A brief summary of the weekend’s activities:

Friday night at O’Leaver’s, I showed up just in time to catch the last three or four songs by Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin, and was impressed. The buzz around the room was that the band had a song featured on The OC last week, which, of course, means instant status/love/future. What’s the value of a catchy band name? Maybe everything. They may be on their own label now, but they’ll be on someone else’s before the end of summer. One of those change-up bands, they switched positions throughout the set, but no matter the configuration, they came off Weezer-esque (back when Weezer was good, and interesting, and no, I’m not talking about Pinkerton). Next time, probably Sokol Underground. Who knows after that.

The Third men took the opportunity to roll out a shitload of new songs, 5 or 6 of them, along with a Richard and Linda Thompson cover (“Wall of Death” off Shoot Out the Lights) that featured keyboardist/tambourine player Dana Rouch on vocals. The next night I told bass player Mike Tulis that I felt a distinct James Gang vibe coming off the first few songs, and he said everyone in the band has a few of those records in their collection. Joe Walsh would be proud. Everything about them — their music, their stage approach — says they’re doing it because they love doing it, and if you want to come along for the ride, hop aboard. I’m there.

Finally, the Pomonas came on at around midnight. With about half the crowd gone (I guess you could say they got Omaha’d) they ripped right into it. This was the third time I’ve seen them, and they just keep getting better. Friday night’s set emphasized the rhythm section, specifically the bass, whose chores were shared between a couple of guys. The sharp, bouncing bass lines had me asking the lead guy after the set if they’re trying to become the next Rapture (especially on a tune they coined “their disco song”). I like the shared vocals (almost harmonies, almost cheerleading), the consistently great counter guitar lines, and the overall hubris of the whole durn deal. Afterward they gave out copies of their latest CDR to anyone willing to take them. Someone needs to find room for them on their label.

Which brings us to Saturday night and Maria Taylor after having watched The Golden Gloves finals down at the Qwest (the Omaha guy got robbed, by the way). Maria came on at around 11:15 or so, performing in a stripped-down ensemble because of problems with the band’s keyboard. They got it figured out about halfway through the set, which drew heavily from her 11:11 album. Yes, she was in the usual good voice, and the band sounded great, building louder and more intense as the set rolled on, peaking with a “come on stage” version of “Song Beneath the Song” that included accompaniment by none other than Conor Oberst (guess he’s in town now) and members of 13 Ghosts. The 200-plus on hand ate it up.

–Got comments? Post ’em here.—

A friend of mine has a band that he vehemently denies is alt country even though their twang is undeniable. I bet Spanish for 100 holds that same denial. Though their rhythms are straightforward, mid-tempo fare, the vocals are Wilco-esque and the guitar roar is only missing a pedal steel. In fact, the guitar work here is the most riveting part of the recording. On any given song, the guitar counters the vocals in a preordained sloppy approach, just banging into whatever feels right, off the beat or just behind it. There are a couple songs where the guitars seem to wander off in their own strange angles, pulled (eventually) back into the fold by the rhythm section. The final result is that Spanish has a tightfisted jam band essence about it, especially on “See Now (Live at the Crocodile)” that pulls together all the elements into a crowd-pleasing roar. Go ahead and clap. Produced by the Phil Ek. Rating: Yes.

Column 74: Getting Omaha’d
Don’t let it happen to you…

Here’s something that was left out of my feature on Pretty Girls Makes Graves: Our protagonist, drummer Nick DeWitt, pointed out the following when asked if he’d ever been through Omaha before.

“Oh yeah, we’ve been to Omaha,” he said. “It was at our first show that we played there that we coined a term called ‘getting Omaha’d.’ We played with The Blood Brothers, who insisted on playing before us. They have a way of whipping fans into a frenzy. It’s not much fun following them, and we always made sure that didn’t happen. But that night they insisted that we play last because we were ‘the headliners.’ So the place was full. Then The Blood Brothers played. Then everyone left, and we played to an empty room.”

Translation: They got Omaha’d.

Whether the phrase is catching on (and there’s little evidence that it is), the circumstances it represents are becoming more and more common, especially ’round these parts. Playing last on an evening’s bill often means playing after the band that brought in most of the crowd, and who will likely take that crowd with them when they’re done — to The Brothers for last call.

