monick; photo by Alex Foley

No, this post is not redundant -- for the second time in three days, Beck trotted his new band onstage at the Echo on Wednesday night for a surprise show. With three new band members joining him and keyboardist Brian Lebarton, Beck obviously wants to work some things out before the release of his new album, the Danger Mouse-produced "Modern Guilt," and the summer tour supporting it.

Wednesday's musical calisthenics spanned 12 songs and 43 minutes. The players seemed more comfortable and spirited, and if the energy seemed a notch lower than Monday's set, it was only due to the fact that the room was only about one-third full, word about the show not having leaked as it did earlier in the week.

Nobody on Wednesday's regular bill seemed to mind that Beck crashed the party. It was the EP release show for singer-songwriter Daniel Ahearn's "Pray for Me by Name." Once he got started, Ahearn (a familiar face in the venue since he pays some of his bills by tending bar at the Echo) thanked the man who preceded him onstage ... with a wink.

"Good local artist," Ahearn said. "I think he's going places."

-- Photo, post by Kevin Bronson

JUST IN:  A few moments ago, Beck fan club members were alerted that he's performing at the Echoplex tomorrow. Tickets go on sale at 5 p.m. today at ticketweb.com. The password is CHEMTRAILS; two-ticket limit. Looks like Beck can't stop showing off those sunglasses in the Eastside clubs.

"I don't think anyone from the L.A. Times is here tonight," Aimee Mann said before returning to a lengthy verbal sparring match with her opener, comedian Paul F. Tompkins. Maybe I should've stayed home, but then I would've missed another superlative night at Largo, or rather, Largo at the Coronet, where Mann's performance was her second in as many weeks. I would've also missed running into Jeff Goldblum in the bathroom, but I digress.

As Richard Cromelin noted in his review of last week's show, the Coronet is an intimate space; the farthest seats back are only Row N, if that's any indication. A sit-down theater can't help but add some seriousness to the old Largo's anything-goes environment, which may have been why the singer-songwriter tapped Tompkins to open. In his too-brief set, the comic riffed on white supremacists, the perils of living with his girlfriend and the worst apartment he ever lived in, an anecdote that concluded with his landlord's son inexplicably shouting, "Once I get my $200, I'm out of here like Steve Martin!" (If you get the reference, feel free to explain it in the comments.)

Still, at least until Tompkins joined her mid-set to duet on new song "Ballantines," Mann seemed more focused on singing than gabbing, offering banter-free guitar tuning and a dearth of song introductions. She did offer a whale of a tale for "Borrowing Time," a song she wrote (and rewrote and rewrote) for "Shrek the Third" that didn't make the cut.

Ogres aside, the songs were king. The show was billed as a full-band gig; due to various "difficulties," Mann was backed once more only by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards. No problem for Mann, who unleashed a career-spanning setlist that included "Red Vines" (a song about director pal P.T. Anderson, whose "Magnolia" helped relaunch Mann into the public eye), "Save Me" and a smattering of noteworthy tracks from her latest album (released last week), "@#%&*! Smilers." On June 2, she introduced it complete with unprintable profanity; last night, she just called it "Smilers." Is Mann cheering up? Let's hope not -- judging by new material like "Thirty One Today," the misanthropes who populate her music have a lot more to say.

-- David Greenwald

Photo of Mann on June 2 by Lawrence K. Ho/Los Angeles Times

Beck's invitation-only show Monday night at the Echo not only stoked the buzz for the upcoming release of his 10th album, "Modern Guilt," but it also was a toe-wetting experience for a largely new batch of side players -- who will have their work cut out for them if they're along for the ride on a world tour that begins later this month (and, down the road, includes a Sept. 20 stop at the Hollywood Bowl).

The frontman acknowledged that it was "only about the fifth time we've played together" as he led his charges through a 14-song, favorites-laden set occasionally punctuated by technical clatter. None of those woes mattered to the Beck faithful; the show was mainly for "family and friends," management said, and surely many of those were keen to the 37-year-old's new material, right? Ahem.

For the record, the four new numbers -- "Modern Guilt," Gamma Ray," "Replica" and "Profanity PrayersPlayers" -- won't bend the ears of anybody used to Beck's sonic adventurousness. Solid guitar rock, all, especially the set-closing "Profanity," a pedal-to-the-metal blast seemingly made for highway driving with the windows rolled down.

Besides longtime band member Brian Lebarton on keys, Beck was joined by guitarist/backup singer Jessica Dobson, a twentysomething from Long Beach who has created some ripples herself as a singer-songwriter; bassist Bram Inscore, who has played in local outfits such as Colorforms and Electrocute and is finishing a solo album; and drummer Scott McPherson, who has played with Earlimart, Sea Wolf, several national acts and, once upon a time, Elliott Smith.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo of Beck, with Jessica Dobson, by Kevin Bronson

The Hollywood Black Film Festival kicked off its ninth year last Tuesday with the world premiere of "2 Turntables and a Microphone," a documentary chronicling the life and death of one of popular music's most famous turntablists, Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC. Born Jason Mizell, Jam Master Jay was murdered October 30, 2002 in a Queens recording studio. The HBFF event, which was attended by members of rap group Onyx and Ice-T (along with wife Cocoa), featured a Q&A by the filmmakers, who sported thick gold chains and "Godfather" hats, in the style originated by the venerated DJ.

Stephon “Phonz” Watford, a younger cousin to Jam Master Jay, multi-tasked on the film, acting as co-producer, narrator and interviewer. He also participated in the Q&A segment.

One of the first questions from the audience addressed the absence of DMC in the movie, which featured reminisces by Hollis, Queens neighborhood pals, Russell Simmons, Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, music industry executives, as well as a laundry list of music talent, including Kid Rock.

The film sets up early on that while JMJ went from rugged Queens DJ to the height of world-wide music success, his connections to his neighborhood never faltered, possibly to his detriment. "I've seen people be over-loyal," says a stoic 50 Cent in the movie. Fiddy relates a story of how JMJ, a mentor in Fiddy's fledgling days, taught him song structure, specifically to write his choruses first and then his lyrics. And we all know the success of 50 Cent's hooky raps.

