Heads gather round: Radiohead. All photos by Spencer Hansen.

By Kat Renz

I was in the throes of a particularly conflicted love/hate relationship last weekend. The first Outside Lands Music and Arts Festival in Golden Gate Park - so much to appreciate (the music, scenery, intention), so much to loathe (the overlapping performances, long lines, the great green marketing strategy).

"We deserve a festival," folk-rocker Matt Nathanson told journalists during a press conference on Saturday, Aug. 23, the second day of Outside Lands. And though he was being ironic, he echoed the sense of entitlement sweeping through Speedway Meadows on down to the Polo Fields, like the restless ghost of a spoiled brat. Between concert-goers tearing down fences and elbowing relentlessly (and pointlessly) through the audience, or getting so pissed they could barely make out Thom Yorke on the giant TV screens and littering like motherfuckers, the scene got pretty obnoxious.

But, duh, what else did I expect with 150,000 people?

Hat club for men: Sean Hayes.

Let me diverge, briefly, from the rantings of my inner curmudgeon: Oakland's bluesy outfit Howlin' Rain struck an inaugural chord on the tiny Panhandle Stage, jamming through a half-hour set fueled by the soul rasp of front-howler Ethan Miller and Joel Robinow’s organ harmonies.

In the swim: Rupa and the Fishes.

I skipped to the nearby, larger Twin Peaks stage on the east end of Speedway Meadow to catch Vancouver, BC's Black Mountain. The fivesome's warm psychedelia nestled perfectly into the white sky and pine trees, augmented by eerie emanations from the Moog synthesizer and the wails of bored-looking vocalist Amber Webber. Aptly dubbed “stoner rock for the masses” by The Word, Black Mountain was easily one of the heaviest bands of a three-day lineup largely devoted to indie-folk, jam-bands, and pop rock.

Time to sprint a quarter mile ocean-wards to the very opposite end of the festival for Manu Chao at the main Land's End Stage (not a misnomer in the slightest). This necessitated ditching Black Mountain halfway through their set, a frustration that recurred throughout the festival and was a common complaint: there were too many concurrent shows, and too much physical space between them. As great as it is to have a smorgasbord of acts, it's painful having to choose. The combination of hefty treks and weaving through a shit-ton of equally determined festival-goers means a enjoying a full set and catching each act on your list are mutually exclusive endeavors in constant opposition.

This, paired with the high cost of tickets ($85 per day) and the fact of the schedule was released only about two weeks prior to the show, created some disgruntled fans for sure. On Friday, Aug. 22, for example, Beck, Manu Chao, and the Black Keys all overlapped. On Saturday, the question for a lot of folks involved Primus, Cake, and Ben Harper.

Watch the player: Devendra Banhart.

During Saturday’s press conference, performer Kaki King compared the competitive lineup to a buffet, which Les Claypool called, "One of the best festival analogies I've ever heard." The ensuing conversation went like something like this:

Kaki King: I'm kind of the cauliflower, broccoli, sunflower seed thing. (Turning to Les) You're the pig with the apple in its mouth. You don't even have to worry.

Matt Nathanson: I want morbid obesity to happen in front of my stage.

King: I want to be the bacon platter! I'm pancakes covered in whipped cream! Don't leave!

Fired up: Liars.

And so we tried to gorge but never felt quite full.

I was thrilled for an opportunity to see Manu Chao, the pentalingual Latin punk singing about Zapatistas and immigration, since rarely plays in our evil empire and I’ve been improving my language skills with his Clandestino (Virgin France, 1998) for the past decade.

The show was all the high energy you’d expect, though with the crowd of college kiddos jumping up and down I felt stuck in the middle of a House of Pain video. It was here I formulated a new rule: If you haven't found a good enough spot by the second song, you probably won't, so just relax and enjoy the show from your vantage point, even though it’s not the best.

People’s incessant quest for the front, though understandable, got tiresome; I’m generally pampered, accustomed to getting as cozy as my little musical heart desires, up close, at local clubs, but I quickly realized Outside Lands – save for the smaller stages like Panhandle – was a different beast. Aside from the multi-performances-happening-at-one-time gripe, not being able to see your favorite performer was the most frequently heard bummer.

Predictably and wonderfully, Chao called our Prez "the most dangerous man on the planet.” He gave numerous shout-outs en español to all the Mexicanos in the overwhelmingly white, ostensibly pretty well-off-looking audience. Que hora son, mi corazon?

Still a 'Lost Cause'? Beck.

As soon as the last hearty applause began to wane, I spun around and made my way over to Beck, tucked down in the eucalyptus trees on the Sutro Stage, to listen - but again, not see - his last few songs, including the tear-jerker “Lost Cause” and a thankful blast from a happier past with “Where It’s At.” The space between the two shows was where my hope for still loving the newborn festival, despite the annoying throngs making me feel ancient and the eenie-meenie-miny-moe-catch-a-show-or-let-it-go conundrum, really took a dive.

Light and shadow: Radiohead.

Hundreds of people, crazy-eyed, were storming the gates, literally, in anticipation of Radiohead, set to play in an hour on Land’s End. Fences were down, and it wasn’t even like new paths were being carved but rather entire swaths of the park were getting trampled, mindlessly. Maybe this herd-like disrespect wouldn’t have been so personally irksome had the promoters not been so hyped on the festival being a celebration of the park and the city, of their histories and uniqueness. All I could feel was, “Ha! Like these kids give a shit! Beer, brah!”

True, whoever engineered the walkway between Lindley Meadows (home of the Sutro and Presidio stages) created a bottleneck incapable of supporting an impatient mob horny for Kid A. Yet I couldn’t help but wonder if these brats ever had to do shitty manual labor like putting up fences – and then having to work security to ensure they remained standing – and then put them up again.

Canned: The post-Radiohead view oF the recycling.

