Yup, Bad Brains played a boat this past Monday night for their first New York concert since a series of three sold out shows last year at CBGB. We sent intrepid punk-rock photographer John E. Coli Nikolai to the scene and he reported back: "It was a weird night. The band is great but the singer may as well be a hamster for all of the energy he puts into it."

But Nikolai did have a moment with HR. "Before the show, HR told [me] that everything is groovy and that the gravy would be coming later. Or something like that." More photos and a fishwrapped synopsis to follow.

HR dances (sort of, he barely moved) before Bad Brains’ set.

They're actually father and son.

More flicks, including a full set list and some tattooed ladies, after the jump.

These people did not get there on time; photo by Cami D

Pointer about shows at Soundfix Records: Be punctual. A couple Saturdays ago, while the many of you were watching hi-fi equipment incarnate at SummerStage, about 70-ish of us agoraphobic types trickled into Soundfix's back lounge area to see a show somewhere it wasn't raining balls. The afternoon's excuse was Oneida (new and improved—with a wind instrument and an Ex-Models guitarist!), a longtime band of Brooklyn art-rockers whose hour-worth of meandering guitar squalls and organ-spazz jams, along with a particularly rockin' coke-head taunt called "Snow Machine," were all a rather fine complement to a $5 Hoegaarden at four in the afternoon.

Havta admit, though, I'm a sucker for the place since it's been redone. Sometimes bands list their shows there as "in-store" performances, but it's not like they're serenading CD racks—it's a backroom venue with a bar. Been there twice in the last month and both times they blared Battles' mathy-Black-Diced anthem "Atlas"—never a bad look. Sightlines aren't terrific considering that the band is barely elevated, but the room's laidback, with large sunny windows and a little patio area for smokers. Again, the Hoegaarden.

Back to that tip: get there on time. Got there for Oneida at the scheduled hour and managed to grab a barstool—within 20 minutes, the entire back room was packed, standing-room only. A week or two earlier for Lonely Dear/Sea and the Cake, I got there 15 minutes late, the room was rush-hour L-Train touchy-feely, so I spent Lonely Dear's set with elbows in my body parts. That was a couple degrees of suck.

Anyway, some really great upcoming free shows at Soundfix.

Friday, Jun 29: Bryan Scary and the Shredding Tears, 8pm
Sunday, Jul 1: Dengue Fever, 7pm
Thursday, Jul 12: Patton Oswalt, 8pm
Saturday, Jul 14: Balun, 6pm
Sunday, Jul 15: Land Of Talk, 8pm
JUST ADDED, Friday, July 20: Lewis & Clarke CD release, 8 pm
Saturday, July 21: O'Death [time TBA]
Saturday, July 28: Get Him Eat Him, 3pm
Saturday, August 18: Black Moth Super Rainbow, 3pm

Oneida, bad photo by Cami D

On the left, that's Shahin Motia, who plays with Oneida drummer Kid Millions in the Ex-Models

Beach House at Soundfix Records, last CMJ, courtesy of Soundfix

Beirut at Soundfix last summer/before reopening, courtesy this dude

photo by Rob Trucks

Manu Chao
Prospect Park Bandshell
June 26

By Rob Harvilla

Manu Chao sure loves the word corazón. (Spanish for “heart,” for those of you who didn’t spend their high school years trying to translate “My Name Is Prince” into “Me Llamo Prince.”) (Y yo soy funky.) Corazón, thankfully, clearly loves Manu Chao back—three graceful syllables that elegantly fuse with his booming hey-there’s-a-keg-over-here bellow, a sweet burst of sentimentality in the midst of party-time trilingual rants delivered with the joy and populist zeal of election victory speeches. You’ve never seen so much fist-pumping in your life.

So the word shows up in nearly every Manu Chao song. Here’s another thing that shows up in every Manu Chao song: a double-time hardcore polka breakdown. Whether a midtempo reggae jammer, a tender bilingual ballad, or a jovial Clash City Rocker—and whether sung in English, Spanish, French, or some combo thereof (he was born in France, to Spanish parents)—every tune eventually breaks down to a manic but cuddly oompahoompahoompahoompah, wherein the fist-pumping reaches biblical levels, both in the crowd and onstage. For his part, Manu, flanked by two lovable shirtless brutes on bass and guitar, respectively, does a little dance routine—they chant the chorus, take five giant steps backward, pause, take five giant steps forward, chant the chorus, repeat. This is often accompanied by fist-pumping. A drummer and a percussionist wale away behind them, along with a keyboardist whose parts only involve one hand at a time so as to facilitate his own constant fist-pumping, usually accompanied by jumping. It’s all very Andrew W.K.

And lo, do the Prospect Park masses throw down, shaking their various thangs in distinct and wondrous and hyperactive ways—picture the dance-party scene in A Charlie Brown Christmas, heavy on The Linus. (Run in place, bob head from side to side.) Manu is a repeat offender here and a huge draw with whom Craigslist scalpers are intimately familiar. Whereas his tunes lope lazily on record (peruse his work with Mano Negra, or a solo career last prominent here thanks to 2001’s Proxima Estación: Esperanza), onstage they all succumb to oompahoompahoompahoompah delirium, a call-and-response anthem template that produces goofy, infectious jams like “Me Gustas Tu.” (He likes you, you see, in addition to his guitar, and marijuana.) He’s got a new one out this fall—lead single “Rainin’ in Paradize” is a fairly straightforward new-wave rocker, with the sharp-voweled bite of a vintage Police tune. But live the tunes all melt into one amorphous jam, great fun all around and quite ideal for people-watching. (On the first truly hot summer night, though, hydration is an issue—lotsa security guards rushing to the bar to snag bottles of water for wobbly revelers.) Manu is also enjoying himself, judging by the 15 to 20 minutes solid he spends waving goodbye to the crowd amid a fake-ending–fattened encore that felt like it took 45 minutes, excessive but understandably so, Manu at center stage, earnest smile on his face, pounding the microphone against his corazón.

