Live Music

City and Colour, Adele, Low Vs. Diamond, Rodney Crowell, The Soft Pack, Fucked Up + Pissed Jeans

Pissed Jeans + Fucked Up

This is a show for anyone who’s ever wanted to storm the stage at World Cafe Live screaming: “You’re sober, your lyrics are too clever and your guitar is made of wood. Get off the goddamn stage!” There are those bands who respect themselves, their audience and their elders and who see themselves as part of rock’s rich tapestry. And then there are circus-act freak shows like Pissed Jeans and Fucked Up, who use music as an excuse to ride the unicycle of debauchery along a wire stretched across the chasm of chaos while juggling babies and wanking like rabid howler monkeys. Some choice. (Steven Wells)

City and Colour

Dallas Green is playing a show at the Troc! Okay, so it’s not the gruff 74-year-old manager of the World Champion 1980 Phillies, but rather the tattooed 28-year-old Canadian singer-guitarist who plays in the emo-core outfit Alexisonfire and moonlights as the one-man acoustic act City and Colour. Green’s breathy voice, melancholy lyrics and strumming makes for some pleasant, if occasionally pedestrian, solo singer-songwriter fare. There’s a live video on C&C’s MySpace page in which, if you close your eyes and just listen, Green kinda sounds like that dude from the Scorpions doing an unplugged set. I suppose if he splits the difference, this could be a great show. By the way, William Elliott Whitmore opens, not Charlie Manuel. (Michael Alan Goldberg)

Adele

After Adele’s initial tour for the Mercury Prize- nominated 19 failed to get this new-Amy-who’s-not-Duffy the praise she deserves, Adele appeared on that Palin-populated ep of SNL, the highest-rated since the mid-90’s. After it, 19 topped all sorts of charts, and now Adele’s competing against a bunch of other crossover Brits for a slew of American Grammys, which are totally irrelevant by this point, but still a nice diplomatic gesture. (Caralyn Green)

Low vs. Diamond

I guess I was a bit surprised to find Los Angeles quintet Low vs. Diamond—guitar-propelled indie-rock that’s noticeably groove-free—opening for the eclectic Santogold at the TLA a few months ago. Still, the band seemed to win over a multiculti crowd that was primed to dance, because no matter what your stance, it’s hard to deny damn good melodies presented passionately. Tuneful to the hilt, LvsD has the demeanor of an arena band, and clearly references a few of those as well: Frontman Lucas Field’s voice is chock full o’ Bono, and when the piano comes to the fore, well, hello Coldplay! You probably won’t dance, but you may swoon. (M.A.G.)

Rodney Crowell

Rodney Crowell just pocketed another Grammy nomination for his Sex & Gasoline, but that’s not why you should go see him play. No, you should go because it takes balls to rewrite “I Walk the Line” and then get your ex-father-in-law, Johnny Cash, to sing the new version. It takes genius to squeeze a record-setting five No. 1 singles out of a single album (1988’s Diamonds & Dirt). And it takes persistence to come back down from the top of the commercial country heap, still making raw-boned, authentic music for the sheer love of it. (Jennifer Kelly)

Serpent Throne

I have seen the future of the past, and its name be Serpent Throne. You’ve heard it all before—lumbering bass-heavy riffs, massive, unrelenting Iommi-nodding solos, and more than enough ’tude to scare away the neighbors. But have you heard it done quite this well? In a town known for quality metal bands, Serpent Throne is at the top of the heap. If you come planning to hear the metal wheel get reinvented it might be a long night, but if you are ready to dispense with niceties like, say, vocals and just get it on, you’ve come to the right place. (John Cramer)

The Soft Pack

They used to be called the Muslims, which was the best band name ever. But they got sick of being hassled by Islamophobia cockheads so they changed it to the Soft Pack, which is the shittest name ever. But we will forgive them because they have Rod Blagojevich haircuts, wear tight pants and play a stripped-down, linear, clattering, pan-hammering rock ’n’ roll that sounds nothing like a skeletal Jonathan Richman’s ribcage being played like a xylophone by the Fall and Ikara Colt using their tiny prosthetic cocks as hammers. (S.W.)