Plus there was the “greening” aspect, another pat-on-the-back for the organizers. As Claypool put it, while acknowledging the attempts toward sustainability, "Right now I'm leaving a carbon ass print." And though Kaki King chimed in about feeling less guilty playing a green festival since “it's crazy how much musicians pollute,” are carbon credits and an organic wine tent really enough to assuage guilt when hundreds of kooks who flew in on jets specifically for the festival can’t even get their biodegradable corn polymer disposable beer cup into one of the many compost bins dotting the smothered landscape? If you gave all 6 billion people in the world a Prius, is that greening the planet? C'mon.

I mean, is it not slightly ironic that Radiohead fans were eroding hillsides in frothing attempts to bask in the solar-powered glory of one the most environmental of mainstream rock bands? I love music, and I think large parties in its honor are worthy celebrations, in theory. But it doesn’t take a carbon mathematician to calculate the most ecological equation: support your local music scene!

And so, despite having heard some cool live music, I’d had enough and had to get outside Outside Lands and inside my house haven before I throttled someone with their hot pink keffiyeh. I’d wanted to catch Radiohead, a band I may be alone in for not really caring about but figured would be nice to experience nevertheless. But the prospect sounded too gruesome.

All that glitters: Radiohead.

Word on the streets the next day was, again, frustration with the inability to see the band. People were getting carried out on stretchers (drunk or smooshed or both?). My co-worker lamented that they only played their hits. Festivals appeal to the common denominator, at the very least. How else to keep 100,000 ticket-holders happy, to keep fences up?

But alas, Saturday, Aug. 23, was another day. If Friday was for the iPod generation, Saturday was for the KFOG one, bookended by aging Englishman Steve Winwood and the likable, three-decades-strong Tom Petty. There were enough fogies and hippies to balance the ubiquitous hipsters, and the vibe was palpably more easy-going.

I’d planned to see Winwood mainly to make my mama happy, but his performance ended up being one of my favorites, busting out "I'm a Man" from his teenage days with the Spencer Davis Group and finishing his set in minimalist style with only a trio on organ, drums, and Winwood on his pale seafoam Stratocaster.

The Walkmen generation.

On the recommendation of a new journalist-friend I caught New York indie rockers the Walkmen. The contrast between the massive audience at the headlining Land’s End and the wonderful intimacy of the Panhandle stage was flattening – I’m not sure if it was the closeness factor or the sound engineering or just typical of these well-dressed men-boys, but the Walkmen were fucking blaring. I’m used to seeing metal shows but god, I had my fingers in my near bleeding ears.

They played a lot of new songs off their soon-to-be-released album, You and Me (Gigantic Music), which is currently available on AmieStreet.com, with $5 going towards the Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center, and which you should buy because the songs are pretty darn lovely, sung all Dylan-esque and floating on the sweetest carousel melodies.

Loving Primus' Les Claypool.

Primus, next up, was a must-see. Les Claypool had promised he’d be “kicking off the dust,” trying to remember how to play the creeping bass lines of mid-‘90s hits “Here They Come,” “My Name Is Mud,” and the like. And they did, prompting – in tandem with getting hot-boxed in the open air – major flashbacks of fragrant afternoons accompanied by Pork Soda (Interscope, 1993). The space-bass jams and Claypool’s distinctly odd voice were singularly weird treats for the munchie crowd.

The sun, hiding somewhere in the western sky, began to go down, and the moment we’d all been waiting for (at least, for those over Radiohead or not feeling Sunday’s headliner, Jack Johnson) came out: Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.

From the northeastern corner of the central sound booth, Petty looked about 3 inches tall when he happened to mosey into my narrow view. But I really didn’t care it felt a lot like watching a concert on VHI with really good sound and way too many strangers in my living room. They played a set exclusively of hits, universal and timeless, spanning 1979’s “Even the Losers” to this decade’s “Honeybee,” with lots of lovably cheesy crowd sing-alongs (Petty: “Breakdown….,” Crowd: “…It’s all right!”) and channeling late, great Traveling Wilburys mates Roy Orbison and George Harrison with “End of the Line.” After repeated sound problems (there were more to come, as at Radiohead the previous night), the band re-emerged with Steve Winwood in tow, rocking “Can’t Find My Way Home” from Winwood’s Blind Faith period and “Gimme Some Lovin’” from the Spencer Davis Group era.

I couldn’t keep track of the number of vintage guitars Petty and veteran Heartbreaker Mike Campbell let shine from their stash. I’d prayed they’d play “Refugee,” and they did in closing, then returned to the stage for an “encore” (how can you have a genuine encore when your festival has a curfew?) of “Runnin’ Down a Dream,” Van Morrison’s 1964 three-chord spelling lesson “Gloria,” and “American Girl.”

This was the show to end my festival buffet. Friends reported Sunday’s Wilco set was a mighty fine one, though. Yet ultimately my two days inside Outside Lands spawned more questions than answers, ones I hope I’m not alone in considering but that Another Planet Entertainment, Superfly Presents, and the San Francisco Parks and Recreation Department are thinking about, too.

Those include, can Golden Gate Park really support three days of 150,000 people? Can the city - and in particular Muni (cheers to the San Francisco Bike Coalition, once again, for providing superb, safe, and fast valet bike parking)? Was this the first year of the next Bonnaroo? Will Outside Lands affect free shows in the park, namely the equally long, way mellower, upcoming Hardly Strictly Bluegrass? How long will it take for the grass stomped to a rank decomposition at the techie Crowdfire tent to recover? How do we balance the joy and pride of hosting a music festival with everything else?

The remnants of Friday night.