Marc Leibowitz, half of the dynamic promoting duo known as One Percent Productions along with Jim Johnson, said “getting Omaha’d” isn’t just an Omaha thing. It happens everywhere, mostly to unknown bands that are out on their first tours, like Pretty Girls were when they first blew through town all those years ago. Getting Omaha’d is a rite of passage, a necessary evil that bands must suffer if they ever want to make it to the next level.

Leibs said it rarely happens to bands that target a younger, pre-21 audience — probably because those kids don’t have a bar to go to after their friends’ band finishes their set. Or because they haven’t become jaded scenesters who only go to shows to be seen, to drink, to make contact, to move on.

No band wants to “get Omaha’d.” In fact, bands are now getting wary of playing anywhere but the “sweet spot” of a show — the middle of a three-band bill. Opening spot? Not so good, even though most local shows don’t get rolling until well after 9 p.m. Most people are unwilling or unable to tear themselves away from whatever they had going on earlier in the evening, whether it’s dinner and a movie or their precious “stories” on the glass teat. Playing second is optimum — you get the stragglers, along with those who skate in only to see the headliner, unless of course the headliner was smart enough to take the second spot for themselves, which is becoming more common these days. A show’s band order has become so controversial that at one recent show, a local band refused to play unless they were guaranteed not to play last.

They didn’t want to get Omaha’d… like Des Moines’ The Autumn Project did last Saturday night.

The instrumental trio had the last spot on a show that included local bands Noah’s Ark was a Spaceship, and Father, a deafening, dread-fueled art-noise project that features among its players Clark Baechle and Dapose from The Faint. Sure enough, the crowd kept rolling in throughout the Noah’s Ark set, and peaked right before Father turned off all the lights, turned on a big-screen projector and let loose with 20 minutes of bludgeoning noise that made me feel slightly nauseous afterward (as I’m sure was the intent).

When the lights came up after Father’s disturbing set, everyone headed to the door. The crowd of more than 100 dwindled to around 20 — mostly the bands that played sets earlier in the evening. It was a shame, too, because The Autumn Project was pretty damn good. But what are they gonna do? They got Omaha’d.

I’m trying to figure out other ways to use the phrase in everyday life, outside of the music scene. For example, you show up late to a party, just as everyone is leaving, and have to help empty ash trays and pick up dead beer bottles.

You got Omaha’d.

Or, you arrive late to help someone move to a new house, after the rest of the crew has gone home, leaving you to lift the washer and dryer out of the basement by yourself.

You got Omaha’d.

It means more than just showing up late, it means being left holding the bag. That was also the case for Pretty Girls Make Graves. After they played to a room full of crickets, they were told by the show’s promoter (and no, it wasn’t One Percent Productions) that there was no money to pay them.

“The promoter tried to screw us,” DeWitt said. “We had to take the guy to an ATM to get our money. So for us, getting Omaha’d meant everyone leaving and getting ripped off… almost.”

Let’s hope things go better when they play Sokol Underground next Tuesday. Say, who’s opening that show, anyway?

Just placed online, an interview with Pretty Girls Make Graves drummer Nick DeWitt. Nick talks about Seattle, working with Colin Stewart instead of Phil Ek on their new record, and dangerous lighting equipment (read it here). Among the stuff that didn’t make the cut was talk about Nick’s “project studio” out on Bainbridge Island. “I don’t like that term — project studio. It sounds like it’s a side project. I make stuff out there.” His “stuff” is another music project called Dutch Dub, which he does with friend Amy (no last name given). They’re putting the finishing touches on a new full-length called Night Canopy that’ll be released on Sound Virus Records some time in the near future. The Dutch Dub self-titled debut LP came out in ’05 on Record Collection. And then, somehow, he’ll tour, presumably around Pretty Girls’ touring schedule, that is if he can get a band together. “Maybe it’ll be a one-man-band kind of thing. I’ll tie a tambourine to my foot. Hopefully, down the road, I’ll be able to find a few people to play with me.”

The other part of Nick’s comments that weren’t in this article surface in tomorrow’s column, focused around the concept of “getting Omaha’d.” Tune back then.

