I feel terrible that I ran out of time to write up Fischerspooner (pictured) last week. If you're in the mood for some awesome synth pop that is actually not Depeche Mode redux (and if you're not too pooped from a weekend at Sasquatch, of course), there's definitely going to be a dance party at Showbox at the Market tonight. Doors are at 8 p.m. and if you don't have a ticket, it will cost you $23.
Zony Mash at the Tractor Tavern, 9 p.m., $15
Putting Briggan Krauss and Skerik on the same stage sounds less like a meeting of peanut butter and chocolate and more like a collision of Pop Rocks and Hot Tamales. Definitely a mouthful, but will these two great tastes taste great together? If anyone can make it work, it's Zony Mash, one of Wayne Horvitz's longest-running Seattle units, which was born under the viaduct at the old OK Hotel and has reared its head on an unpredictable schedule in the years since. Combining swamp funk, Fillmore jams, and country ballads, Zony Mash is a quartet at heart, with the always-brilliant Tim Young on guitar. But Horvitz fills out the front line with horns on festive occasions. As the band heads out this week for a few European shows, it's got a full lineup, with trombonist Steve Moore and a pair of tenor saxophones: Krauss, a fierce animatronic improviser, and Skerik, an equally powerful, but more soul-grounded player. MARK D. FEFER
The Them, Bastard Child at the Funhouse, 9:30 p.., $5
The concept of cliché is so rife with meta-irony that it makes poster children such as the Them seem downright erudite in their application of hackneyed punk rock swagger-- aside from the fact that they mean every word of it, of course.There's no posturing to be found, here, only (as the band puts it) "four maniacs making music." As for the music, it's a high octane blend of punk and its trailer park cousins. Lead singer Joseph Christ is the sonic embodiment of straight whiskey and filterless cigarettes, a guttural, throat scraping rumble to wake the dead and kill the living. The rhythm section keeps things tight and propulsive, with surprisingly nimble bass-lines underscoring the rocksteady drumming and straight-ahead guitar onslaught. The Them's lyrics are just what you'd expect from a band "coagulated from a puddle of vomit, beer and semen." Sex, death, and getting fucked up, alone or in various alloys, gild the wilted lily. Live, the pulse and swagger coalesce into a firestorm of hedonistic punk-rock mayhem. For those in the front row, you will get wet. And you might get set on fire. NICHOLAS HALL