May 29th, 2009
This Weekend In Shows
Tonight:
Ruthie Foster
8pm, $27-37. Keswick Theatre.
From the day a 14-year-old Ruthie Foster belted out a solo in her Gause, Texas, church choir, she has kept on singing. And loudly. In a true Americana tradition, Foster writes and sings songs that straddle American roots music, pulling in the hand-clapping, shout-to-the-skies uplifting elements of Southern gospel and countering it with slow, sultry blues ballads. Already six records into her career, she released her latest, The Truth According to Ruthie Foster, earlier this year, bringing hard blues guitar lines into funky Southern blues and Memphis soul tunes. Tying it all together is her expressive, yearning voice that sounds like a polished Janis Joplin or a country-oriented Ella Fitzgerald. (Katherine Silkaitis)
Also, Walter Schreifels — formerly of such hardcore and post-hardcore bands as Gorilla Biscuits and Quicksand — shows off his moodier solo singer-songwriter fare at the Khyber, with McRad, featuring the legendary Chuck Treece, opening [9pm/$10]; the horrendously named Chickenfoot (we hope the music is better than the moniker, but we’re not counting on it) — the new rock “supergroup” featuring Sammy Hagar, Joe Satriani, Michael Anthony, and Chad Smith — brings its arena-sized sound to the TLA for a very, very sold-out show [9pm]; terrifically talented Philly singer-songwriter Andrew Lipke and the equally local and terrific Toy Soldiers (who did a fun interview with us last month) take over the North Star [9pm/$10]; and Hoots & Hellmouth conclude their two-night stand celebrating their new album The Holy Open Secret at Johnny Brenda’s, with the New Familiars and the Mural and the Mint opening [9:30pm/$12-15].
Saturday:
A Camp
9:30pm, $12. Johnny Brenda’s.
Even when she was a teenage waitress serving visiting English bands like the Human League in the famed Copenhagen seafood restaurant from which her first band, the Cardigans, took their name, ethereally Swedish Nina Persson knew she was fated for bigger and better things. And she was. The Cardigans served up acid-lashed Norwegiod sophisto-pop gumbo and all was good in the world. And now after a brief pop absence during which she probably worked as an air hostess on the world’s most introverted and yet sophisticated airline, Ms. Persson is back with killer lines about love which can “do you like a shotgun” and is “stronger than Jesus.” Missed you, lass. (Steven Wells)
Also, the Avett Brothers and Paleface play a sold-out show at the Troc [9pm]; and the Philly regionals of the U.S. Air Guitar Championships — which promises to be a really great good time — goes down at the Khyber [9pm/$15].
Sunday:
Buckethead
8pm, $18.50-21.50. TLA.
He hides his identity by wearing a KFC bucket on his head and a featureless white mask on his face whenever making public appearances. He was an infamous foil for Axl Rose’s almost-endless Chinese Democracy saga. Yet despite this, Buckethead is not only a bizarre figure but is also an amazing and engrossing musician. That is, as long as he sticks to melody. Otherwise it can be a long haul. His solo work is spotty and indulgent, true, but it’s often brilliant. And live, Buckethead is capable of playing just about anything his own way and still making it entertaining. Goofy? Sure. But great fun nonetheless. (John Cramer)
And then there’s the “Week’s Worst”:
Death Vessel
8pm, $10. First Unitarian Church.
Squeaky, clattery, unelectrified wooden guitar- strumming plus breathy, intense, earnest female vocals. Oh, God, will this torment agony never cease? But wait, the lady’s a dude. That’s the only really interesting thing going on here so, alas (it’s terribly unfair), Mr. Death Vessel (aka Joel Thibodeau) has to take the full weight of the sane world’s disdain for the vile plague that is the neo-folk-singer/songwriter (the musical equivelant of swine flu). Fuck off back to the 1960s, all 8 billion of you. If there’s anything worse than a poet, it’s a poet with a guitar. And an audience. It’s a scene comprised of thousands of the self-obessed bastards. A cull is long overdue. (Steven Wells)