Apologies for not updating yesterday — I’ve had a killer schedule. I intended to put something online last night about Spoon’s recent foray into television commercials. So I’m watching the NBA playoffs this weekend and what should come up during a time-out but a nice, long commercial for the new Jaguar XKE. The music, Spoon’s “I Turn My Camera On.” And it wasn’t just incidental background music — it was produced like a rock video prominently featuring the song and tight, quick cuts of a shiny new Jag. The commercial was replayed again about five minutes later, and I immediately thought, ‘Well, there goes that song.”

Look, I think it’s great if Britt Daniel can earn a little extra scratch from Madison Avenue — no problem there. We all got bills to pay. Hey, didn’t Broken Spindles sell a song to use in a recent Lexus ad? The difference, of course, is that the Broken Spindles tune is somewhat obscure, and he could use the exposure — and it just sounds like piano tinkling anyway. The Spoon track was a “single” from Gimme Fiction, is impossible to miss during the ad, and if the commercial gets a lot of airtime (and it probably will) will now forever be identified with that car. I cannot hear Bob Seger’s “Like a Rock” and not think “Chevy Trucks” or Sheryl Crow’s “Every Day is a Winding Road” without thinking “cheesy car commercial.” U2’s “Vertigo” — iPods. And so on. In those cases it doesn’t really matter because I didn’t like the song to begin with. But this winter Ford began using the Peanuts theme for a sales promotion — I had to turn the TV off every time it came on because I grew up loving that little piano tune as a kid and couldn’t stand the idea of it being bastardized (the family of Vince Guaraldi must be mortified). And I liked “I Turn My Camera On.” Not anymore, not if it becomes the official Jaguar theme. Britt, what were you thinking?

–Got comments? Post ’em here.—

Here’s a late review of Saturday night’s show; late because the Lazy-i servers were down for awhile yesterday for maintenance, upkeep and and other technical stuff. I guess I should have just written the review right when I got home from the show Saturday night, but I was still feeling a but uneasy. Just to clarify up front: What I’m about to say isn’t meant as an insult. I was literally physically ill after Father’s set. But let me start at the beginning…

I got down at the Underground just as Noah’s Ark Was a Spaceship had taken the stage. Their style and sound was pleasingly thunderous and epic, intense and… well, loud, dark and ominous as a storm cloud rolling in — a fitting opener for what lied ahead. Shortly after they finished their set, a projector screen was placed on stage. The guys in Father followed next, setting up in the dark. The projector glowed blue, then pink as Clark Baechle started off the 20-minute song with booming, repeated, tribal drum riffs that went on — alone — for at least a few minutes before D. Bushon joined in on drums alongside him, throwing his arms high with every capped measure. Bushon threw his sticks off stage, picked up a guitar and began a throbbing drone that would eventually include Dapose and someone on bass.

Meanwhile, on screen, a faint pattern emerged, a pulsing central circle surrounded by four pulsing dots — one in each corner. Slowly, small lines appeared, growing into a web of veins (or so it seemed). As the sound intensified, the veins kept growing, become more detailed with each pulse of the central circle, eventually resembling the circulatory system of an alien life form. Behind it, in the dark, the gutteral sounds from Father throbbed louder, trancelike and grim. Eventually Clark up and left the stage, leaving Bushon, Dapose and the bass to rumble on. I don’t know if it was the all-encompassing low end, the nightmarish image on screen, or the combination of the two, but it was right about here that I began to get slightly nauseous. What the f*** was this supposed to be, some sort of bludgeoning nightmare séance?

One-by-one members of the band left the stage, eventually leaving Dapose to drone to a conclusion while Seth Johnson’s gruesome image slowly faded from the screen. When Dapose finally left and the house sound and lights came up, the crowd of 100 clapped, confused and maybe a bit startled. Father’s performance was disturbing and unsettling and most likely right on target.

Most of the crowd left before The Autumn Project took the stage (see this week’s column (online Thursday) for a further explanation). They missed out on some more powerful, though stark, instrumental music driven by a talented drummer. It reminded me of the instrumental bands that were so popular four or five years ago, playing chord changes that center around the rhythm section. Autumn Project is the first band I’ve seen in a long time to use a smoke machine. At one point, during one of their song’s dramatic moments, the drummer became hidden in the fog only to reemerge wearing a white mask! Weird! Was he wearing that thing the whole time? I think I would have noticed. He slipped it off moments later and continued with the set. All-in-all, a disturbing evening of sound, light and noise.

