Miami Music Blog

​Why does aging Cali club kid Steve Aoki always seem to be everywhere all the time? He's like some kind of superhuman funhouse mirror, multiplying his slick indie-slouch image a million and one times throughout the mediated universe. It's kinda creepy ... Wherever I look (music mags, dark alleys, The Cobra Snake, etc.) there's Mr. Kid Millionaire reflecting himself right back at me. 

​According to the Yacht Manifesto #1: "Yacht is a Band, Belief System, and Business conducted by Jona Bechtolt and Claire L. Evans of Marfa, Texas and Portland, Oregon, USA." Also, Yacht "seeks to explore frontiers and to expand awareness of extraterrestrial Intelligence" and "believes in an Afterlife," but "does not believe in 'Heaven' or 'Hell.'" Moreover, the manifesto screams: "YACHT IS NOT A CULT."

Hmm ... Now, I don't know about you, but when somebody reassures me that whatever weird shit they're into isn't a cult, it's usually time to assume that the aforementioned weird shit is indeed a cult. And that goes double when the statement is made in italicized capital letters. It's the typographic equivalent of crazy eyes.

Really though, who cares? Cult or not a cult, so long as Yacht keeps pounding out art-pop party hits -- such as "See A Penny (Pick It Up)" -- and giving them out for free at TeamYacht.com, this thing seems to be all about good tunes and good times. That said, if there's so much as a single mention of castration, carving swastikas into human flesh, or Kool-Aid, I am so fucking gone.

Saturday, November 14. Electric Pickle, 2826 N. Miami Ave., Miami. Doors open at 10 p.m., and tickets cost $10 through Epoplife.com. Ages 21+ with ID. 305-456-5613; Electric Pickle at Facebook.com

​By the time you reach a non-trick-or-treating age (i.e., whenever the candy-giving adults start asking for your cell number) it's easy to get all jaded about Satan's birthday. And why not? As a grown-up, your Halloween future sucks. No more free candy, no more shitty-awesome psycho slasher costumes, and no more petty acts of delinquent mischief. Sometimes it even seems all us over-aged fright night revelers are doomed to a lifetime of spooky-slutty bummerfests, like this weekend's Tera-Ween, Vivid's Porn Star Ball, and Strip-O-Ween.

​Maybe it's bad taste to get on some kind of eulogy bender before the corpse is even cold, but the diagnosis is terminal and it's only a matter of time ... Your favorite hipster bar, PS14, is dying. So say goodbye, Miami, and make amends for all the wrongs you've committed against this party spot that's done you so right on so many nights. 

​You know, media mogul and notorious big baller Ted Turner was totally right when he said: "Sports is like a war without the killing." And that's why our Miami Dolphins should immediately suspend their punk-bitch-porpoise-in-a helmet logo in favor of Last Rights' Mac-10 redesign. For one, this murder weapon with eyes looks certifiably badass on T-shirts, both teal and black. And, for another, I think it sends the right message to opposing squads, basically: "We've got a sense of humor and everything ... But right now you and I are mortal enemies and I'm gonna chop you in half with my super-cheap, black market machine pistol."

​Like a hipster boy who just got dumped by his admittedly too-perfect girlfriend, White Room's having a tough time bouncing back from its recent breakup with local queen of cool, Poplife. Especially harsh was the fact that the bitch (er, Poplife, in this case) immediately shacked up with that new, glossy motherfucker down the street (the Electric Pickle) and got right down to business having a whole bunch of pretty little party puppies.

Anyway, I ... uh, White Room, rather ... finally figured shit out and decided to fuck away the pain with a different party every Saturday night. Or, at least, that's the plan until another long-term girlfriend comes around to fill the gaping hole at the heart of my ... uh, White Room's ... weekly lineup.

In that spirit, tomorrow night's gonna be a group thing. Providing the foreplay, there'll be five Miami-based bands, including Arboles Libres, DorksMoronsGeeks, Aria Kamikaze, Saga High, and Diego Val. Then later, the truly hardcore action will come courtesy of disco punk crew Old Wives' Tale. All in all, it should be a very satisfying one-night stand, proof even that White Room's doing just fine without you, Poplife. Slutting it up and loving it. Sorta.

Saturday, October 3. White Room, 1306 N. Miami Ave., Miami. Doors open at 10 p.m. Ages 21+ with ID. whiteroommiami.com.