Can't lie: I've had Sunday, August 31 circled on my metal-show calendar for months. Judas Priest, Motorhead, Heaven and Hell (aka Black Sabbath as fronted by Dio), and Testament rocking the same bill? It's worth the drive down the peninsula to the Shoreline Amphitheater, where even sweaty mullets and overpriced fried grub won't be enough to dampen the awesomeness of Metal Masters. It's hard for me to type with both my hands curled into devil horns, but since Judas Priest guitarist KK Downing was kind enough to speak with me over the phone -- from Belgium, no less -- about Metal Masters, Priest's new concept album, and the evergreen appeal of metal, I'll do my best to transcribe our conversation here.

San Francisco Bay Guardian: How'd you get hooked up with the other bands for the Metal Masters bill?

KK Downing: As luck would have it, you know. This time, we really wanted to just go out and have some compatability between the bands. We came up with the idea of an all-British onslaught, and calling it the Masters of Metal. So we did our best to find, obviously bands that are into touring -- that didn't have tours booked, or were in the studio, or songwriting, or their wives were having babies, you know. It was kind of tough to put together. But as luck would have it, the bands -- all apart from Testament -- are obviously British, but we still think it's gonna be a great day out for people who really like some good old metal. I was gonna say "old-fashioned," but we're not that old-fashioned!

SFBG: No way, I mean, when we saw the line-up we were so excited. Testament did play a show here earlier this year, but they're from here.

KKD: Yeah, well, they've got a new, good record out, so everything's worked out great. They actually toured with us in 1990 on the Painkiller tour so it'll be fun to have those guys on board again.

SFBG: I saw that the new Judas Priest album, Nostradamus (Sony), marked the highest-ever chart debut for a Priest record in the US. Were you guys excited?

KKD: Sure, yeah! It's good, but obviously, with the record, I think records have to stand the test of time. Some of our most successful albums didn't even make it into the top 15, but they had long legs and seemed to run forever, and that's the important thing, really. But yeah, it's always nice!

SFBG: What do you think is the enduring power of metal? Obviously you guys have been around for awhile, and it seems like you're still attracting new fans. What about the genre keeps people loyal, yet continues to attract newcomers?

KKD: From a very young age, you get put into a certain lifestyle category. You seem to take interest in a style of music that's meaningful to you. I think for a lot of the metal fans, life hasn't always been perfect for everybody, and we have to endure. And I think we like a lot more depth, a lot more energy -- just something more out of music than just something to tap your foot to. Therefore, we become a sect, I don't know, a body of people. It's something that probably somebody could write a book on -- how people start to like different styles of music. But for my own part, we all came from a very industrial area in the UK, and we tend to like something like this style of music. And once that's what you're into, it's not something you can really turn away from.

SFBG:Are there any newer metal bands that you like?

KKD:I don't want to sound like a stickler, but when you're so involved in what you do yourself [pauses]. It's very difficult for new bands to come up with something that's very new and exciting. We just played with a young band from Australia called Airbourne. Lots of people say they're obviously a sort of AC/DC mimic type band. But then again, you know, there's room in the world for more than one AC/DC and I'm sure there's room for more than one Judas Priest, so why not, you know? And they rock out while they play, that's for sure.

SFBG:Nostradamus is a departure for Judas Priest -- it's a double album and a concept album. How did you come up with the idea, and how did you go about putting it together?

KKD: We've done many records, you know, in a traditional style for so many decades. A concept album is obviously different, and this is like a double CD, triple vinyl, 48-page book package about a real person, which allows us to give the record a lot more deepness and more emotion. When we finished the last record, people were saying, "What can Priest do next?" As if to say, we've done it all. So we went and produced this and we had a great time making it. I think we've continued to evolve as a band. Judas Priest, we've around a long time and to bring something new to the table, like Nostradamus, maybe bands and musicians around the world will think, it's OK to be melodic as well.

SFBG: It's also pretty bold to release an album like this in a time when all people seem to care about is the single -- this is a true, full album with a story that runs throughout the songs.

KKD: When we were making the album, people said "Oh, aren't you worried about people's attention span?" Like you said, it's so short these days. They'll cherrypick a few songs, and that. But I think I really disagree with that. I know for a fact that people will still sit down and read a good back, or people will still sit down and watch a good movie. So why shouldn't they sit down and listen to a good album? We advocate listening to this record obviously in its entirely if you possibly can -- on a long car journey, or on the plane, and just dissolve yourself into the mystical world of Nostradamus, and really try to follow the plot from beginning to end. That's how I used to listen to records back in the 1970s. I used to enjoy doing that. I rushed out and bought Jimi Hendrix's Electric Ladyland, which might not be a concept album, but it made you want to close the curtains, lock the door, put on your headphones, and just disappear into the world that the artist wanted you to be in for that amount of time. I do think a lot of music fans out there will know exactly what I'm saying.

SFBG: What was it about Nostradamus that made you want to tell his story?

KKD: We didn't know too much about him [at first]. But when the idea came up, we thought he was so intriguing, and the fact that he was a real person, and even 500 years on, he's still a bit controversial. There's a lot of stuff to get your teeth into about his life -- he was an alchemist, a metallurgist, a doctor, lost his wife in the plague, predicted the death of a king at the time, and ended up getting in trouble and persecuted by the church, sent out into exile. Later in life, he found love again and married and lived to a good age. But the end he still requested to be buried standing up -- he was some kind of character, really!

SFBG: What's the set list like for the Metal Masters tour?

KKD:We'd like to think we could play and perform Nostradamus in its entirely at some point, you know. Our manager managed the Who his whole life, and he was involved with Tommy. It would be great, I think. Judas Priest, we've been around for quite a few decades. We're moving into our fifth decade. If anybody can take us into the future, then it's certainly gonna be Nostradamus. But everybody knows, for Metal Masters, Judas Priest will bring all the bells and whistles. We'll play some [crowd-pleasers], but we'll also play some stuff that people have been wanting us to play for years but haven't played, and obviously some stuff off the new record. We'll continue to hopefully add more songs as the record becomes more known, and change the set around a bit -- the internet is such a great vehicle, but sometimes it can spoil the party! To be honest, from the stuff I've seen on YouTube, the sound is not that great and the visuals are not that clear. It certainly adds to the excitement to see the show in real life.