I asked Watford after the show if the late '90s murders of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had overshadowed his cousin's similarly tragic death. Watford answered like he hears that question a lot.

"Well, he wasn't a rapper, so his voice is hardly heard. Biggie and Tupac are MCs. Jay was a DJ."

But that was his point in making the film: "Now [Jam Master Jay's] voice can be heard."

Nearly a week later, director and producer Guy Logan described the festival response to "2 Turntables and a Microphone" as "overwhelming. People laughed, they cried ... Reverend Run left midway through, it was so emotional for him."

The film is slated for DVD release at the end of the year. Details on screenings in L.A. and New York will be coming soon.

-- Camilo Smith

Photo of Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, left, and Don "Magic" Juan at the premiere by Matt Sayles/Associated Press; movie poster courtesy of the Hollywood Black Film Festival

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Beck, back again — with update

No, this post is not redundant -- for the second time in three days, Beck trotted his new band onstage at the Echo on Wednesday night for a surprise show. With three new band members joining him and keyboardist Brian Lebarton, Beck obviously wants to work some things out before the release of his new album, the Danger Mouse-produced "Modern Guilt," and the summer tour supporting it.

Wednesday's musical calisthenics spanned 12 songs and 43 minutes. The players seemed more comfortable and spirited, and if the energy seemed a notch lower than Monday's set, it was only due to the fact that the room was only about one-third full, word about the show not having leaked as it did earlier in the week.

Nobody on Wednesday's regular bill seemed to mind that Beck crashed the party. It was the EP release show for singer-songwriter Daniel Ahearn's "Pray for Me by Name." Once he got started, Ahearn (a familiar face in the venue since he pays some of his bills by tending bar at the Echo) thanked the man who preceded him onstage ... with a wink.

"Good local artist," Ahearn said. "I think he's going places."

-- Photo, post by Kevin Bronson

JUST IN:  A few moments ago, Beck fan club members were alerted that he's performing at the Echoplex tomorrow. Tickets go on sale at 5 p.m. today at ticketweb.com. The password is CHEMTRAILS; two-ticket limit. Looks like Beck can't stop showing off those sunglasses in the Eastside clubs.

"I don't think anyone from the L.A. Times is here tonight," Aimee Mann said before returning to a lengthy verbal sparring match with her opener, comedian Paul F. Tompkins. Maybe I should've stayed home, but then I would've missed another superlative night at Largo, or rather, Largo at the Coronet, where Mann's performance was her second in as many weeks. I would've also missed running into Jeff Goldblum in the bathroom, but I digress.

As Richard Cromelin noted in his review of last week's show, the Coronet is an intimate space; the farthest seats back are only Row N, if that's any indication. A sit-down theater can't help but add some seriousness to the old Largo's anything-goes environment, which may have been why the singer-songwriter tapped Tompkins to open. In his too-brief set, the comic riffed on white supremacists, the perils of living with his girlfriend and the worst apartment he ever lived in, an anecdote that concluded with his landlord's son inexplicably shouting, "Once I get my $200, I'm out of here like Steve Martin!" (If you get the reference, feel free to explain it in the comments.)

Still, at least until Tompkins joined her mid-set to duet on new song "Ballantines," Mann seemed more focused on singing than gabbing, offering banter-free guitar tuning and a dearth of song introductions. She did offer a whale of a tale for "Borrowing Time," a song she wrote (and rewrote and rewrote) for "Shrek the Third" that didn't make the cut.

Ogres aside, the songs were king. The show was billed as a full-band gig; due to various "difficulties," Mann was backed once more only by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards. No problem for Mann, who unleashed a career-spanning setlist that included "Red Vines" (a song about director pal P.T. Anderson, whose "Magnolia" helped relaunch Mann into the public eye), "Save Me" and a smattering of noteworthy tracks from her latest album (released last week), "@#%&*! Smilers." On June 2, she introduced it complete with unprintable profanity; last night, she just called it "Smilers." Is Mann cheering up? Let's hope not -- judging by new material like "Thirty One Today," the misanthropes who populate her music have a lot more to say.

-- David Greenwald

Photo of Mann on June 2 by Lawrence K. Ho/Los Angeles Times

Beck's invitation-only show Monday night at the Echo not only stoked the buzz for the upcoming release of his 10th album, "Modern Guilt," but it also was a toe-wetting experience for a largely new batch of side players -- who will have their work cut out for them if they're along for the ride on a world tour that begins later this month (and, down the road, includes a Sept. 20 stop at the Hollywood Bowl).

The frontman acknowledged that it was "only about the fifth time we've played together" as he led his charges through a 14-song, favorites-laden set occasionally punctuated by technical clatter. None of those woes mattered to the Beck faithful; the show was mainly for "family and friends," management said, and surely many of those were keen to the 37-year-old's new material, right? Ahem.

For the record, the four new numbers -- "Modern Guilt," Gamma Ray," "Replica" and "Profanity PrayersPlayers" -- won't bend the ears of anybody used to Beck's sonic adventurousness. Solid guitar rock, all, especially the set-closing "Profanity," a pedal-to-the-metal blast seemingly made for highway driving with the windows rolled down.

Besides longtime band member Brian Lebarton on keys, Beck was joined by guitarist/backup singer Jessica Dobson, a twentysomething from Long Beach who has created some ripples herself as a singer-songwriter; bassist Bram Inscore, who has played in local outfits such as Colorforms and Electrocute and is finishing a solo album; and drummer Scott McPherson, who has played with Earlimart, Sea Wolf, several national acts and, once upon a time, Elliott Smith.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo of Beck, with Jessica Dobson, by Kevin Bronson

The Hollywood Black Film Festival kicked off its ninth year last Tuesday with the world premiere of "2 Turntables and a Microphone," a documentary chronicling the life and death of one of popular music's most famous turntablists, Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC. Born Jason Mizell, Jam Master Jay was murdered October 30, 2002 in a Queens recording studio. The HBFF event, which was attended by members of rap group Onyx and Ice-T (along with wife Cocoa), featured a Q&A by the filmmakers, who sported thick gold chains and "Godfather" hats, in the style originated by the venerated DJ.