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A victim tells his story: Thanks, In Flagranti. I just checked out your new-ish album Brash & Vulgar, released back in March on Codek Records, and I have to tell you ... I can't stop dancing! Whenever I close my eyes, it's a crazy party in my brain. There are naked ladies, mustachioed dudes, and a bear skin rug, all thump-thumping each other's rumps to your non-ironic retro groove. Then, the waterbed bursts and there's water flowing everywhere, but the thrusting doesn't stop! Party time just got wetter! Hahaha! 

​The pitfalls of teen stardom are legend -- sex, drugs, burnout, overexposure, the dreaded 20th birthday, or even a simple case of the incurable crazies à la Wacko Jacko. Way back in '79, Leif Garrett hit the 'ludes, crashed his car, and almost killed his friend while, more recently, we've seen Britney tumble pantyless down the wrong path too many times to bother counting. Really, it's almost inevitable: The pop machine will eat its virgins for breakfast. 

​The untimely demise of DIY venue Goo has left Miami's young punks without an official clubhouse. Stepping into that void, there have been several semi-permanent and one-off party places -- House of Pain and the Warehouse, for example -- that ended up welcoming an orphan show or two. But, for the most part, those were quick fixes to immediate booking problems, not permanent solutions. These days, the only real, consistent presence on the all-ages scene is the Dugout, a squat little bunker out in the wilds of Doral.

That's not to say the Dugout has straight-up inherited the crowd that populated Goo. While there has been some migration since the latter shuttered near the end of July, the Doral spot doesn't really trade in gritty hardcore and thrash as much as a certain kind of metal-punk with a suburban edge. It's a brand that centers around a regular roster of local bands, many of them ganging together next Saturday -- including Behold the Ruins, Great Divine, Bell Towers Fall, Powa Kord, and Fuel the Flames as well as Faithscar, Zealot, the Perfect Defect, Handgun, and Murder at First Sight.

Now, show up and pay your ten bucks, but mind the underagers, meaning: "no smoking, no alcohol, no drugs, and no fights."

Saturday, September 19. The Dugout, 7413 NW 54th St., Doral. Show starts at 6 p.m., and tickets are $10. All ages. myspace.com/thedugoutmiami

​​These days it has become exceedingly rare to see a show flyer that's been produced entirely without the aid of a computer. (I mean, we as a people are so obscenely wired that it seems the next logical step should be embedding a Bluetooth into my skull and/or seamlessly interfacing my laptop with my crotch.) Thus, whenever one of these endangered, graphite-on-paper, straight-from-the-notebook gems -- that one to the left, for example -- crops up, it's a thrilling discovery, like finding the Paleolithic doodlings of some mosh-manic caveman. 

​Ever since wandering away from the pseudo-industrial barrios of their native Uruguay almost a half-decade ago, the dark, druggy boys of Monoblock -- Martin TC and Guikle -- have survived and thrived by zigzagging through the secret underground tunnels that connect all international party meccas. Thus far, the techno-house experimentalists have come surface-side for big gigs at distant spots like Berlin's Watergate, the Monza Club in Ibiza, and Brussels' Fuse. 

​As a little runt in the late '80s, I owned a rabbit's foot keychain. And really, didn't everyone? Back then, lucky bunny body parts were still a genuine fixture of pop culture. Today though, the hallowed tradition of carrying a severed rodent's leg on your person as some sort of amulet against evil mojo seems to be in serious decline. It's a shame. And personally, I blame PETA and Bunny Lovers magazine for needlessly destroying an ancient tradition while decimating the novelty keychain industry in the process. 

​The endlessly fascinating thing about this flyer for the Obey Your Mastour kickoff party is the oddly erotic moment transpiring between the two humanoid creatures, struggling front and center. To be honest, I can't fully decode the sequence or nature of whatever's happening here ... I mean, what exactly is that 'roided-out monster jock force-feeding the vegan hardcore kid? Snot? Roofie? Miso paste? And why does the vegan -- his eyes floating heavenward -- appear to be enjoying this ultra-violent hug so much?

Oh well ... We might never fully understand the complex dynamics of the master-to-wimp relationship, but there's always opportunity for further research. So next Friday, don't forget to gather that data when Miami Beach prog-poppers Jacobs Ladder draw a crowd of all kinds -- moshers, muggers, and huggers -- to Churchill's for the launch of the band's late summer tour. In the Pub's main cave, there'll be a huge swarm of noisemakers, including Arboles Libres, Flower Flower Yes, And Then There Was You, the Bront, and Your Best Friend. Plus, as if six bands weren't enough, there will also be a quieter scene on the patio, featuring acoustic shows by Danielle Steele, Boy Have Heart, and Montgomery Drive. So basically, it's gonna be a night for everyone: monster jocks and vegans, masters and wimps, you and me. The only rule ... Obey.