Judas Priest with Heaven and Hell, Motorhead, Testament
Sun/31, 5:30 p.m., $31-131
Shoreline Amphitheater
One Amphitheater Pkwy, Mtn View
(415) 421-TIXS

Wild and wooly Wilco. All photos by El Fotografo Clandestino.

El Fotografo Clandestino took aim at the third and last day, Sunday, Aug. 24, of the Outside Lands music fest in Golden Gate Park, SF. Here are a few of the artists, things, and people - look for more thoughts and images in this space.

Howl: Gift of Gab of Mighty Underdogs.

Whistle bait: Andrew Bird.

Bird face.

Among the artists enlisted to embellish Outside Lands stages was Barry McGee, who brought his iconic heads to the Twin Peaks area.

Bikes locked to a fence outside one of the entrances.

Closing in: Bon Iver.

Not too cool for school: The Cool Kids.

Bringing the funk: Sila and the Afrofunk Experience.

Party people: Toots and the Maytalls.


Gimme some truth: Lateef the Truth Speaker of the Mighty Underdogs.

On the outside of Outside Lands: Fans watch from outside the fence.

Outside no more: Fence jumpers abound.

Open wide: Widespread Panic.

Scoping out the Sutro stage.

Where there's a Wilco.

Crowd surfers: Jack Johnson fans.

Smooth sippin': Jack Johnson.

By Erik Morse

"It was only four tracks on the machine, but I was picking up 20 from the extra terrestrial squad...”

Reggae producer and dub pioneer Rainford Hugh Perry, a.k.a., Lee Perry, a.k.a. Scratch, a.k.a. the Upsetter, has a professional career that now stretches over half a century with thousands of studio tracks, production and songwriting credits. From Studio One to Amalgamated Records to his own Black Ark studio and label, Perry is second only to Bob Marley for his contribution to the worldwide popularity Jamaican music.

His list of compatriots reads like a Rosetta stone of Rastafarian music – Max Romeo, the Congos, King Tubby, and Augustus Pablo. His genre-bending work in ska, rocksteady, reggae, and dub has earned him the distinctive sobriquet of mad genius. But three generations of experimental artists - born under the sign of “I Am the Upsetter” and “Long Shot” - have since taken up the echo plate, leaving Perry a largely mythic and removed patrician of all-things woozy. At 72, Perry maintains a life of sobriety, with a Grammy to his credit and a permanent residence in Zurich. The Upsetter of late is far from the raving producer who once burned down his own backyard studio in a fit of rage.

Perry’s latest, the new Repentance (Narnack), is, like many of the Upsetter’s most exciting records, an ensemble effort, with a cast that includes recent collaborator Andrew WK – who takes over the number two position once held by the Mad Professor – along with Moby and Lightning Bolt. Reportedly a marriage of Perry’s classically opaque Babylon lyricism with a thoroughly modern sampladelic production courtesy of WK, Repentance will likely leave dub connoisseurs satisfied and all other neophytes bemused, if not slack-jawed.

Come see if Scratch has any more tricks up his sleeve!

Lee 'Scratch' Perry
With Heavyweight Dub Champion
Thurs/28-Fri/29, 9 p.m., $25
Independent
628 Divisadero, SF
(415) 771-1421

SHEARWATER
Rook
(Matador)

By Todd Lavoie

Shipwrecks, burning bodies, scattered deaths and sweeping acts of violence - welcome to the cold troubled world of Shearwater's fifth release, Rook, a world in which everyone and everything seems to be classified as either predator or prey. Here, hunters lurk behind tempo changes, bigger birds feast upon the carcasses of smaller birds to the flutter of circular guitar patterns, and the mighty ocean swells in cruel crescendos, threatening to engulf us all.

Scared? Intrigued? Titillated? Well, all of the above would be perfectly appropriate - the disc works plenty of heartbeat-skipping hoodoo from its gripping whirls of hushed ambient textures, elegant orchestral-pop melodrama, and jugular-bulging rock 'n' roll bombast. At the center of it all is singer-songwriter Jonathan Meiburg, a mild-mannered ornithologist - or, I assume he is mild-mannered, anyway, considering his expertise in the quiet, meditative field of bird-watching - who does not write lyrics as much as composes metaphor-heavy abstract poems and sets them to intricate song structures with little interest in rote verse/chorus/verse design.

Then, of course, there is his voice: a gorgeous, enormously versatile instrument that often manages to pack years worth of conflicting emotions within a single phrase, it is without doubt the swooping, howling-falsetto focal point of Shearwater's woodwind-and-string-laden experimental theatrics. Meiburg's expressive abilities are such that it's tough to imagine the idea of a casual Rook listener: his delivery, sensitive to every nuance demanded by the lyrics, tends to pull me ear-first against the other end of the microphone, eagerly awaiting the next word from his lips. Elements of Scott Walker come into focus, traces of Jeff Buckley. Here and there I hear Antony Hegarty, Thom Yorke. And lastly - but certainly not least - I pick up a lovely Mark Hollis (Talk Talk) vibe. Those who followed Talk Talk's metamorphosis from decent electro-pop outfit to one of the chief architects of post-rock will surely squeal in delight upon discovering Shearwater's daring forays into similarly oblique territories.

There are some clear common threads between Shearwater and the truly groundbreaking '80s/early '90s English band. Meiburg's plaintive vocals certainly reflect those of Hollis, and his band's whispered passages and concentration on the silent gaps between notes, frequently juxtaposed with blasts of shiver-inducing sonic let-go, do great justice in continuing the legacy of Talk Talk's much-feted 1988 masterpiece The Spirit of Eden (EMI).