–Got comments? Post ’em here.—

There’s actually more shows going on than I realized this weekend. Here are my picks:

Tonight at O’Leaver’s, an evening of twang, headlined by Iowa City’s Shame Train, with Mal Madrigal and Springhill Mine Disaster. $5, 9:30 p.m. Meanwhile, down at Sokol Underground, you’ve got vanilla-flavored alt-rock band The Nadas, coming off a recent loss in a contest to open for Bon Jovi in New York — which pretty much says it all. More Hootie than Hootie ever was. With The Josh Davis Band. $12. 9 p.m. Lincoln’s Scenefest 4 kicks off at Duffy’s with Tie These Hands, Prints of Apple Island, The Goddamn Rights, The Static Octopus and Straight Outta Junior High. $6, 9 p.m.

Saturday night: The multimedia spectacular known as The Autumn Project headlines down at Sokol Underground. I’m listening one of the trio’s tracks now — a long, heady instrumental that would be right at home on The Cure’s Disintegration album. Quiet than loud, you know the drill. Father is guitarist D. Bushon with help from Dapose and Clark Baechle of The Faint, and visuals from Seth Johnson. Get ready to grind. $7, 9 p.m. Meanwhile, Randy Cotton (ex-Ravine, ex-Ritual Device) and his band Members of the Press will grace the O’Leaver’s stage with Darsombra (from Baltimore), Wasteoid and Demon Attack. $5, 9:30 p.m. Night two of Scenefest at Duffy’s will be under way with Robot, Creep Closer!, Producers of the Word, Electric Soul Method, Once A Pawn and Sinikil. $6, 9 p.m.

–Got comments? Post ’em here.—

Column 73: Acid Test in the Park
Who is this Bright Eyes character, anyway?

So I’m going through the line at the Petco on 72nd and Dodge, picking up a fresh box of much-deserved milk bones for the two very special critics who edit my work. I turn to the cheerful, late-30s-aged woman behind the counter and ask, whilst signing the digital signature pad, “Say, ever heard of a band called Bright Eyes…?”

Here’s the deal: Never has there been a better acid test as to the popularity of Bright Eyes, Saddle Creek Records and the Omaha indie music scene than the just-announced concert in Memorial Park June 17 featuring Conor Oberst and his band of merry men. Once and for all, we’re going to see just how popular indie is among the great unwashed masses.

Those of us who live and breathe indie, who go to the shows at Sokol Underground, buy the records and read the online journals, we go through life with blinders on. We believe that Oberst and Cursive and The Faint and Saddle Creek are the harbingers of Omaha’s status as “The New Seattle,” that the world outside our freeway has embraced us. I mean, everyone knows Bright Eyes, right? Hell, how could they not? He’s played guitar right next to The Boss and Michael Stipe.

Ah, but mention Conor or any of the Creek bands to the guy or gal slouched in line next to you at, say, your local Wal-Mart, and you’re bound to get a blank stare in return. Bright Who?

Which brings us to that concert in the park. I’ve already heard speculation from those entrenched in the local music scene that this will be an event for the ages that will far out-draw the July 16, 2004, Memorial Park show that featured 311. Depending on your source, that concert drew more than 50,000 rabid fans eager to see the former Omahans present a “night of positivity” along with a medley of dated ska-rock classics.

What will Bright Eyes draw on June 17, 2006? Let’s look at the facts.

Conor has been written about in every respectable newspaper and magazine in the country. He’s appeared on Letterman, Leno and even the lame Craig Ferguson Show. And unlike 311, he maintains a domicile in Omaha even though he spends most of his time in Manhattan (and who can blame him?). Those curious about his music but who have been apprehensive about venturing to a venue engulfed in sad-eyed indie kids finally will have a chance to see the boy wonder on neutral territory. And it’s free. Yes, the curious will come.

So will the traveler. Other than a handful of shows in Canada and the Bonnaro Festival in Manchester, Tennessee, the park show is the only scheduled Bright Eyes appearance in North America this year. Expect heartbroken fans from across the country to make a holy pilgrimage and turn the event into a mini Woodstock. If you live within blocks of the park, expect moody youths with tattoos and piercings in tents in your front yard days before the show.