Stephon “Phonz” Watford, a younger cousin to Jam Master Jay, multi-tasked on the film, acting as co-producer, narrator and interviewer. He also participated in the Q&A segment.

One of the first questions from the audience addressed the absence of DMC in the movie, which featured reminisces by Hollis, Queens neighborhood pals, Russell Simmons, Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, music industry executives, as well as a laundry list of music talent, including Kid Rock.

The film sets up early on that while JMJ went from rugged Queens DJ to the height of world-wide music success, his connections to his neighborhood never faltered, possibly to his detriment. "I've seen people be over-loyal," says a stoic 50 Cent in the movie. Fiddy relates a story of how JMJ, a mentor in Fiddy's fledgling days, taught him song structure, specifically to write his choruses first and then his lyrics. And we all know the success of 50 Cent's hooky raps.

I asked Watford after the show if the late '90s murders of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had overshadowed his cousin's similarly tragic death. Watford answered like he hears that question a lot.

"Well, he wasn't a rapper, so his voice is hardly heard. Biggie and Tupac are MCs. Jay was a DJ."

But that was his point in making the film: "Now [Jam Master Jay's] voice can be heard."

Nearly a week later, director and producer Guy Logan described the festival response to "2 Turntables and a Microphone" as "overwhelming. People laughed, they cried ... Reverend Run left midway through, it was so emotional for him."

The film is slated for DVD release at the end of the year. Details on screenings in L.A. and New York will be coming soon.

-- Camilo Smith

Photo of Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, left, and Don "Magic" Juan at the premiere by Matt Sayles/Associated Press; movie poster courtesy of the Hollywood Black Film Festival

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Aimee Mann lightens up again at Largo

"I don't think anyone from the L.A. Times is here tonight," Aimee Mann said before returning to a lengthy verbal sparring match with her opener, comedian Paul F. Tompkins. Maybe I should've stayed home, but then I would've missed another superlative night at Largo, or rather, Largo at the Coronet, where Mann's performance was her second in as many weeks. I would've also missed running into Jeff Goldblum in the bathroom, but I digress.

As Richard Cromelin noted in his review of last week's show, the Coronet is an intimate space; the farthest seats back are only Row N, if that's any indication. A sit-down theater can't help but add some seriousness to the old Largo's anything-goes environment, which may have been why the singer-songwriter tapped Tompkins to open. In his too-brief set, the comic riffed on white supremacists, the perils of living with his girlfriend and the worst apartment he ever lived in, an anecdote that concluded with his landlord's son inexplicably shouting, "Once I get my $200, I'm out of here like Steve Martin!" (If you get the reference, feel free to explain it in the comments.)

Still, at least until Tompkins joined her mid-set to duet on new song "Ballantines," Mann seemed more focused on singing than gabbing, offering banter-free guitar tuning and a dearth of song introductions. She did offer a whale of a tale for "Borrowing Time," a song she wrote (and rewrote and rewrote) for "Shrek the Third" that didn't make the cut.

Ogres aside, the songs were king. The show was billed as a full-band gig; due to various "difficulties," Mann was backed once more only by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards. No problem for Mann, who unleashed a career-spanning setlist that included "Red Vines" (a song about director pal P.T. Anderson, whose "Magnolia" helped relaunch Mann into the public eye), "Save Me" and a smattering of noteworthy tracks from her latest album (released last week), "@#%&*! Smilers." On June 2, she introduced it complete with unprintable profanity; last night, she just called it "Smilers." Is Mann cheering up? Let's hope not -- judging by new material like "Thirty One Today," the misanthropes who populate her music have a lot more to say.

-- David Greenwald

Photo of Mann on June 2 by Lawrence K. Ho/Los Angeles Times

Beck's invitation-only show Monday night at the Echo not only stoked the buzz for the upcoming release of his 10th album, "Modern Guilt," but it also was a toe-wetting experience for a largely new batch of side players -- who will have their work cut out for them if they're along for the ride on a world tour that begins later this month (and, down the road, includes a Sept. 20 stop at the Hollywood Bowl).

The frontman acknowledged that it was "only about the fifth time we've played together" as he led his charges through a 14-song, favorites-laden set occasionally punctuated by technical clatter. None of those woes mattered to the Beck faithful; the show was mainly for "family and friends," management said, and surely many of those were keen to the 37-year-old's new material, right? Ahem.

For the record, the four new numbers -- "Modern Guilt," Gamma Ray," "Replica" and "Profanity PrayersPlayers" -- won't bend the ears of anybody used to Beck's sonic adventurousness. Solid guitar rock, all, especially the set-closing "Profanity," a pedal-to-the-metal blast seemingly made for highway driving with the windows rolled down.

Besides longtime band member Brian Lebarton on keys, Beck was joined by guitarist/backup singer Jessica Dobson, a twentysomething from Long Beach who has created some ripples herself as a singer-songwriter; bassist Bram Inscore, who has played in local outfits such as Colorforms and Electrocute and is finishing a solo album; and drummer Scott McPherson, who has played with Earlimart, Sea Wolf, several national acts and, once upon a time, Elliott Smith.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo of Beck, with Jessica Dobson, by Kevin Bronson

The Hollywood Black Film Festival kicked off its ninth year last Tuesday with the world premiere of "2 Turntables and a Microphone," a documentary chronicling the life and death of one of popular music's most famous turntablists, Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC. Born Jason Mizell, Jam Master Jay was murdered October 30, 2002 in a Queens recording studio. The HBFF event, which was attended by members of rap group Onyx and Ice-T (along with wife Cocoa), featured a Q&A by the filmmakers, who sported thick gold chains and "Godfather" hats, in the style originated by the venerated DJ.

Stephon “Phonz” Watford, a younger cousin to Jam Master Jay, multi-tasked on the film, acting as co-producer, narrator and interviewer. He also participated in the Q&A segment.

