Firstly, No Fi Soul Rebellion is having a CD release show tonight. I just raved about how much I love their new album, Oh Please Please Please, yesterday. It is going to be an awesome party, and the supporting MCs/bands-- Thee Satisfaction, Spaceman, Oh Captain My Captain-- are all great, too. Show is at the Comet Tavern, starts at 9 p.m. and costs $8.
You could also head to Tacoma and pay a visit to my all-time favorite celebrity freak show, Bret Michaels, who's performing at the Emerald Queen Casino both tonight and tomorrow night for anywhere from $45-$90. See, Bret Michaels has got that perfect combination of boundless vanity and a total lack of self-awareness that prevents him from realizing what a joke he is, so he continues putting horrible publicity photos out into the world (like the one pictured, which yes, I keep posting over and over because it is fucking HYSTERICAL and should be seen by as many people as possible) and doing dopey things like manufacturing his own personal Bret Michaels shopping bags and shirts that say "Going Green Rocks." With one of those babies, you can show all the ladies you're a tough rock and roll lovin' man, but have a soft spot for the fuzzy wuzzies. The chicks will be jocking your dick like crazy-- you know, just like those nasty aging rocker bitches who are actually crazy enough to submit themselves to the humiliating travesty that is Rock of Love. That show makes me ashamed to be a woman. Almost as ashamed as Bret Michaels should be of himself. Then again, the guy is rolling in it. And it'll be worth suffering through Bret's new solo work if you can get close enough to prove once and for all that those are hair extensions. Shouldn't be too hard. Just get in there and yank!On a more fun and decidedly less expensive note, The Prids play the Funhouse tonight at 9:30 p.m. with Romance and Catholic Comb for $6:
When you hear a band described as moody post punk revival with proto-goth leanings and a somewhat radical vegan, animal rights-based political agenda, you're generally either in or out. Such a confluence of galvanizing and, let's face it, sanctimoniously mopey elements aren't an open invitation to the merely curious. Yet, somehow, the Prids manage to maintain an engaging musical persona. While they make no bones about their socio-political beliefs and affiliations, the Prids is not a "message" band. Sure, the lyrics are occasionally pointed, but they don't bludgeon you with the smug stick; you can actually listen without hearing word one about foie gras or beakless chickens. On the sonic side, the Prids are definitively on the darker end of the post-punk inflected indie spectrum, with minor-key melodies, moody atmospherics, and a penchant for poetic indulgence in the vein of William Blake and his Romantic cohorts. Balancing all this beguiling darkness is an undercurrent of ecstatic electro-pop that owes a lot to the New Romantics of the early '80's, including occasional sojourns into the world of synth-pop. NICHOLAS HALL