In this month's issue of Spin, Chuck Klosterman remarks that "The Bravery are the most hated band in America" ("Pretty Hated Machine," July 2005). A few months ago, I read in the LA Times that Brandon Flowers essentially referred to the Bravery as poseurs and thought, well, there's the pot calling the kettle black. Maybe the next step is for Interpol to call the band a rip-off of Joy Division. Whatever, dude. I like the Bravery.
I heard "An Honest Mistake" on KROQ a few months back and the high notes resonated with me. I cannot help it. I am a sucker for the high notes. A few weeks later, Estelle and I were sitting around sipping cocktails when she mentioned the Bravery.
"He kind of looks like Morrissey," she said.
"Yeah, totally," I answered. Granted, he's not on the level of hearing aide and nipple bandage-wearing Moz, and the black eyeliner needs to go, but he's cute and he can hit the high notes.
Did I mention that I'm a sucker for high notes?
A few weeks after that, I perused the sale rack at the local corporate record store and saw the Bravery's album on sale for under $10, so I decided to give it a shot. That night, I was stuck in traffic so bad that the cd lapsed twice. I thought, this is pretty good. It's not anything original, but what is original? I swear that the progression in "Mr. Brightside" came straight off Underworld's "Born Slippy." There are nods to XTC, The Jam, The Clash and, of course, Joy Division and Gang of Four all over the airwaves. Indeed, this means that there are also nods to Blur (c. Parklife), Elastica, Pulp and Supergrass (c. I Should Coco). But let's not stop there. Given that these influences are primarily British, everything sort of boils down to the Beatles, Rolling Stones, the Who and the Kinks. (And, as my mom would say, "Don't forget the Merseybeat bands!") So what's the big deal?
If it's cool to admit liking the crap that emits from the Incredible Shrinking Lindsay Lohan and Future Jerry Springer Guest Britney Spears, why is it not cool to admit listening to the Bravery? Indie was rendered a useless term in 1992 (and all of the bands referenced herein released albums on major labels in the U.S.) and you can buy a Gang of Four t-shirt at Hot Topic. However, good music is still just that and, as for the Bravery, well, I think it's pretty damn good.

Maybe someday I'll have the cash to travel to London. Maybe, when that happens, Trash will still exist. In the meantime, I will continue doing as I have done for the past two years or so and listen to Trash DJs play tunes online and watch video footage from the club.
There is a slew of new live videos up on the club's website. I recommend watching footage from Cazals, The Kills and Tom Vek. There is also and older video from Phoenix, in which the fabulous Frenchmen mix their song "If I Ever Feel Better" with "Owner of a Lonely Heart."

Once upon a time, there was this band called Silent Gray (as a DJ friend of mine once remarked, "Every day is like Sunday/Every day is silent and gray") that played around town quite often and were very good. Then, not too long ago, the band changed its name to The Tender Box and went from "good local band" to fucking awesome. Listen to the brand new track "Media Lies" and the semi-new piece "Mister Sister" and try to tell me that this band should not be played in regular rotation on commercial alternative radio.
If you want to help The Tender Box take over the airwaves, you can request "Mister Sister" on Indie 103.1.

If you know Balthazar Monsoon and I in the real world, you probably heard us babbling about our love for Trashcan Sinatras at some point. Sometime in the near future, you will read an interview I did with them. In the meantime, check out our favorite Scots on Sunset Strip.