One of the first questions from the audience addressed the absence of DMC in the movie, which featured reminisces by Hollis, Queens neighborhood pals, Russell Simmons, Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, music industry executives, as well as a laundry list of music talent, including Kid Rock.

The film sets up early on that while JMJ went from rugged Queens DJ to the height of world-wide music success, his connections to his neighborhood never faltered, possibly to his detriment. "I've seen people be over-loyal," says a stoic 50 Cent in the movie. Fiddy relates a story of how JMJ, a mentor in Fiddy's fledgling days, taught him song structure, specifically to write his choruses first and then his lyrics. And we all know the success of 50 Cent's hooky raps.

I asked Watford after the show if the late '90s murders of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had overshadowed his cousin's similarly tragic death. Watford answered like he hears that question a lot.

"Well, he wasn't a rapper, so his voice is hardly heard. Biggie and Tupac are MCs. Jay was a DJ."

But that was his point in making the film: "Now [Jam Master Jay's] voice can be heard."

Nearly a week later, director and producer Guy Logan described the festival response to "2 Turntables and a Microphone" as "overwhelming. People laughed, they cried ... Reverend Run left midway through, it was so emotional for him."

The film is slated for DVD release at the end of the year. Details on screenings in L.A. and New York will be coming soon.

-- Camilo Smith

Photo of Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, left, and Don "Magic" Juan at the premiere by Matt Sayles/Associated Press; movie poster courtesy of the Hollywood Black Film Festival

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Brand-new Beck, mostly new band

Beck's invitation-only show Monday night at the Echo not only stoked the buzz for the upcoming release of his 10th album, "Modern Guilt," but it also was a toe-wetting experience for a largely new batch of side players -- who will have their work cut out for them if they're along for the ride on a world tour that begins later this month (and, down the road, includes a Sept. 20 stop at the Hollywood Bowl).

The frontman acknowledged that it was "only about the fifth time we've played together" as he led his charges through a 14-song, favorites-laden set occasionally punctuated by technical clatter. None of those woes mattered to the Beck faithful; the show was mainly for "family and friends," management said, and surely many of those were keen to the 37-year-old's new material, right? Ahem.

For the record, the four new numbers -- "Modern Guilt," Gamma Ray," "Replica" and "Profanity PrayersPlayers" -- won't bend the ears of anybody used to Beck's sonic adventurousness. Solid guitar rock, all, especially the set-closing "Profanity," a pedal-to-the-metal blast seemingly made for highway driving with the windows rolled down.

Besides longtime band member Brian Lebarton on keys, Beck was joined by guitarist/backup singer Jessica Dobson, a twentysomething from Long Beach who has created some ripples herself as a singer-songwriter; bassist Bram Inscore, who has played in local outfits such as Colorforms and Electrocute and is finishing a solo album; and drummer Scott McPherson, who has played with Earlimart, Sea Wolf, several national acts and, once upon a time, Elliott Smith.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo of Beck, with Jessica Dobson, by Kevin Bronson

The Hollywood Black Film Festival kicked off its ninth year last Tuesday with the world premiere of "2 Turntables and a Microphone," a documentary chronicling the life and death of one of popular music's most famous turntablists, Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC. Born Jason Mizell, Jam Master Jay was murdered October 30, 2002 in a Queens recording studio. The HBFF event, which was attended by members of rap group Onyx and Ice-T (along with wife Cocoa), featured a Q&A by the filmmakers, who sported thick gold chains and "Godfather" hats, in the style originated by the venerated DJ.

Stephon “Phonz” Watford, a younger cousin to Jam Master Jay, multi-tasked on the film, acting as co-producer, narrator and interviewer. He also participated in the Q&A segment.

One of the first questions from the audience addressed the absence of DMC in the movie, which featured reminisces by Hollis, Queens neighborhood pals, Russell Simmons, Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, music industry executives, as well as a laundry list of music talent, including Kid Rock.

The film sets up early on that while JMJ went from rugged Queens DJ to the height of world-wide music success, his connections to his neighborhood never faltered, possibly to his detriment. "I've seen people be over-loyal," says a stoic 50 Cent in the movie. Fiddy relates a story of how JMJ, a mentor in Fiddy's fledgling days, taught him song structure, specifically to write his choruses first and then his lyrics. And we all know the success of 50 Cent's hooky raps.

I asked Watford after the show if the late '90s murders of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had overshadowed his cousin's similarly tragic death. Watford answered like he hears that question a lot.

"Well, he wasn't a rapper, so his voice is hardly heard. Biggie and Tupac are MCs. Jay was a DJ."

But that was his point in making the film: "Now [Jam Master Jay's] voice can be heard."

Nearly a week later, director and producer Guy Logan described the festival response to "2 Turntables and a Microphone" as "overwhelming. People laughed, they cried ... Reverend Run left midway through, it was so emotional for him."

The film is slated for DVD release at the end of the year. Details on screenings in L.A. and New York will be coming soon.

-- Camilo Smith

Photo of Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, left, and Don "Magic" Juan at the premiere by Matt Sayles/Associated Press; movie poster courtesy of the Hollywood Black Film Festival

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

‘2 Turntables and a Microphone’ premiere at HBFF

The Hollywood Black Film Festival kicked off its ninth year last Tuesday with the world premiere of "2 Turntables and a Microphone," a documentary chronicling the life and death of one of popular music's most famous turntablists, Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC. Born Jason Mizell, Jam Master Jay was murdered October 30, 2002 in a Queens recording studio. The HBFF event, which was attended by members of rap group Onyx and Ice-T (along with wife Cocoa), featured a Q&A by the filmmakers, who sported thick gold chains and "Godfather" hats, in the style originated by the venerated DJ.

Stephon “Phonz” Watford, a younger cousin to Jam Master Jay, multi-tasked on the film, acting as co-producer, narrator and interviewer. He also participated in the Q&A segment.

One of the first questions from the audience addressed the absence of DMC in the movie, which featured reminisces by Hollis, Queens neighborhood pals, Russell Simmons, Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, music industry executives, as well as a laundry list of music talent, including Kid Rock.