A similar embrace of jazz experimentation and modern classical-composition sensibility echoes throughout Rook as well, thus defying categorization in ways not unlike that of its spiritual godfather. (One significant difference, however: Shearwater are far more willing to bring the capital-r Rock, as evidenced by the thundering full-throated yelp of "Century Eyes," for example.) Shearwater even elected to show off their Talk Talk gratitude with a revelatory cover of The Spirit Of Eden's "The Rainbow" as the b-side on their recent "Rooks" 7-inch single. Completists, you seriously need this.

Rook floats into perception amidst gentle murmurs of piano and a weightless Meiburg vocal as the listener is thrust onto a ship about to crash. Despite the drama about to unfold, our narrator flutters above, removed and detached - much like the uncaring night sky he describes in smooth sighing legatos. And so begins "On the Death of the Waters" - with a sense of serenity you know just won't last. For good reason, too, as the following lyrics should tip you off: "Turn your bow to the biggest wave / but your angel's on holiday / and that wave rises slowly /and breaks." Just as Meiburg finishes elongating the last fateful word by slicing it clean with a hard "S" sound, a tempest of horns, guitar feedback, and raging drums burst into focus - perhaps minus the brass section, there is something downright Pink Floydian about the unsettling outburst. (Think The Wall or maybe even more accurately The Final Cut.)

Forty seconds later, the storm has passed, the bodies have been strewn - and the song recedes in a trail of delicate piano notes, as if the carnage never happened. "Rooks" could very readily lend itself to a litany of interpretations, but I prefer to think of it as a vision of a world in which mankind slowly dies off and world-supremacy is taken over by birds. Still, any illusions of a possible birdtopia are quickly squashed by the brute reality of the animal kingdom: "Where the swallows fell from the eaves / and gulls from the spires / The starlings, in millions / would feed on the ground where they lie." A mesmerizing circular guitar pattern ripples away underneath the storytelling as Meiburg delivers the curious kicker: "So we stay inside / and we'll sleep until the world of man is paralyzed."

"Leviathan, Bound" begins with the insistent ringing of a dulcimer, joined by a howling cry of falsetto from Meiburg. A similarly intense minimalist-piano thrust joins in, but the gravity of the accompanying hunter-and-hunted imagery is somewhat leavened by xylophone twinkles and twirling string-section embellishments. Lest anyone think the darkness has nearly passed, Meiburg imparts this shuddering image: "Where the great dark body writhes / and the trembling jaw / the unfathoming sounds / of Leviathan, bound." Not exactly a lullaby.

"Home Life" is the disc's sprawling, all-consuming highlight, a seven-minute shapeshifter that gathers its hypnotic pull from rolling tom rhythms that feel quite reminiscent of the drum-language complexities of Talk Talk's Paul Webb. That being said, this is perhaps the track most likely to garner comparisons to the band, thanks also to the inventive use of woodwinds and Meiburg's Mark Hollis-like ghost-falsetto. It also boasts some of the album's most alluringly obtuse imagery, folding elements of the natural world into the gradually unwinding human drama with gloriously open-ended results.

This is a theme which recurs throughout Rook, particularly effectively on the haunting cool-falsetto-pirouetted "I Was a Cloud," its curious blurring of bird imagery and interpersonal sentiment making for a nice round of poetic head-scratching against the song's exquisitely understated piano and guitar textures. "Fear for your home life, sparrow," Meiburg warbles ominously, thus yanking us from any sort of fleeting pastoral reverie. "Fear for your home life." Such strangely unnerving pleas seem to be a regular occurrence for Shearwater - and as much as I might flinch in expectation of that crushing final blow each and every time, I cannot help but come back for more.

Here's a clip "Rooks" playing against a backdrop of the album art:

SHEARWATER
Thurs/28, 8 p.m., $15
Great American Music Hall
859 O'Farrell, SF
(415) 885-0750

By Sonny Smith

When I met musician John Murry, Memphis transplant, I naturally asked him about hometown. He told me: “When I first got out here I had to be told I couldn’t keep a pistol in my glove box.”

Murry has been here for four years - creating a music label, Evangeline Records; playing in a few bands; ruffling some feathers; and raising his daughter. “The thing is, people from Memphis are basically from Mississippi, or maybe Arkansas," he said. "Memphis is the capitol of Mississippi. There is a fair share of disputes settled by knives and guns.... The scene there is kind of beautifully dysfunctional - everybody chasing after everybody’s wives and stuff.”

He’s put a lot of records out in a short time with Evangeline. “My family was intertwined with William Faulkner’s. The Murrys and the Faulkners intermarried three or four times," he said. "My grandfather owned some property signed over by Bill, and when he died the grandkids got a little bit of money." His friend, artist Bob Frank, also brought some money to the project.

“It’s a ridiculously fair label," Murry continued. "I just built it the way I thought labels were supposed to be. I just don’t make anything. I don’t think artists should ever be in debt to a label. Artists are already in debt - spiritual debt. Without artistic freedom you don’t have art - there can’t be a compromise. I don’t tell the artists anything about how it should be or what would sell.”

Murry started playing onstage not long after arriving in San Francisco: he sang some murder ballads, some dark southern songs. “The scene was so ridiculously hip," he observed. "The smug look on everybody’s face made me wanna punch someone in the face. I guess I was feeling like aggravating the situation - or just aggravating myself, or shocking myself or someone. There was lynching in the lyrics and the word "nigger" and stuff - and so I just put this little confederate flag sticker on my guitar."

