Xiu Xiu
San Jose queer-centric soft rockers Xiu Xiu have been able to successfully weave a plush down comforter of unidentifiable influences a you-cant-peg-us factor to the nth degree. At times, Jamie Stewarts voice quivers and rattles over straight, angular post-punk; at others, it aches over syrupy, rich acoustic guitars; and occasionally, it soars above an electronic orchestra. An unrepentant current of sexuality pulses throughout swimming just below the surface but ever-present, like a great whites dorsal fin. Stewarts gargantuan, longing lust has trapped him in a prison of his own desire. Think thats gay, in the junior high sense? Well, dig these lyrics: Cremate me after you cum on my lips / Honey boy / Place my ashes in a vase beneath your workout bench. Brian McManus
Saturday, March 12, at Mary Janes Fat Cat, 4216 Washington Avenue, 713-869-5263.
Panthers
Its tough to figure out Vice Records. On the one hand, they employ the smart, Brit-proud, smoked-out rap clique the Streets, who while devoid of the flow American audiences are accustomed to are cool and risky in their own right. The label also snorts pulverizing disco power duo Death from Above 1979 and hotly hyped dance-music makers Bloc Party, while at the same time taking long tokes on serious downers Panthers, whose tambourine-laden hand claps gently cup the balls of pompadoured rock revivalists, and whose political bent has been lifted directly from the plate of Nation of Ulysses. Sometimes shaking the musical snow globe can be a beautiful thing, but such you-dropped-your-peanut-butter-in-my-chocolate moments are rare. More often than not, mixing the quick with the slow is a surefire recipe for a messy coronary collapse. With a sister magazine thats been covering the culture of drug debauchery for over a decade, seems like Vice should know this. Brian McManus
Early show, Wednesday, March 16, at the Proletariat, 903 Richmond, 713-523-1199.
Bobby Conn
Hey, mathlete, figure this one out: Queen + Bowie + The Rocky Horror Picture Show = ?
Times up, put down your pencils. You guessed Bobby Conn. Damn, so close, but wrong. An equation that equals Conn would also have been divided by violin, multiplied by a fistful of psychedelics, and added to a pair of nut-hugging stretch pants...all to the power of two, of course. With songs about whores, private country clubs, gun control, the capitalist system and the United Nations, Conn is able to masterfully walk a fine line between drenching his music in decadent excess and teaching his hypnotized audience a lesson. His stage persona part outlandishly oversexed deviant, part rock and roll high priest runs dangerously close at times to being performance art, but huge sonic ripping riffs catapult him from the pit of sucking joke into a stratosphere of Holy fuck! Brian McManus
Wednesday, March 16, at the Proletariat, 903 Richmond, 713-523-1199.
Oxes, with Enon
Oxes hail (appropriately) from the south side of that John Waters mecca of weird, Baltimore, where their tight, continually changing math riffs teeter on the edge of a mountain pass made of metal. Theyve fallen victim to a dubious distinction of Courtney Lovian proportions over the years, in that theyre known as much (if not more) for news-making antics than for their complex music. Their infamous XXX album cover out a couple of years ago depicted the threesome receiving fellatio and snorting the devils dandruff and was pulled off record store shelves. Wireless rigs and no vocal mikes allow them to roam through unsuspecting crowds as they play that is, when theyre not standing on two-foot-high specially crafted black boxes that raise them above the stage like prophets of rock in an Andy Kaufman wet dream. Brian McManus
Tuesday, March 15, at Mary Janes Fat Cat, 4216 Washington, 713-869-5263.