The film sets up early on that while JMJ went from rugged Queens DJ to the height of world-wide music success, his connections to his neighborhood never faltered, possibly to his detriment. "I've seen people be over-loyal," says a stoic 50 Cent in the movie. Fiddy relates a story of how JMJ, a mentor in Fiddy's fledgling days, taught him song structure, specifically to write his choruses first and then his lyrics. And we all know the success of 50 Cent's hooky raps.

I asked Watford after the show if the late '90s murders of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls had overshadowed his cousin's similarly tragic death. Watford answered like he hears that question a lot.

"Well, he wasn't a rapper, so his voice is hardly heard. Biggie and Tupac are MCs. Jay was a DJ."

But that was his point in making the film: "Now [Jam Master Jay's] voice can be heard."

Nearly a week later, director and producer Guy Logan described the festival response to "2 Turntables and a Microphone" as "overwhelming. People laughed, they cried ... Reverend Run left midway through, it was so emotional for him."

The film is slated for DVD release at the end of the year. Details on screenings in L.A. and New York will be coming soon.

-- Camilo Smith

Photo of Joseph "Reverend Run" Simmons, left, and Don "Magic" Juan at the premiere by Matt Sayles/Associated Press; movie poster courtesy of the Hollywood Black Film Festival

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Los Campesinos! are gonna make you love them

Los Campesinos! is the kind of band its fans will be going to see in twenty years, if its happy efforts continue that long. The Welsh combo's Saturday show at the Troubadour showed that magic mix of personability, craftiness and chaos that draws listeners in and makes them loyalists.

Adorable all, the seven members of Los Camps energetically attacked their instruments, producing a friendly racket that got the kids pogo-ing at the edge the Troubadour's venerable stage. The skewed anthems that are the band's specialty rely on a punchy handclap beat and lyrics that poke fun at the indie rock lifestyle. Titles include "The International Tweexcore Underground" and "My Year in Lists."

Live, the emphasis was on shoutable choruses and the cacophony of guitar-bass-drums rubbing up against glockenspiel and violin. Los Camps evoked all the influences people like to throw at the group -- Art Brut, the Arcade Fire, the Mekons. I thought they seemed most like Belle and Sebastian, only younger, likelier to spill a beer on your head, and frankly, more fun.

Lead singer Gareth -- who, along with his bandmates, has followed the example of the Ramones and informally taken Campesino as his last name -- sings in a piping voice that would be all sneers if not for his sunny dedication to good times. His banter made the show feel more like a house party than a club gig.

Gareth announced mid-set that the band had been scheduled to play the Troub once before but was booted by James Taylor. (The Handyman played a special show here last fall; Los Camps played the Echoplex.) He later inquired about the next night's gig at the Glass House -- could the crowd offer any tips on fun in Pomona? "Laser tag?" he enthused, responding to a shout. "All right then. Everyone for laser tag!" The crowd yelled its assent. Everyone in the club seemed ready and willing to get tagged by their new favorite band.

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Los Campesinos! by Grace deVille

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

First Look: The Dallas Austin Experience

I'm not much for industry schmooze-a-thons, but when I got the invite for the private debut of the Dallas Austin Experience, I knew I had to go. Austin's resume was enough to draw me in -- he's produced contemporary pop classics like "Unpretty" by TLC and Gwen Stefani's "Cool," and was the force behind one of my fave music flicks, "Drumline." Then came the publicist's invite, which promised "a linear movie with huge screens, live performances in front of it and props." I think live music generally benefits from theatrics (one of my fave club gigs last year was Of Montreal at the Avalon, which featured masked mimes, a fencing match and a guitarist with wings), so off I went to SIR studios on Sunset to experience Mr. Austin's Experience.

Unfortunately, the invite didn't mention there'd be an opening act -- Colin Munroe, whose New Wave soulboy pop (he and his bandmate resembled a skinnier version of Tears for Fears) reinforced my workpal Chris Lee's observations about twee white kids as the newest urban sensation. Munroe made a splash not long ago reworking Kanye West's "Flashing Lights" (see his version here), and Austin signed him to his Rowdy label.

His one-man-band-plus schtick was impressive, but it kinda wrecked my night. I'd made other plans for right after the 80 minutes I'd been told this Experience would last. So sadly, I caught only the bare bones of Austin's flashy show.

Here's what I saw: several flat screens showing a movie about a hot but troubled young lady's lost weekend. Austin and band emerging to play Parliament-influenced hip-hop funk in between and alongside scenes in the movie. George Clinton in a filmed cameo.

Here's what I missed because I had to leave: the audience participation segment, which apparently involved using a flag bandana, a tambourine, a pill bottle full of mints and red light-up sunglasses.

I will definitely be trying to catch this crazy train the next time it comes to town. Kudos to Austin for thinking outside the album/video/live tour box and bringing something ambitious to the table.

Until Austin brings it back to town, interested parties can catch a video preview of his Experience here and listen to tracks on his MySpace page.

-- Ann Powers

Photo courtesy of the Dallas Austin Experience

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Artichoke hearts Highland Park on limited edition CD

"Stand in the place where you live," sang Michael Stipe in an R.E.M. hit of yore. Timothy Sellers is living that bit of soul-centering wisdom right here in L.A., on the Northeast side.

Sellers, who leads the loose and gleeful collective known as Artichoke, is best known for writing songs about scientists, and lately bees; later this year Artichoke will release a whole album about those honey-loving buzzers. Sellers is not just a science buff, however -- he's also a proud resident of Highland Park, the neighborhood increasingly favored by young creative types who can't afford the coffee in Silver Lake. Asked to participate in the annual Lummis Day festival of Northeast Los Angeles last weekend, Sellers directed his giddy thoughts toward his neighborhood and soon came up with enough little ditties for a limited edition CD.

In about a half-hour's worth of boisterous acoustic pop, Sellers set out to capture the vibe of Highland Park, "past, present, me, you, us, them, California, garbage trucks and avocados." He got some help from fellow Northeast L.A. habitués, including members of the Evangenitals and the Eternal Triangle. Subjects addressed in Artichoke's topical sing-alongs include neighborhood founding father Charles Lummis; the area's punk capitol, Mr. T's Bowl; and the noisy action that makes life a little bit difficult on trash day.