It got him tangled up with some local scenesters who were offended. “I grew up where it’s mostly black," Murry explained. "I know black people - it’s probably not something I’d do in the south, but here in San Francisco, it just seemed like something people need here. They’re so incredibly self-righteous.... There was some problem with the soundman, and they thought I had a problem with the soundman because he was gay or something. So I was kind of accused of being racist and anti-gay…”

The story of his arrival coincides poetically with his reason for leaving Memphis. “My wife got a job out here," said Murry. "She used to do a bunch of activism stuff, standing in front of bulldozers and stuff. When the human resources guy found out she was an activist he refused to let her teach in the public schools. We had to get out.”

Born in Tupelo, the man dropped out of high school at 15. “They just make you read horrible shit in the schools," he said. "My whole family was a little weird about literature cause of Faulkner being our cousin and everything.” He sat in with Mississippi All Stars when Duane Burnside was gone. He idolized Greg Cartwright of the Compulsive Gamblers. “I love all that pseudo ‘60s stuff,” Murry said. He did some sound work on the first movie of Hustle and Flow's Craig Brewer.

The city could use a little of Murray’s Memphis here in San Francisco. Take this story from the man: “There was this one time Bob Frank was in the studio, at Knox Phillips - that’s the old Sun records run by his [Sam's] son. Bob’s in there. They get in some argument with some guy. Bob says, “The confederacy is a lost cause." The guy flips out. They’d frisked him at the door, but I guess he had a gun hid in his boot. "The hell with that," the guy says, and he pulls the gun out and shoots it off somewhere. Everybody hits the deck. Everybody except Jim Dickinson who was at the board still trying to fiddle with the knobs. They tell Jim, 'Get down, man,' and he says, 'Nah, there’s not enough reverb on the pistol.'

"It doesn’t really matter if it’s true or not.”


BOB FRANK AND JOHN MURRY
With Jeffrey Luck Lucas and Silver Darling
Mon/25, 8 p.m., $10
Cafe du Nord
2170 Market, SF
(415) 861-5016
www.cafedunord.com

He won't back down: Tom Petty. All photos by Lars Howlett.

Photographer Lars Howlett took in the second day, Saturday, Aug. 23, at the Outside Lands music fest in Golden Gate Park, SF. Here are a few of the sights - expect more in this space.

Lupe Fiasco in your face.

The Coup keep it real.


Cake beneath the bowers.

Brass 'n' Cake.

The Cake crowd at Lindley Meadow.

Gone fishin': Guardian covergirl Rupa.

The early crew comes out for Rupa and the Fishes.

Passion play: Ben Harper.

Phat hat: Cafe Tacuba.

String theory: Abigale Washburn fronts the Sparrow Quartet.

Bela Fleck sits in with the Sparrow Quartet.

Bring it: the Coup.

On the loose: Devendra Banhart and company.

Lupe Fiasco makes a stand.

Tongues untied: Liars.

Local folk: Sean Hayes.

Rock that cuts through the fog: Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.

Manu Chao go mano y mano. All photos by Lars Howlett.

Photographer Lars Howlett caught the first day, Friday, Aug. 22, of Outside Lands music fest. Here are a few images from the night - and look out for more.

Check your head.

Steel Pulse breaks open the beat as the first band Friday night at the Lands End main stage.

Charles Walker kicks it with the Dynamites.

Give the man a mic: Lyrics Born.

Warming up the Presidio stage: Carney.

The artist's - and photographer's - view of the crowd.

Radiohead's blue period: the band had to be bummed about the two times during their set that the sound went dead.

The long wait for Muni after the show (and it only got worst, says Howlett).

PAUL WELLER
22 Dreams
(Island/Yep Roc)

By Todd Lavoie

The buzz-buzz-buzz in eardrums and across the pages of blogs and music rags hither and yon is all about Paul as of late - no shock there, if you've had the good fortune to hear the Modfather's expansive (and reputation-expanding) 21-track epic, 22 Dreams.

Plenty of garlanded praise and eyebrow-raising declarations have been lavished upon Weller since the album's initial release in Britain at the beginning of June, thus piquing the curiosity of American folks like me who have always enjoyed the vocalist's solo work but had felt a little less spark for his recent output (and were shy of paying a hefty import-only CD price tag - crossing fingers for an eventual stateside release).

There was something almost rigidly straightforward about much of 2005's As Is Now (Yep Roc), for example - solid as it was, it offered relatively few shocks. Similar critiques had been offered now and again throughout his solo career, truth be told - surely the downside of his having set such a high standard for himself with the unimpeachable catalogs of the Jam and the Style Council prior to going at it alone. As Is Now made for a good listen, but it felt like it was missing something. Adventure? Drama? The element of surprise, perhaps?

Fast-forward to June, and I was positively a-twitter in anticipation of 22 Dreams hitting the US market. "Best album of his solo career," I'd read somewhere in the British press. "Finest Weller album in forever," I'd peeped elsewhere. Yep, I was intrigued to say the least, albeit guardedly so, having occasionally fallen prey in the past to the prone-to-hyperbole prose served up by the likes of the NME.

And here we are, with the domestic issue of 22 Dreams - at last! - prominently displayed in the new releases racks of any decent self-respecting record shop, and I am more than willing to throw yet another log on the roaring fire of adoration for Paul Weller's latest. So, it's that good, you ask? Yes. Emphatically so. I can't think of the last time he sounded so energized, so thrillingly reckless, so willing and eager to have a go at whatever seems to strike his fancy at the moment.

In this sense, the album shares the same spirit with the finest moments of the Jam and the Style Council, moments such as the former's "Beat Surrender" and "English Rose" and the latter's "Walls Come Tumbling Down," in which Weller appeared open to choosing any and every avenue for expression. Over the course of 21 songs, everything from moody folk to interplanetary jazz to lusty soul makes an appearance, frequently drifting together with fanciful transitions - thus creating the impression of a prolonged dream-state, as the title would suggest.