Let’s not forget that Bright Eyes drew nearly 4,000 paying customers to Council Bluffs’ MAC center just last May. Ah, but remember, The Faint was on the undercard that night. Who will open for Conor June 17? Certainly not The Faint or Creek’s third-biggest band, Cursive.

Which gets us to arguments against a huge draw. Bright Eyes skews younger than 311, whose heyday was over a decade ago, and hence has a broader fan base than Conor’s. And while we’re talking about 311, remember that they’ve had four Gold records, one Platinum, one Triple-Platinum, a Gold and Platinum DVD; in total they’ve sold more than 7 million units in the United States. Bright Eyes has yet to produce even one Gold record, thanks to a complete lack of commercial radio airplay. Meanwhile, 311 music is on regular rotation on hundreds of radio stations across the country, including a couple here in Omaha.

Then there’s the fact that the 311 concert was the centerpiece of the city’s 150-year “celebration.” Fireworks were promised. The Bright Eyes show is merely Mayor Fahey’s and US Cellular’s bright idea (And can you imagine Conor, who has railed endlessly against Clear Channel and commercial sponsorships, playing in front of a gigantic US Cellular banner?).

Some won’t come because they despise Conor’s politics. Some won’t come because they despise Conor’s music. Some won’t come because they despise the kind of people who like Conor’s politics and music. Then there’s the proximity of the “oldies” concert in the park just two weeks later, which is more likely to draw wary families. And then there’s the weather. And on and on.

But maybe the most telling indication of how many will come to the concert in the park is that cheerful Petco clerk bagging my milk bones. “Bright Eyes? Never heard of ’em. Is that a local band or something?”

I’ve never parked so far away for a Sokol show — a block north of Bam’s near the church, maybe a 1/4 mile from the venue. What’s the deal? I’ve always parked closer, even for sold-out shows. I don’t know if last night’s Yeah Yeah Yeahs Yeahs show was a sell out or not, but I’ve never seen it so packed in the auditorium before. I got there at 10, just in time for the Yeahs’ set. On the back of the stage hung a huge Show Your Bones scrim, red and black like a giant flag representing the United States of Yeahs. With no fanfare at all, on walked the band, including a fourth guy who played acoustic guitar, keyboards and, on one song, bass! So here were the Yeahs with added fire power, and despite that, they sounded less epic than they did when I saw them as a trio two years ago, back when the show was literally a showcase for Nick Zinner’s blowtorch guitarwork. Maybe it was the fact that I was sandwiched in the very back of the hall, but Zinner’s guitar sounded buried in the mix, tucked away somewhere beneath Karen O’s vocals and the rest of the cacophony. Overall, a lackluster show. I blame their new record, which is less inventive and interesting than Fever to Tell (or maybe I’m just getting too familiar with the formula). With Nick in the background, O’s theatrical prancing took center stage. Dressed in a red-and-black jumper and wearing one glittering glove on her right hand, she looked and sounded like a cross between a bobbed Chrissie Hynde and a modern-day Wicked Witch of the West. I never heard her once address the audience, instead blowing through the set of new songs non-stop. The crowd didn’t seem to care, though. They were too busy doing a modified pogo and flashing devil horns. After 45 minutes, I figured I’d seen enough and high-tailed it down to the Underground. I’m told that shortly after I left the band kicked off a three-song encore that included the night’s best performance.

Meanwhile, downstairs, a hip-hop show was in high gear. Here’s where anyone with even a surface knowledge of the genre can click away to some other blog or news as you’ll find nothing valuable in my comments (just make sure you come back in a sec and read about Once a Pawn, below). I don’t know the name of the crew on stage who were opening for Murs, but they weren’t bad. They featured three MCs and a turntable guy who pumped out dense but rather minimal beats beneath their rapping. Before their last number, they passed on a story about running into Conor Oberst at a party in Atlanta. “And like all emo parties, there was only one hot girl there,” the MC said. Just as he was about to swoop down on his prey, Oberst walked up to her and leaned against the wall, blocking his approach. He shoots, he scores! “It was tight,” added another MC, while the lone white MC said, “We still like his music.” Murs joined them for their last song, and it was like turning on switch to a power grid. Night and day. The first crew walked off and Murs stayed up there and tore into his set. Compared to the last crew, he was magnetic, pouncing on an audience that looked 10 times as punk as the crowd that was standing around listening to the Yeahs above them.