You can hear select cuts from the "Historic Highland Park" project at Artichoke's Myspace page. Now, who's gonna come up with that great concept album about South Pasadena?

-- Ann Powers

Photo of Artichoke courtesy artichoketheband.com

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Aimee Mann christens new Largo location

Maybe the only performer more appropriate than Aimee Mann to open the Largo’s new era would be Jon Brion, the resident Friday-night ringmaster during the beloved music club’s 12 years on Fairfax Avenue.

Well, fans got a bit of both Monday at the unveiling of the venue’s new home, the venerable Coronet Theatre on La Cienega Boulevard. Largo stalwart Mann headlined the show, and Brion, playing celeste and other keyboards, joined her on two songs during the encore, putting an emotional flourish on a smooth transition.

Physically, the new Largo is a vastly different experience from the tiny room on Fairfax, where the bar and the dinner service sometimes interfered with owner Mark Flanagan’s vision of an ideal setting for musicians and serious listeners.

The Largo at the Coronet is a cozy little bandbox of a theater, its tightly packed rows of 280 permanent seats facing a deep stage that must have seemed like a basketball court to musicians accustomed to the old Largo’s tiny platform. For the audience, there's nothing to do but sit, watch and listen.

The Largo state of mind was intact, as listeners were admonished to turn off their electronics and not talk during the show. The sound during the 90-minute set by Mann, accompanied by bassist Paul Bryan and keyboardist Jamie Edwards, was clean and warm, and Mann eased into the focused but informal mode that has defined the Largo’s distinctive sensibility.

Mann, who was preceded by a short set from comedian Paul F. Tompkins, will return with a full band June 10. By then, the new Largo will have undergone what figures to be its baptism by fire — two sets by Brion on Friday.

— Richard Cromelin

Photos by Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Idol, Stevens close out Camp Freddy residency at Roxy

Summer camp is officially over. Rock 'n' roll summer camp courtesy of Camp Freddy, that is. The supergroup of Los Angeles-area rockers, consisting of Dave Navarro, Billy Morrison, Matt Sorum, Donovan Leitch and Chris Chaney, ended its monthlong residency at the Roxy last night with a bang — landing Billy Idol as closing guest.

“This one’s for you, Jonesy,” a smiling Idol said before he launched into “Dancing With Myself” from the stage to a sold-out, rapturous audience obviously clued in to the evening’s special guest (fashion selections among the aging Idol groupies were verging on tragic). But despite the title of the tune, Idol was not dancing with himself Thursday evening — he brought with him a few special guests.

Idol was joined onstage with longtime guitarist Steve Stevens and the Doors’ Robby Krieger, both of whom helped give the three-song final act a precious feel in spirit of the May celebration of all things rock at the Roxy.

The sneering '80s icon began the last set of the evening with an extended, metal-tinged version of “L.A. Woman,” which took on obvious significance given the location of the gig on the Strip and Krieger’s presence onstage. The former Generation X singer seemed to be having the time of his life onstage, even doling out a few trademark Idol sneers with a wink as if it were 1984.

For Idol fans, the true highlight of the night was a song that broke big that very year, “Rebel Yell.” Without the slick synths the track is known for, “Rebel Yell” with Camp Freddy was a monster. Stevens’ guitar work was searing and Idol was in full-on icon mode, pumping his fist into the air, seemingly genuinely into the moment, despite presumably loathing the tune after how popular it was in the 1980s (it was one of his signature hits).

Other highlights of the final installment of Camp Freddy’s Roxy residency included Juliette Lewis’ reverential takes on X’s “Los Angeles,” Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ 'Bout Love” and AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds.” Earlier in the evening, 311’s Nick Hexum actually pulled off a convincing but perhaps too-karaoke-perfect version of the Clash’s “White Man in Hammersmith Palais,” but the crowd response was tepid at best. These were rock fans with a capital R, hell-bent on seeing guests like Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell tear it up with Freddy onstage, and no one here was copping to even knowing who Hexum was.

Regardless, most everyone was happy just to be inside the venerable Sunset Boulevard venue late Thursday night, if only to say goodbye (for now, anyway) to the best house band on the Strip for a while.

Here is the complete set list from the final installment of Camp Freddy at the Roxy:

Cheap Trick, "Hello There"
Blur, "Song # 2"
Black Sabbath, "Paranoid" w/Wayne Static on vocals (Static X)
The Clash, “White Man in Hammersmith Palais” w/Nick Hexum on vocals
X, "Los Angeles" w/Juliette Lewis + Donovan duet
Van Halen, "Ain’t Talkin' 'Bout Love" w/John 5 (Rob Zombie), Lewis
AC/DC, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" w/Lewis, Chris Vrenna (Marilyn Manson, NIN) Oasis, "Rock 'n' Roll Star" w/Billy Duffy (The Cult)
The Cult, "Lil' Devil" w/McGrath on vocals, Duffy
KISS, "Rock and Roll All Nite" w/McGrath, Jerry Cantrell (Alice in Chains)
Alice in Chains, "Man in the Box" w/Leah Duors (McQueen), Cantrell
Sex Pistols, "EMI" w/McGrath on vocals, Naveen Andrews on guitar (actor, “Lost”)
Led Zeppelin, "Whole Lotta Love" w/Pat Monahan on vocals (Train), Robby Krieger
The Doors, "L.A. Woman" w/Billy Idol, Steve Stevens & Brian Tichy (Billy Idol), Kreiger
Billy Idol, "Dancing With Myself" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
Billy Idol, "Rebel Yell" w/Idol, Stevens, Tichy
The Stooges, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" w/McGrath, Cantrell, Stevens and others.