As strong as the songwriting is here, much of 22 Dreams' mettle draws from the careful sequencing given to these remarkably disparate tracks: listen closely, and you're likely to hear a piano chord or a spell of guitar feedback in one song sliding itself into the intro of the next. Hence, the chamber-string outro on the anguished folk anthem "Why Walk When You Can Run" ushers in the soulful marimba-and-percussion-click, which announces the arrival of the thumping organ-whirr-bedazzled floorburner "Push It Along," and the one-two shot feels like the most natural thing in the world.

And while we're on the subject of pushing along, I should also give a shout to the serious momentum the song gathers by the end, having worked its way through a jittery, guitar-squalling stomp groove and into a rousing a capella (well, with tambourine) finale. Almost without a break, the number gives way to the one-minute psychedelic rave-up entitled "A Dream Reprise," a horn-squealing, looped-feedback instrumental pelvis-workout. It's a frenzied revisit/reinterpretation of the title track, a nervy piece of Carnaby Street funk showcasing deliriously mod party guitar wah-wah from Weller acolyte Barrie Cadogan (of Little Barrie fame.) Such is the nature of 22 Dreams - elements bleed into each other from song to song, themes recur, echoes continue onward and outward.

While it is quite illuminating to listen to 22 Dreams' far-reaching, hour-plus sprawl as an entire whole - as well as being a good stubborn rally cry for the double-album conceit in an era of iPod random-shuffle ubiquity - taken as isolated songs, the disc's individual components work just as effectively.

Opener "Light Nights" is one of the most entrancing Weller tunes to date, its vehement 12-string guitar strokes pairing up with quasi-Eastern violin and cello to fashion an oxblood-dark strain of folk-blues, recalling a little Pentangle or maybe even Paul Giovanni's score to the 1973 film The Wicker Man. Weller is joined by Hannah Andrews, whose enflamed harmonies here are reminiscent of those of Fairport Convention's Sandy Denny on the Led Zeppelin classic "The Battle of Evermore" - and while I'm not saying he sounds too much like Robert Plant, he does appear to be summoning similar spirits in the process. "Have You Made Up Your Mind" continues the rock/soul hybridizing so firmly associated with the Jam, its garage swagger, lush faux-strings, and sweet-as-punch falsetto cries joining forces to create one of the most memorable Motown tributes since his former band's 1982 impeccably crafted single "The Bitterest Pill (I Ever Had to Swallow)."

And speaking of Motown: "Empty Ring," a bell-twinkling slice of orchestral-soul in which strings, woodwinds, and pianos curlicue around an authoritative rolling beat and Weller's marvelously rich husky baritone, pays glorious homage to Marvin Gaye's 1971 masterpiece What's Going On. Weller's excursions into folk-soul territory are also impressive, especially the Terry Callier-evoking "Cold Moments" - thanks to its graceful piano runs and sunshine-glow organ accompaniment. For those who haven't listened to Weller in a while, you're in for a treat: his voice has taken on an extraordinary depth in recent years, and comparisons to Callier (and Gaye) are not exactly out of line.

"Black River" - including Graham Coxon on drums - is a slightly inebriated English music hall number, topped off with the occasionally bawdy piano-bar rinky-dink twinkling of the ivories. Reminds me a bit of the early days of David Bowie, when he was doing the Anthony Newley thing - and, perhaps coincidentally, perhaps not, I think I'm picking up a little of Coxon's former band Blur (themselves indebted to Weller) along the way. Fluff, I suppose, but fun fluff nonetheless.

For more serious endeavors, consult the free-floating orbits of "Song For Alice," a shape-shifting instrumental dedicated to the late great Alice Coltrane. Amid the piano scale runs, sneaky tempo changes, and weepy trumpet sighs (courtesy of the always-wonderful Robert Wyatt), I can almost hear traces of her 1970 stunner Journey in Satchidananda (Impulse) - sure there's no oud or bells, but I can feel the presence nonetheless.

Having saved the best for last, I must now gush about "One Bright Star," a haunting tango which, to get right down to it, is probably the most romantic piece of music I have heard all year. Combining delicate Spanish guitar, drifting horns, and sobbing ripples of mandolin (sounding curiously like balalaikas) in a string-laden orchestration sent heavenward by Hannah Andrews' wordless flutters, Weller has convincingly composed a genuine weeper set to accompany the rolling credits of an imaginary Pedro Almodovar film. "Without you, I feel nothing / My one / bright star / shine for me," he beseeches over the irresistible 1-2-3, 1-2-3 tango rhythm. Honestly, who'd say no?

Start planning ahead: Paul Weller will play the Fillmore, 1805 Geary, SF, on Thursday, Sept. 4, at 8 p.m. Tickets are $45 and will be totally worth it.

Here's the video for 22 Dreams' "Echoes Round the Sun," co-written with Oasis' Noel Gallagher. Delicious strings:

Tales from... : Tre of the Pharcyde. All photos by Mosi Reeves

By Mosi Reeves

Rock the Bells was tiring but fun. The Aug. 16 event showcased 14 acts on the main stage, as well as an additional eight on a side stage, and the only way to catch them all was to run around Shoreline Amphitheatre like a chicken with its head cut off.

The day began super-early at 10:40 a.m. with Jay Electronica. I didn’t arrive to the stadium until 11:30 a.m., just in time to catch Washington, DC, rapper Wale finish his set with “W.A.L.E.D.A.N.C.E.,” his hit viral remix of Justice’s “D.A.N.C.E.” That meant I spent an exhausting 11 hours at Shoreline. Other audience members were less committed: the venue didn’t reach capacity until around 4 p.m. Still, it was a little early in the morning for hip-hop.

“Hip-hop doesn’t really start until noon,” said Murs before launching into popular underground cuts like “Silly Girl,” “L.A.,” and “Lookin’ Fly,” a new track from his upcoming album Murs for President. The great thing about Rock the Bells is that it draws audiences that actually know who Murs is. He enthusiastically ended his set by saying how grateful he was to be on the main stage this year - last year, he headlined the "Paid Dues" side stage (named after a festival he launched in 2006) for the West Coast leg of the tour. “I get to have cereal with De La Soul. I dare y’all to enjoy yourselves more than me.”

