Last week we were dumb enough to mention what a non-obituary run DOON had been on lately. Well, shit. Now Dee Dee Ramone is dead, and so is local radio personality Wayne Cody, and like the man always says, bad things come in threes. So rock celebs, please, we beg of you, be careful this week—eat your veggies, look both ways when you cross the street, and for the love of god, just say no. Dee Dee and Wayne, you will truly be missed. . . . During our usual yawning Monday-morning voice mail run-through, we had the sleep boogers wiped right out of our eyes by a message from one Mr. Jack White, who, it seems, is either an enormous fan of our column or has a highly developed sense of irony; we're kind of thinking the latter. But Jack, if you're still reading, know this: We only bug the ones we love—if your band sucked, we wouldn't care if Meg was your mom, fer crying out loud. We played White Blood Cells till it ran clean through, but with all that Winona-lovin', sibling-shtupping business, you fill up column inches, too, and until the next Courtney Love legal brief, baby, you're the big news in our little world. Besides, you're probably the only guy on the planet who takes us seriously—and really, you shouldn't. Now, to show you how much we care, music editor Bob Mehr will review your concert while simultaneously attempting to steal your woman. Take it away, Bob: "Red may be out this season, but the Moore Theatre was swimming in the color during Friday night's White Stripes show. The three-band bill was an all-Detroit package, featuring fine opening sets from Michiganders Brendan Benson and Whirlwind Heat. Frankly, we bolted well before the headliner came on, having given up on the White Stripes after hearing Jack eviscerate Son House's "Death Letter" a couple years back—at which point we concluded the band's M.O. was to allow indie hipsters to enjoy the
Plant-wailing-Bonham-bashing-blooze-stomp of Led Zeppelin guilt free. We don't feel too bad about not staying or buying any of the White Stripes' lovely merch; from what I hear, Jack doesn't really need my hard-earned money, anyway. Word is he's Motown's newest millionaire, having pocketed a cool hundred grand for last week's appearance at the MTV Movie Awards and piled up scads in publishing pay, which, incidentally, he doesn't share with his sister/lover. We'll cut the swoonworthy Meg—a fine little drummer in the primitive Mo Tucker mold—some slack and make her an offer: Since rumor is rampant that you, too, have grown tired of Jack's act, I'm willing to fly to Detroit and rescue you from the clutches of that pasty egomaniac, then whisk you away to the nearest wedding chapel where we can be joined in holy matrimony. Who knows, maybe the second time will be the charm? I'm waiting for your call, buttercup." . . . It Could Have Been a Brilliant Career: Founding Belle & Sebastian member Isobel Campbell has quit the band, pulling out midway through a U.S. tour. Reports say the split is friendly and there are no plans to replace her. If you remember, B&S went ahead, despite terrible circumstances, and played a singularly affecting show here last Sept. 11. . . . Mozz is back—and he's running for the border. Actually, ex-Smiths frontman Morrissey will be on his own for most of an upcoming U.S. tour, but he'll be opening for Mexican rockers Jaguares on a trio of dates in early August. If the man who sang "The More You Ignore Me, the Closer I Get" really meant it, you better start snubbing him right this minute, cuz so far he's got concerts scheduled in Eugene and Portland and one in Anchorage but nothing in Seattle. . . . Has anyone caught on to Le Pichet's Sunday afternoon shows yet? All kinds of good stuff for free in this unassuming Belltown bistro (1933 First). This week, the
restaurant hosts none other than Damien Jurado, whose recent Sub Pop release, I Break Chairs, hopefully won't be made literal in the charmingly small space, as that could get messy. . . . We've heard rumblings of a Coldplay breakup, for those of you who care. Frontman Chris Martin has made several cryptic comments to the press implying the band may turn it in after the release of their sophomore album next week. . . . In other news, Metallica rose from the dead, or at least from the netherworld of Betty Ford, as a freshly rehabbed James Hetfield and co. sprung a surprise show on an unsuspecting San Francisco audience June 4. Appearing under the name Spun, the band ripped through four Ramones tracks, including "Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue" and "Today Your Love, Tomorrow the World," some of their own oldies, and one new number before closing with the Misfits' "Die, Die My Darling." . . . It looks like an ugly industry feud's brewing between the band Thursday (they of the freshly minted Buzz Bin status) and their label Victory Records. A recent press release from the label (politely) condemned the band for "voic[ing] their imaginary grievances on the Internet and in the press . . . in an attempt to justify retroactively their improper signing" of a contract with much bigger Island/Def Jam. We knew those emo boys weren't as innocent as they looked. . . . Say what you want about the new DJ Shadow record—sure, it's no Endtroducing . . . , but it's still pretty goddamn good, and live, the man is simply amazing. While we didn't quite enjoy the free sauna provided by the Showbox's confluence of sweaty bodies and close, close quarters, nothing could detract from our pleasure in hearing "Midnight in a Perfect World," the Liam Gallagher- stacked "Lonely Soul" from U.N.K.L.E.'s Psyence Fiction, and some of the best stuff off Shadow's brand spankin' new
Private Press, all made fresh for the live setting. Plus, we love a guy who actually seems happy to be here and even admits to being nervous. . . . Now we're going to go home, sleep for two days, and take all our multivitamins in order to be prepared for the full physical, emotional, and mental onslaught that is sure to be motor city devil Andrew W.K.'s appearance at Graceland. If you're planning on going and getting out alive, we recommend you do the same.
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