Damn. And you thought Eminem's mama was litigious: It's defendant Universal Music Group, 1, plaintiff Courtney, 0, as Ms. Love's massive lawsuit gets reduced—by 11 counts out of 15, to be exact—in her fight to get out of her record contract and "expose a corrupt system that enslaves artists." In between working her French-manicured fingers to the bone writing new Hole material (ha!), she's also found time to open the possibility of a little Court TV Interna穯nal, threatening yet more litigation against the Vancouver police, whom she claims couldn't give a crap that she recently had more than $100,000 worth of jewelry stolen from her hotel room, including her wedding band from a previous marriage to that Nirvana guy, and another $30,000 ring courtesy of Edward Norton. Gosh, so much stress, no wonder she had a miscarriage, which she endured bravely in the privacy of a major press release. . . . If khaki is the new black, then Thursday is the new Friday, and Monday is the new Saturday. Why? Because Broken Beats Mondays at Nation beat the hizz-eck out of most prime-time weekend nights, letting ever-increasing crowds go wild to turntable beats and surprisingly excellent aspiring MCs. Maserati Thursdays (actually, every second Thursday of the month) at the Baltic Room, meanwhile, are a bacchanalia of musical possibilities, from new wave obscurity to hip-hop glory, thanks to DJ Cherry Canoe and DJ El Toro. Plus, none of those pesky bridge-and-tunnel Eastsiders to clog your dance floor. . . . Speaking of the Baltic, those who patronize that establishment had best watch their nose-picking and wedgie-fixing; due to a new partnership between the Capitol Hill mini-club and local online beats boutique Groovetech.com, the latter will now be broadcasting live from the venue on a regular basis with the help of some well-placed cameras and audio equipment. . . . Don't adjust your
sets: That really was Shuggie playing the Showbox on a TV commercial during a rerun of Friends last Thursday. The live performance was broadcast to NBC affiliates in Washington, Oregon, and Idaho, and featured Andrew McKeag, Phil Hurley, and substitute drummer Jason Finn—as well as a couple leather-clad dancing chickies—grinding through a derivative hard-rock jingle that culminated in the chorus, "Make it a Bud Light!" Bud Light reps handpicked about 100 locals to make up the crowd, which filled up the makeshift set around the Showbox stage. If it sounds glamorous, it wasn't; the musicians and the audience spent several hours practicing for the 60- second spot, abstained from drinking any actual Bud Light, and had to live with the chugging riffs from the song—which apes Judas Priest's "Living After Midnight" and Def Leppard's "Photograph." After going live, the crowd adjourned to the bar, where bottles were finally dispensed to the thirsty actors, and Shuggie obliged with a three-song mini-set. . . . Whoever decided to tweak the order of sets for the Aislers Set/Lucksmiths/Ladybug Transistor show last Wednesday at Graceland deserves a gold star. Ladybug Transistor's new record Argyle Heir is terrific, but they're not exactly thrilling live performers. Their subdued, low-volume set was a bit of a comedown following the charming Lucksmiths, and had a few yawning and lots more talking—the chattering, in fact, was nearly as loud as the band. The Aislers Set, originally slated for the opening slot, were the superior choice to finish off the evening. Though diminutive singer Amy Linton was sometimes drowned out by the din, the band sounded terrific overall and earned the remaining audience's attention. A nifty encore cover of Warsaw's "They Walked in Line" was an extra treat. . . . Apparently, Spain don't do encores. A small but dedicated audience soldiered through Josh Haden's band's
sluggish Crocodile show Friday night, but were denied any bonus despite several minutes of vigorous applause after the last note had chimed. Haden and his band were more proficient than 95 percent of those who cross the Croc stage, but Spain's lackadaisical presence made the show as visually appealing as a photo of a cow—maybe less so. . . . Visual appeal was no problem for I-Spy's DMC Turntable Championships last Thursday; heatstroke was the only major threat, but through the sauna-sweaty double-bill, a damp, ecstatic crowd remained rapt, caught up in the turntable theatrics of DJ Swamp (he of Beck fame) as well as the amateur hopefuls vying for the prize. His rib-sticking Iron Maiden T-shirt proudly representing and long, lank hair swinging, Swamp put on perhaps the most rock-star, bizarro performance by a DJ in the history of the genre, keeping the crowd engaged with his crazed-Kermit vocal acrobatics and frantic running monologues. This is a man who knows what to do with two turntables and a microphone.
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