-- Post and photo by Charlie Amter

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

The Police make a tuff little island out of the Hollywood Bowl

The Police hit a sweet spot in about the middle of their Tuesday night show at the Hollywood Bowl when they fell into a fierce locomotive reggae jam on the song “Driven to Tears." The island rhythms came way out front and you could feel the change; that’s better than all that “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take” stuff, n’est-ce pas? Andy Summers was losing himself in huge, prog-jazz guitar texturing, Stewart Copeland was beating his kit to pieces in a grimacing tirade of Caribbean drum nerd triumph, and then there was Sting, loving his minimal role as the provider of a bouncing, rising reggae bass line. That "Zenyatta Mondatta"-era meditation was followed by “Hole in My Life” -- jam continuing -- and into Summers fingering a calypso or even Afro-pop opener for “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.” Once the meat of that radio hit kicked in, the spell was broken, but it was there for a sustained moment with this gorgeous, unbeatable band.

Now that Sting looks a little ridiculous singing such paeans to self-obsession as “King of Pain,” maybe that tuff island sound will give the Police a new lease on life. The threesome never wrote anthems, so the big, bold arrangement of “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” doesn't make it, no matter how they try, a chance to rekindle a youthful, generational statement. And when the band is too literal -- like the photo-montage of big-eyed Third World children that accompanied “Invisible Sun” -- it’s almost painful, even if Summers, Copeland and Sumners do care a lot about children, having, what, 17 children between them?

The charged reggae flow picked up again when they stretched out the boisterous lament, “So Lonely," the pre-encore show closer. The form seemed to give it more impact. They didn’t have to reach for the point. Sting wasn't even trying to swallow the meaning of the lyrics, which he seemed to be doing with other songs (some of those literary allusions just come back to bite you). He just let them be poignant. If this band plans to record new music in the future, someone please get them back to that studio in Montserrat where they once discovered a new world, just so we can all spend a little more time there.

-- Dean Kuipers

Photo of Sting by Ken Hively/Los Angeles Times

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

PacDiv and J*Davey update the rules at the Key Club

Is Los Angeles experiencing a rap renaissance? With rappers such as Blu, U-N-I and the group Pacific Division making much noise in the local underground rap scene, we haven't seen this much talent brewing at once in this genre in a while.

Hip-hop's Internet taste-makers have long heralded the bubbling SoCal indie rap world, in the wake of the Bay Area's Hyphy movement. Even Billboard Magazine has recently taken notice.

The Key Club was packed Wednesday night with a crowd that came to see the L.A. New Wave funk-punk outfit J*Davey, but it was the live-wire showcase of PacDiv MCs Mibbs, Like and BeYoung (left to right, above) that lit up the room.

The Palmdale trio's self-released album "Sealed for Freshness" (The Blendtape) made most of the rap world take notice in 2006. Several publications heralded them as the next group to break out of L.A. Their style reaches back to Pharcyde but with an eye on materialism, rapping more about money and sneakers than lost loves.

The songs performed Wednesday, including "Paper" and "Women Problems," poke fun at everyday dilemmas and provide the ego trips familiar to rap fans but there's very little of that gangsta bravado that signifies L.A.'s rap culture.

The throwback-titled F.A.T Boys '08 (standing for Fashionable Artistic Trendsetters, a polite nod to Kanye West, no doubt) defines their image with the hook, "Pocketful of papers, sneakers on my feet/I'm a F.A.T boy."

On a different plane, but still hard to pin down is the club act J*Davey. Led by the mohawked Miss Jack Davey (pictured above), who's backed up by a hype-man, bass player, drummer, drum machine player and an assortment of synthesizers, the funk-punk outfit were clearly favorites of many in attendance.

Davey, whose voice recalls Erykah Badu when she sings and Lauryn Hill when she raps, is also a bit like Lene from the group Aqua when she does the punk-heavy numbers. The convincing front woman left the stage midway through the 50-minute set in what seemed like a Diva move, only to return with a new outfit: a tight spandex ensemble, which no self-respecting lady performer within five feet of a drum machine should be without.

With all the funky synths and melodic singing, Davey couldn't exactly find her flow. She blamed the audience for not giving her the energy she wanted and then commanded the crowd to dance at certain points. For "Touch of Fate," she encouraged audience participation but it didn't come off exactly as she instructed. During one of her last songs, she went for broke: "OK, this is the part of the show where you take your clothes off." No one did, but a few members of the crowd did hop on stage to dance.

--Post and photos by Camilo Smith

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Peanut Butter Wolf and Dâm-Funk wax nostalgic

Peanut Butter Wolf isn't the first DJ to use music videos in conjunction with the usual DJ arts of crowd-reading, beat-blending, mixing and scratching.

A DJ and producer since the early '80s, the former Chris Manak of San Jose (pictured above) turned the dance floor inside out Tuesday night at Cinespace's Dim Mak weekly event. Videos blasted out from a big screen that PBW (or the Wolf, as many call him) was more than happy to share.

"It's almost like a YouTube set, I guess. But I don't get any of my videos from YouTube because it's low quality," he said after blasting the crowd with a mix of '80s and '90s dance and rap hits. This was his first time on the mixer since coming back from a tour stop in Japan, though he frequently performs at the Dim Mak showcase.

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Red hot Metallica at the Wiltern last night

What’s Flea’s favorite Metallica song? That would be the vintage shred-a-thon “Fight Fire With Fire,” a fact revealed near the end of Metallica’s show at the Wiltern last night. That’s when the Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist, who organized the concert (which also featured Scars on Broadway) as the annual fundraiser for his Silverlake Conservatory of Music, stepped from the wings and played second bass on an absolutely scorching rendition of the 1984 song.

Flea’s guest spot capped an impressive return to action for the headbanging headliners, who have been all but absent from U.S. stages for some four years.

“We haven’t played here in a long time,” singer James Hetfield said early in the show, Metallica’s first in the Southland since 2004. “It feels good to be playing live again.”

It better. With their first studio album since 2003’s “St Anger” set to come out in September, the hard-rock titans, who also play Saturday at the KROQ Weenie Roast at Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, figure to be back full force. Little rust was evident Wednesday as they plowed through a 15-song set of prime fan favorites, and if the sound remains dark and the themes riddled with angst and anger, they played with the exuberant spirit of kids who'd escaped from detention.

