Heaven knows, William Bowers is the new movement in town.

Provincializm: Spandex From Spain

I'm giving that Monday columnist one last jab at my Pitchfork homesnakes before I’ll stoop to spoof more than his sagacious one-sentence-paragraph leads. What I mean to say is:

Dancepunk 2.0 is the new hair-metal 2.0.

Are you?

<3
SOTC

The Virgins headline the Mercury Lounge tonight with Lissy Trullie & The Fibs, Frankpollis, and Eric Gaffney (of Sebadoh). Tickets available here.

What that Jack Daniels guitar will do to a man...

Our next-door neighbor has a newsflash:

It's a return engagement from Everett True, publisher of Plan B. Last week, he blew Jon Spencer a kiss. This week, he recalls knowing who Monster Bobby and the Pipettes were way before you. He was there and you weren't. E-mail Everett at everett@planbmag.com.

Monster Bobby has no pupils.

Hugs and Kisses

It reminded me of Olympia, WA.

It wasn't much. A half-dozen chairs pushed to one side, a woman behind the bar serving reasonably priced beer, a boy on stage playing sweet, plangent songs of loss and heartache on acoustic guitar, followed by a boy on stage playing coy glitchtronica, followed by two men on stage dipping into the Television Personalities songbook with just a Casio for accompaniment. . . but it felt so special. The rain teemed down outside, as it so often does in my hometown of Brighton; everyone was smiling; no call for ostentation or ceremony. It's how I like my music presented.

photo by Jake Price

No Context

By Zach Baron

MoMA curator Barbara London introduced Paper Rad featuring Cory Arcangel, “an evening of live performances, art, and music” presented in conjunction with the museum's threadbare “Automatic Update” show, by thanking “Paper Rad, Cory, and all the other bands.” That London couldn’t be bothered to parse the Pittsburg via Providence collective’s “Summer Jam Paper Rad” lineup – Dr. Doo, Extreme Animals, and Slow Jams Band – was nothing out of the ordinary. These Pop Rally evenings assuage not just the artists’ assistants and up-market downtowners who gather for the reflected glamour of dancing within feet of a Rodin but the curators, for whom the events serve as a sort of antidote to thirty years of Henry Darger or Martin Ramirez-related guilt and recrimination.

Last week, we asked you to guess the name of William Bowers's weekly SOTC column. Boy, that was a real hoo ha—is The Bower Hour really the best you could do? The correct answer is Provincializm—and in case you missed the gratuitous bio the first time around, a quick refresher: the dude writes for Pitchfork, Paste, Magnet, plus his work's been in a da Capo anthology. Send him your spiritual healing at Puritan Blister.

DJ Housemate on a mission from God in the Midway Airport.

Provincializm: Hot Wet Faith

Nope, this has nothing to do with New York. But it's Morrissey in Alabama. And since SOTC crack correspondent Rob Trucks was already on the scene, we had to have him report back.

Morrissey
July 19
Alabama Theatre

Morrissey Visits The Dentist For The First Time Since Viva Hate And Plays A Show. In Birmingham, Alabama. Or, The Queen Is Southern. For A Night.

By Rob Trucks

Back on Monday with none other than Everett True, author of Nirvana: The Biography (da Capo Press) and publisher of Plan B Magazine. Week one, True said goodbye to Punk Planet. Week two, he said hello to antifolk. This week, he blows Jon Spencer a kiss. E-mail Everett at everett@planbmag.com.

Heavy Trash

Hugs and Kisses

Heaven knows, I'm no fan of Jon Spencer.

M.I.A. actually stops her set to put on lipstick. Seriously.

Matt and Kim; photos by Rebecca Smeyne

Not to be all rah-rah for the home team here, but come the fuck on — put M.I.A., Matt & Kim, the Black Lips, and the White Rabbits on the same bill and I'm gonna gush about that line-up no matter who made it happen. So let's curtsy for Jacques Steinberg and move along; it's time for some highlights.

The Black Lips brought out a really dirty chicken, then launched a PVC-piped cannon of feathers onto the crowd. M.I.A. made every male within a five-mile radius have a minor heart attack when she intro'd "Boyz" by hollering, "I'm sinnnngggle now! Where's my boys at?" (Trust me, Maya, they were there.) And drumroll please . . . Kim spoke!

It was just that kind of day. Here's a full-on gallery of photos from the day. More to come eventually.