End of review. Intro to this week’s feature: Without a band story assignment, Reader editor Andy Norman called me last week and asked if I could do a little sumpthin’ on Once a Pawn, whom I’d never heard of. I’m glad he did. I listened to the Lincoln trio’s tunes on Myspace and made some calls. Read the results here and check them out at Scenefest this weekend. The fourth annual event seems a bit throttled back from years past, but is still an impressive showcase of Lincoln talent, all at Duffy’s this time.

–Got comments? Post ’em here.—

What will all those radio-loving suburban youth who are driving down to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs show tonight at Sokol Auditorium going to think of Mike Dapose of The Faint’s death metal side project Precious Metal? Will they cover their ears? Will they cower in fear? Or will they stand in awe at Dapose’s guitar virtuosity? Putting Precious Metal on the bill was a savvy move that will result in as much talk as the headliners. I suggest getting there at the stroke of 8 to see the carnage. You’ll either love it or hate it. You’ll definitely remember it. The other opener, Brooklyn’s Blood on the Wall, is described as an indie rock trio with male and female vocals. Hmmm… If the Yeahs are anything like they were the last time they came through, this will be a must-see show if only to see Nick Zinner’s amazing guitar pyrotechnics. Last I looked, tickets were still available.

It’s a busy Tuesday. O’Leaver’s is hosting Voodoo Organist, who Brendan of Life After Laserdisque (who is opening this show along with No Blood Orphan) swears by. If the Yeahs end early, it might be worth a swing-by.

–Got comments? Post ’em here.—

I made it only to one show this weekend. Actually, one-third of a show. I drove down to Sokol Underground Friday night to catch The Family Radio, which I’ve written about on the blog for the past few days (Nik Fackler, Dereck Higgins, etc.). I got there later than expected, but didn’t miss a thing as Nik and the band stood around on stage for a good 20 minutes doing a sound check (I think). You figure if you were nervous that standing around on stage would only make it worse. Fackler, however, seemed relaxed, almost giddy, throwing candy into the audience throughout the short, five-song set.

The consensus afterward — they sounded a lot like Bright Eyes. Certainly the style is similar — folksy, chamber-pop music pushed gently by a solid rhythm section, with personal lyrics (though not as confessional as poor Conor’s). Fackler’s voice is nothing like Oberst’s, though he does provide the occasional shriek (maybe more Kasher-esque?) and he likes to count out the beat. Violinist/flautist Tara Konradi added nice counter-melodies, though I’m doubtful she could hear herself on stage. And ex-Azure Ray-er Orenda Fink lent a hand on trumpet for one song. It sounded pretty good, and at times, almost great. The night before Fackler was most excited about the “50s-style rocker” that the band planned to end their set with. It was the weakest tune of the bunch, however. The best songs were the more subtle numbers that featured Fackler’s simple finger-picking guitar lines and the warm rumble of the rhythm section — Higgins we all know about, but that drummer was a real pleasant surprise. Now we’ll wait and see just how much more Fackler will do with this band. He’s a busy boy, what with his film projects and music videos. Is it possible to do all of it at once?

In the News: A number of people e-mailed pointing out that Ladyfinger has signed with Saddle Creek. The band themselves confirmed the rumor on their website (http://www.ladyfingersucks.com/), where they announced that their debut full length will be released on Creek Sept. 26. The story goes that Saddle Creek paid for recording the new Ladyfinger disc with the option of putting it out if they liked it. Apparently they did. If you go to the Saddle Creek tours page you’ll find details about the band’s late-May early-June tour that caps off with a gig at The 49’r June 17 (You’ll also find on that same tours page a listing for Neva Dinova dates — the first pseudo-acknowledgement on the Creek site that the band has been signed to the label).

Tonight at Sokol Underground: Saves the Day with Moneen for $15. I’m not sure why I’m telling you this since I think both bands suck.

–Got comments? Post ’em here.—