Friday, August 21. Churchill's, 5501 NE 2nd Ave., Miami. Doors open at 8:30 p.m. Tickets cost $8 in advance from myspace.com/jacobsladder, $10 at the door. Ages 21+ with ID. 305.757.1807; churchillspub.com

​It was 1979 and punk was being born again in the glitter-flecked primordial muck of Los Angeles. Late-blooming skinheads and bands like Black Flag, the Circle Jerks, and the Germs were bashing the West Coast hardcore scene into shape, using little more than blunt force. For most fans of aggro tuneage, this latest reinvention of outrage and anarchy seemed like a perfectly acceptable next step in the evolution of anti-establishment noise. But 16-year-old Roger Alan Painter hated that shit. To him, it was a neo-nazi meathead scene driven by hillbilly violence, sexism, and stupidity. And so -- outpunking the punks -- Roger renamed himself Rozz Williams, converted to the brooding ways of Brit apostles such as Genesis P. Orridge, and founded now-infamous goth crew Christian Death.

Important disclaimer: The band scheduled to show up this Sunday at PS14 is not the C.D. of legend. It is not the evil, buzzing machine that created the blacker-than-black sounds of Only Theatre of Pain. Fronted by Valor Kand and Maitri, the current incarnation of Christian Death laid sole claim (after years of dispute) to the name when Rozz Williams hung himself in 1998. In fact, it's a lineup that could be called "totally bogus." But then again, should anyone expect a 30-year-old deathrock act to be anything but a novelty sideshow? Guess not. So just pay your way into darkness and maybe you'll be lucky enough to hear the ghost of Roger Alan Painter puking in hell.

Sunday, August 9. PS14, 28 NE 14th St., Miami. Hosted by Notorious Nastie with DJs Dracula's Daughter, Aramis Lorie, Bloodfiend, Lady Anime, Gooddroid, Antichrist, and Andi Metro. Doors open at 8 p.m., and tickets cost $10 through planetpresale.com. Ages 21+ with ID. ps14.com

Flyer designed by Michael Tamzil | tamzdesigns.com

​In the vaguely menacing gloam of this first dying decade of the 21st century, the people continue to party hard. It's an obsessive, have-fun-or-die type of mindset that cannot be deterred, no matter the consequences. And to a large extent, Frenchy sensations Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo and Thomas Bangalter of Daft Punk can be held responsible, driving as they do the party zeitgeist among hardcore, indie dance kids -- both superyoung and sorta old. The reason: These two dudes make music that provides one of the many missing links between the pissed-off, leather-clad punk attitude of the late '70s and the E-ed out electro/new rave/blog house scene of right now.

That's also why DJ Falcon, a.k.a. Stephan Queme -- part of the ever-expanding universe of Daft Punk cronies and collaborators dubbed "Daft Crew" -- enjoys almost instant credibility wherever MTV2 is broadcast. And his stats are stellar, including a co-production credit on Daft Punk's 1997 debut full-length Homework as well as a cluster of collabs with Bangalter ("Call on me," "So much love to give," and "Together") that round up his bourgeoning oeuvre. But don't misjudge, the Falcon isn't just a spinoff; he's a club killer all his own. Witness the fact when he charges through SET next Saturday, alongside resident Chicco Secci. Expect the playlist to include some of his own bloggy bombs, the requisite Daft Punk, and other stuff like Simian Mobile Disco, Rye Rye, Boys Noize, etc. From there, you know what to do ... Basically, have fun or die.

Saturday, August 8. SET, 320 Lincoln Rd., Miami Beach. Doors open at 10 p.m., and tickets cost $40 through wantickets.com. Ages 21+ with ID. 305-531-2800; setmiami.com

Believe it ... There are chimps living among us. And when these wild animals aren't busy ripping the faces off unwitting citizens, they're insidiously hard to spot. Cleverly camouflaged in people clothes with their hair cropped and parted smartly down the middle of the skull, they're shopping in our supermarkets and they're bowling in our bowling alleys and they're rapidly growing their little surrogate families of misfit pets.

So now that you've been warned, beware this rising primate population. The average chimpanzee may wear a cloak of civility, but he moshes with the strength of ten men. And next Friday when D.C. fastcore crew Coke Bust arrives in the subtropics from their natural habitat in the Nation's capital, you can count on an all-out ape uprising. There'll be bananas in the pit. There will be shit on the walls. And if we're all lucky, the headliners and their backup (Miami grindcore killers Shitstorm and local hardcore crusties Mehkago N.T.) will generate enough cathartic noise that these chimps won't have to disfigure anyone at the office Tuesday morning just to keep an even keel.