Manu Chao headlines the Prospect Park Bandshell again tonight Wednesday, June 27. Ticket says 6:30, but show time is 8 pm—and it's hella mucho sold out.

photos by Rob Trucks

photo by Rebecca Smeyne

Superchunk + Oakley Hall
McCarren Pool Park
June 24

By Zach Baron

“We’re not good at dramatic entrances,” is Superchunk bassist Laura Ballance’s line when she gets onstage. Brooklyn Borough President Marty Markowitz’s is “In 577 days, Bush goes back to Texas!” and Oakley Hall’s Pat Sullivan goes with “This one goes out to all the chic-ly radical people out in that new high rise over there.” All of them uttered the words “pool party,” which seemed disingenuous given that the only water in sight was the filmy, greasy trickle that coated a nearby slip n’ slide.

Anyway, that new high rise over there was presumably one of the many developments nearing completion on the edges of Greenpoint’s McCarren Park—developments which, if you’re being honest, are probably no more an eyesore than the sybaritic vision of the pool’s thousands of half-naked (tops and bottoms and tattoos all jiggling and distending) young folks, faces et al turning red in the heat. Call the day’s class war a draw.

At county fairs and folk festivals all across this country some version of Oakley Hall is thoroughly comfortable and even accustomed to stages as big as the one erected above McCarren’s empty pool. From the blankets and beachballs, the eyes closed in reverie, it was clear this was an experience people were in fact reliving, Oakley Hall’s particular rural allusions catching fire under the sun and bursting into a real life. They make hippie jokes — like “As if I weren’t enough of a hippie in this hat here, I just pulled out a twelve-string guitar” — but the fact is they make music for America's straight and normals, mom and dad and the kids and the craft fair. Which if you squinted, you could almost see, though not — for literally thousands of reasons — quite.

Superchunk also, as a friend put it, hurtle you back. Their college-rock façade is so intact as to be seamless: Ballance’s Tank Girl chic, her two-footed festival hop; Mac’s self-deprecating, nice guy stage banter (“I just realized something: We have to do that song again because I left my laminate on”); bald heads, Converse, boots and button downs, the slacker remainders of a loyally ‘90s band. They apologized for swearing on “Slack Motherfucker” as if there was someone there to be offended, or maybe just to see who was still in on the joke—after playing the song for 17 years, the only thing Superchunk probably worries about is how many people are going to know the words.

At McCarren, more than a few, and those who didn’t figured them out.

photos by Rebecca Smeyne

Oakley Hall, photo by Cami D

photo by Cami D

That Yeah Yeah Yeahs show at Glasslands really was that good. See?

Cheeseburger at SXSW. More photos here. Photo by Cami D.

A dude who once founded Citizens Against Car Alarms (an offshoot of Mothers Against Noise?) doesn't sound like the sort of fella who'd be responsible for tonight's best free show. But sometimes the study-hall monitor morphs into the local rock star—or at least the local rock star's roadie—and a jazz saxophonist composer who feels the need to organize against car alarms inadvertently hooks up the noise. Tonight's noise (figuratively speaking) is a Bedford Avenue takeover that includes spazz-rockers Oxford Collapse, drunk-stooges Cheeseburger, and iPod-pawty-yellers Best Fwends.

It's all part of Make Music New York, 560 free performances happening simultaneously today. Organized by a guy named Aaron Friedman, Make Music takes place in all five boroughs, an event that city officials say is "one of the largest musical events in the city's history." Awesome idea, but the other 557 or so performers all are—how do you say this politely—interesting. For example: “If you like grindcore and/or Disney movies, you will like Caroline Beck after you've had a few beers.” Huh? Just listen to this.

DOWNLOAD
Cheeseburger, "Derby Day"

Perhaps you can find something worthwhile? Full show list here.

Best Fwends. Photo by Rebecca Smeyne

Photo credited to gaelenh

The White Stripes
June 19
The Fillmore at Irving Plaza, or something

By Rob Harvilla

A dear friend of mine theorizes that Def Leppard’s Hysteria ranks among the greatest rock albums ever made due to the forced simplicity of, uh, having a drummer with one arm. Such an impediment forced poor Rick Allen to play uncluttered, unpretentious, almost childlike beats that resonated deeply with our most primal, carnal desires—pouring sugar on each other, etc. “Simplify, simplify, simplify,” as Thoreau put it; “Armageddon It,” as Def Leppard sagely responded.

Panthers, not at the Knitting Factory; photo by Sidney Lo

Big Business + Panthers
Knitting Factory
June 19

by Zach Baron

There’ll be pictures of this somewhere, but so what: Imagine a man, mid six-feet, early thirties, bulky everywhere, cougar glaring off his shirt, untamed beard and, above his ears, twin braided pigtails, a pair of sideburns coming alive. Big bass, bigger amplifiers: you’re looking at Big Business’s Jared Warren, who in person resembles nothing so much as an inhabitant of one of his own songs, a kind of force of nature.