-- Richard Cromelin

Photo by Jamie Rector / For The Times

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Akron/Family and when dinosaurs roamed the Earth

In another, perhaps more unpredictable universe than ours, Brooklyn-based psych-folk collective Akron/Family has been anointed the heir to the ever-touring hippie-rock throne of Phish, inspiring throngs of well-bearded "Ak-heads" to follow it from show to show around the country.

Settle down, this is by no means intended to lump the bands (or their dreadlocked fanbases) together, which is really like comparing Kellogg's Grape Nuts to a freshly made organic tabbouleh wrap. But more to say that if Deadheads and jam-worshipping Trey-huggers were truly looking for a band that embodies the thrilling mix of improvisation, crowd interaction and unhinged creative energy that can transform a room's spirit, Akron/Family would make a far more interesting choice than, say, Dave Matthews.

Through a 45-odd minute "First Friday" set at the Natural History Museum (more on that later), Akron/Family showed it hasn't missed a step since losing original guitarist Ryan Vanderhoof to, naturally, a Buddhist center. Perpetually manic bassist Miles Seaton has stepped into a sort of frontman role quite smoothly, and he led a delirious crowd through a variety of roof-raising clap-alongs, tribal chants and style shifts as the band burned through its set, most impressively during the feverish psychedelic tent revival "Raise The Sparks." The show closed with drummer Dana Janssen standing to beat-box through a selection from last year's "Love Is Simple" and somehow came across far less ridiculous than it sounds.

Therein lies the secret weapon of Akron/Family -- as close as its 'We are one" philosophy and anything-goes songwriting techniques come to utter absurdity (especially on record), its performances never cross to the other side. Because when you can make a crowd gleefully clap in time and shout gibberish choruses, everything has clearly gone mad in the first place -- in the best, most joyous way possible.

Before the Akron/Family, San Francisco's Dodos filled the museum with percussive, hypermelodic tribal jams that borrowed some of the spirit of the headliner but with vocals that carried a dramatic sweep occasionally reminiscent of Morrissey, if that isn't too brain-smashing a collision to imagine. I'd have more specifics about their set, but unfortunately because of the museum's apparent policy of over-booking, there was a rope line circling the museum's main gallery for entry into the performance space that left us trapped outside for much of their show. A maddening policy certainly, but once the initial frustration wore off it was all too easy to give in to exploring the rest of the museum as the Dodos' sound pulsed against the museum's massive Tyrannasaur skeleton. There's more than one way to raise some sparks.

-- Photo and post by Chris Barton

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Sam Bush has got some nerve

Nervy cover of the day: Mandolinist nonpareil Sam Bush, on the Mustang Stage where the most staunchly traditional acts have played, dusts off Randy Newman's 1974 chestnut "Mr. President (Have Pity On the Working Man)." More than three decades and six chief executives later, it remains frighteningly, hilariously on target. And a gutsy move in front of a hard-core country crowd.

-- Randy Lewis

Photo by Karl Walter / Getty Images

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Spiritualized, realized

At first, you didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Jason Pierce's audacity. Spiritualized was mounting an acoustic show, with a lovely string section and everything, as the sun set on the Mojave Tent, at the time unfortunately flanked by thumping dance music. Ear-shattering feedback plagued the first couple songs, and it seemed a train wreck was imminent.

Spiritualized recovered with aplomb, finishing with a long stretch of sublimely beautiful pop. Anyone who witnessed the band's recent shows at L.A.'s Vista Theatre knows the power of Pierce's music to transport, and for nearly an hour Sunday, his two-thirds-full tent was a musical oasis.

All smiles afterward.

-- Kevin Bronson

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Color Love and Rockets back

Overall, there has been precious little in the way of political statements at Coachella '08 -- maybe everybody was too busy in the dance tents? -- but Love and Rockets (of all groups) did their part, if only for five minutes, Sunday night at the Outdoor Theatre.

The trio of Daniel Ash, David J and Kevin Haskins opened with a blistering version of "Ball of Confusion," and, yeah, that's what the world is today. Uh huh.

To a spectacular light show, the offshoot of Bauhaus (who played a reunion show at Coachella in 2005) stormed through a battery of fan favorites in mostly workmanlike fashion, perhaps regretting the mid-set ballad that was tainted by noise bleeding over from the earache-inducing drum 'n' bass area in the middle of the festival grounds.

Of course, the Bubblemen emerged late in the set, the band's alter egos (and residents of Planet Girl) dancing during "Yin and Yang and the Flower Pot Man." The show ended with the Bubblemen battling the band in a pillowfight, and feathers were flying -- a nod to that song's video.

The band's familiar blasts were welcome noise for weary festivalgoers gearing up for Roger Waters' mainstage show.

-- Kevin Bronson

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Swervedriver makes some noise in reunion set

Swervedriver was more the sonic kin of Nirvana or Dinosaur Jr. than late-'80s/early-'90s shoegazers such as My Bloody Valentine and Ride, with whom they are often linked. The Oxford, England, quartet could fashion a wall of sound, to be sure, but their churning, aggressive guitar rock over four albums (1991-98) was the kind of music that could shake you to your foundation rather than seep, midtempo, into your soul.

The foursome's reunion for Coachella (they were a late add to the lineup) was largely unheralded, except by a few passionate fans who were keenly tuned into the band's recipe of guitar riffs and effects.

Swervedriver's set before a one-third-full Mojave Tent on Sunday afternoon certainly ranked as a triumph artistically, as Adam Franklin and mates bathed the faithful in angsty roaring and subtler noodling. Ever stoic as a frontman, Franklin remained expressionless throughout (save for a smile of acknowledgment to a friend sidestage), but the music and the obvious joy with which drummer Jez Hindmarsh played spread smiles all around.

If Sunday was any indication, Franklin, who has released a fine solo album and has a buzzworthy side project with Interpol drummer Sam Fogarino called Magnetic Morning, might have more work to do with Swervedriver.

-- Kevin Bronson

Photo: Kevin Bronson / Los Angeles Times

Merrymaking with Calvin Harris