Live forever: Immortal Technique.

While Murs seemed just happy to be there, dead prez spent much of its set talking shit about Barack Obama, effectively dismissing him as just another pandering politician. “Y’all might not hear me this year, but next year y’all be like, ‘Yeah, y’all DP niggas was on point,’” Stic.man promised before he and M-1 launched into “Hell Yeah.” The duo subsequently cheapened their ad-hoc political analysis by making fun of the staff security: “Yo, I see some fat white CIA agents out there.”

While dead prez drew mostly cordial applause - save for their classic “(It’s Bigger Than) Hip-Hop” - Immortal Technique elicited awestruck cheers. Like dead prez, Immortal Technique espouses dangerously radical ideas – the chorus of one of his best-known songs, “Bin Laden,” he raps, “Bin Laden didn’t blow up the projects / It was you, nigga / Tell the truth, nigga / Bush knocked down the towers.” But he had so much crazy, angry energy that you couldn’t help but be drawn in. Plus, his DJ, GI Joe, absolutely killed it as he beat-juggled Rob Base and DJ EZ-Rock’s “It Takes Two” into frenzied noise.

Bells on: B.O.B. and Big Rich at Rock the Bells.

Meanwhile, most of the side acts - from Baltimore’s DJ Blaqstarr to Atlanta’s B.O.B. - seemed to draw muted responses. People seemed to use the awkwardly named “Culture Club” stage as a way station to stretch their feet and hang out until the next main stage act appeared. Blaqstarr flipped hip-hop with house and techno like Crystal Waters' “100% Pure Love” and Richie Hawtin, but couldn’t get the crowd moving. However, the Pack drew a sizable audience.

(Curiously the Cool Kids - who have appeared on most of Rock the Bells’ itinerary - weren’t at the Mountain View date. I wanted to ask the Pack what they thought about the Cool Kids, whose sound is eerily similar to theirs, but I couldn’t catch up to them.)

Some of the side-stage artists seemed distinctly out of place. For example, B.O.B. makes Southern-style crunk, but imbues it with such creativity that he has been touted as a possible successor to Andre 3000, and someone who can draw in Jeezy-styled thugs and Dungeon Family heads alike. But for now, he’s simply a love-it-or-hate-it proposition, though some were impressed when he broke out an acoustic guitar and sang a winsome love song. However, the crowd didn’t really perk up until All City’s Big Rich, San Quinn, and Boo Banga gave a surprise rendition of their local anthem “San Francisco.” People were so gassed that they performed the song twice.

In years past, Rock the Bells has been dismissed as a nostalgia fest for aging B-boys. True, the hip-hop landscape as teenage wasteland has always been a myth: Lil Wayne is in his late 20s, Rick Ross and Kanye West are in their early 30s, and Jay-Z is nearing 40. However, it strikes at a quandary that festival promoter Guerilla Union, by booking such newfangled and still-developing acts such as collegiate hipsters Kidz in the Hall and the infernal Tyga, is now addressing for the first time in Rock the Bells four-year history: how to build a successful festival that reflects hip-hop’s future as well as its golden age past?

If the Mountain View date is any indication, the experiment drew mixed results. People wanted to hear the hits. Raekwon and Ghostface, De La Soul, Meth and Red, and the Pharcyde (with all four members performing together for the first time in more than a decade) gave it to them in spectacular fashion. (Only the legendary Rakim, always a dicey live performer at best, drew appreciative but spark-less cheers when he rapped his classics.) But when Mos Def veered from his solo and Black Star hits in favor of improvised freestyles over reggae flavors and Melle Mel’s “The Message,” the crowd’s interest seemed to wane. Hip-hop is such a crazily energetic art form that the alternative - studious if virtuosic musicianship - inevitably seems less exciting.

Back at the so-called “Culture Club” stage, Spank Rock and Amanda Blank were leading a sex jam. “All y’all rappers and backpackers walking around like you’re all cool and shit. Fuck y’all,” shouted MC Spank Rock from the stage. Meanwhile, Amanda Blank, perhaps in an attempt to become the white version of Lil Kim, spat super-filthy rhymes with impressive speed. Nearly every word out of her mouth was pussy, cock, or some close derivation. It was amusing to watch, but a crowd of 100 hipster kids really got into it. At one point, the stage filled with girls vying to give MC Spank Rock a lap-dance. The entire spectacle was a counter-revolution to the main stage, where Nas was leading his fervent believers through “One Mic” and “Made You Look.” “I’m proud to be here,” said Nas at one point. “I’m a fan, goddammit!”

Leave headliners A Tribe Called Quest to sum up Rock the Bells’ mix of old glories and new controversies. Sometime near 9 p.m., Q-Tip took the stage with three side musicians, DJ Scratch and Mos Def, who was moonlighting as a hypeman. Wearing a blue Members Only jacket with red stripes on the shoulders, he danced around the stage like Michael Jackson as he performed “Higher” and “Gettin’ Up,” two singles from his years-in-the-making - and still unreleased - album, The Renaissance. As a massive digital billboard seemingly stolen from Daft Punk’s arsenal blinkered and dazzled, the crowd stared straight ahead. People were into it, I guess, but my feeling - and thinking - was, where the fuck is Tribe?

Eventually, though, Q-Tip slowly reeled the audience in with a trio of recognizable tracks: “Let’s Ride,” “Breathe and Stop,” and “Vivrant Thing.” Then the lights shut off for a brief minute. When they were relit, Q-Tip stood onstage with his Tribe - Phife, Jarobi, and Ali Shaheed Muhammad - and the four gave the people what they wanted.