Monday, August 10. House of Pain, 3240 NW 16th Terr., Miami. Show starts at 7 p.m., and admission costs $5. myspace.com/breakevenbooking

Flyer design by Kent Hernandez

Sometimes a party isn't just a party. Sometimes it's Local Motion, the annual charity electro concert benefiting the American Cancer Society's Relay for Life, organized by Loscar Rodriguez, a.k.a. HenceSoLo, and presented by Lexyn Intelligence and Nocturnal.

First launched in February 2006, Local Motion has been fighting the good fight without any give, raising consciousness and encouraging activism among young club kids. That's why it was such a bummer when last year's edition of the party with a cause never actually came together. But now, thank SoLo, Local Motion is back because Loscar's dedication simply runs too deep. For him, the war against the Evil C is personal -- Rodriguez has lost several family members to cancer, including his father -- and he can't wait for the cure. Until then though, "Local Motion chooses to fight with music."

And -- holy crap! -- HenceSoLo has come fully equipped for the battlefield, backed by a lineup of 15 lethal electro artists blasting audio-visual firepower. Donating their cancer-killing talents, there will be Brice Kelly and 214 providing live PA musical support, plus DJ sets from Exzakt, UpRokk, Danny Daze, HenceSoLo himself, and FTG. Then, in a crazy bid to win the party time arms race, there'll be tag-team beat battles courtesy of Medley and Intellect, Ran-D and BassAddict, as well as Proliferation and Kounterakt -- not to mention the video assault of AV8 and Iris Beatrix. So come out, get militant, and donate your cancer-killing dollars because, like Loscar says, "Local Motion is not my party ... It's OUR party!"

Friday, August 7. Nocturnal, 50 NE 11th St., Miami. Show starts at 10 p.m., and tickets are $15. 305-576-6996; nocturnalmiami.com

The artist known as Matthew Dear has got some serious (but not too serious) identity issues. I mean, it's not as if his psychic split is the acid-activated, lock-myself-away-for-30-years-and-die Syd Barrett variety. It's more that, musically, Dear is way too complex to be merely one man. And so, like a lot of other arty weirdoes from the electro/techno/house subset, he chooses to manage the multiple, raging facets of his creative personality by assigning cute little aliases -- such as False, Jabberjaw, and Audion -- to one new self and the next and the next. 

Flyer design by Eddie Rosenstock

The motto is "Nothin' but the goods." And like some punch-drunk baby boxer beating a gong with bare bloody fists, the seven-week-old Champion Sound throwdown brings the noise in a big way. For proof of pure party acumen, just take a quick and dirty MySpace tour with a few members of the rapidly ballooning CS musical alumni, including hip-hop jam band Fusik, hometown funk hero DJ Le Spam, and local street trio Basic Vocab. 

A minute ago, still buzzing from the twin highs of payday and a certain psychotropic substance, I had the sudden realization: Green is a very good color. For a second, it seemed like a weird kind of intellectual smoke that meant precisely nothing, just floating past. Then, the rest came: Green is the color of money and green is the color of ganja. And all seemed right with the world until James Brown popped out of a fifty-dollar bill, screaming: "Go unto Mary Jane Mondays, son!!!" 

As wild admirers of Johnny Cash, Karl Marx, and Pee Wee Herman, the ex-Miami and now Oakland-based outfit Kreamy 'Lectric Santa makes a skuzzy, avant-garde sound that could be called "kinder commune rockabilly." But that might be short-selling a crew that's got as many facets as an LSD-25 trip in outer space. Thankfully in this age of Internet accessibility, you needn't waste time listening to some third-rate music writer struggling with the KLS conundrum. Just go here and have that mind excursion right now. 

You've spent weeks alone indoors, cultivating the kind of sun-neglected sickliness that, in certain circles, passes for goth authenticity. And now, it's finally time to take your proud pale ass into the streets. But don't worry, no one's talking daytime hours. Just join your fellow doomed and Vitamin-D deficient for next week's special "Punks Not Dead" edition of Black Sheep Bar's Wednesday night party, Mausoleum.

Prior to the advent of astro-drink Tang and its evil twin Sunny D, Florida was the undisputed Bordeaux of the breakfast drink game. These days though, our prime regional product isn't O.J. alone. We've been forced by circumstance (a.k.a. evil, artificial orange drinks) to diversify into such things as cultivating the Sunshine State's deeply rooted musical culture. Hence, the five-city Citrus Circuit tour.