(Note: Despite this entry's title, it has nothing to do with The Wonder Stuff.)
I'm not sure if any of us had planned to attend Planet Electronica, part of KCRW's series of shows at Hollywood Bowl. However, Balthazar Monsoon informed me that it was an extremely inexpensive show, so I passed the word on to Carlos and Estelle. Then Estelle told her friends and, since one of the friends actually had a birthday on the same date as the show, we ended up as part of a group of ten picnicking on the hilltop overlooking most of Los Angeles, sort of a posh version of Heavy Metal Parking Lot. Despite detailed text messages, Balthazar Monsoon and I were unable to find each other at all during the course of the night, but it's okay because we texted comments to each other after the show.
After the picnic, we caught Bossacucanova, a Brazilian group who essentially revamp bossa nova tunes with turntables and modern electronic instruments. The music was more my parents' taste than my own, but it was a nice way to ease into the dance music after eating dinner.
Royksopp opened with an ominous electronic sound that prompted Carlos to mention something about The Melvins and Estelle's friend to mention Black Sabbath. It didn't take long for the Norwegian duo to work into the new single, "Only This Moment," which has this airy, robots-in-love quality to it. We looked around, apprehensive to get up and dance as it might annoy the people behind us. Once we noticed that everyone else inside the nearly sold-out amphitheatre was rising from the benches, we made our move. We gradually spread out across the our row of seats during "Remind Me" (which Torbjorn Brundtland sang in a fashion quite similar to Erlend Oye), slowly moving whilst whispering about Svein Berge's open shirt and dark good looks. By the time they played "Eple," the entire Hollywood Bowl was dancing like candy ravers at Nocturnal Wonderland. When the duo closed with "Poor Leno," I looked to the side and noticed Estelle's younger sister dancing in the aisle with glo-sticks.
"Hey, where did you get the glo-sticks?!" we all shouted at various different points in the song.
After Basement Jaxx opened with, "Good Luck" (featuring Lisa Kekaula in an 80s-looking wedding dress), we were all in the aisle dancing on stairs with glo-sticks. I'm still not sure how the glo-sticks ended up in our hands, but that doesn't really matter. My eyes darted back and forth between neon pink trails and the stage show as I sang along to "Romeo" and tried not to lose my balance.
Carlos and I saw Basement Jaxx once before, at Coachella in 2004. That show was a cross between a DJ-set and a live performance, with the performance pieces centered around Kish Kash. At that time, we thought Basement Jaxx were utterly amazing, stealing the festival for that Sunday. I must say, though, that Basement Jaxx were even more intense at this particular concert. It was a full stage show comprising of mostly the hits ("Rendez-Vous," "Just 1 Kiss," "U Don't Know Me," et cetera). The vocals were dynamic, turning even a cover of "Hollaback Girl" into something extraordinary. At one point, they brought out ragga singers and broke into the break from "Apache."
We thought "Where's Your Head At?" was the finale, as the song ended with the entire Basement Jaxx crew onstage and the monkey jumping on top of folks. We were wrong. After the left the stage, a long line of drummers marched to the center. Soon, a flock of feathered dancers appeared and the Jaxx were back rockin' the party like it was Carnivale. It was a finale like no other.

It was like Santa Claus had come to Urban Outfitter. Hordes of ecstatic sixteen-year-old girls all dressed in jeans, heels and camisoles while carrying plastic Ramones handbags infiltrated The Echo prior to Hang the DJs last night. They huddled together in crowds as lightbulbs flashed. I looked to see what could cause such a commotion.
Rooney played a special fanclub show earlier that evening and, blood being thicker than water, Jason Schwartzman was in attendance. He was a tiny, scruffy creature virtually swallowed by the crowd of gawky soon-to-be hipsters and he looked to enjoy every minute of it.
"Yes, I know. He was in a movie," said the security guard over the microphone. "Now go outside and get his autograph."
Three minutes later, another security guard took the mic. "I Heart Huckabees, now leave the club."
I would love to say that the highlight of the night was my kickass set, but, sadly that is not the case. In fact, it was a band from San Francisco who stole the show. Von Iva puts every other keyboard-heavy rock band to shame, including the heavy-hitters like Le Tigre and The Faint.
"But, Liz, how is that even possible?" you ask.
Simply put, Von Iva has soul. Deep, dirty, hard-rockin' soul. One of my cohorts described singer Jillian Iva as "Mick Jagger with tits," which may sound offensive to some, but is a completely apt description. She has the swagger and the high kicks and the raised-on-the-blues voice. Any rock critic who has spent the last few decades naming heirs to Jagger's throne should stop wasting time on the boys. The New Mick is a chick so fierce that she can command the crowd to let her run over the band's allotted time, who can convince this cynic to run to the merch booth and buy an album. Some people are born to be rock stars. Jillian Iva is one.