THEE CORMANS, THEE HEADLINERS, CECILIA UND DIE SAUERKRAUTS, AUDIOS AMIGOS, CHEMICALS, DJ HWY 7
(Kenton Club, 2025 N Kilpatrick) Gunk up your Sunday night with an unholy bill, jam-packed with enough trash to fill your greedy heart. California's Thee Cormans play biker-meth monster-movie surf rock—with weirdo masks to boot—plus Thee Headliners are no strangers to the Kenton stage, and Cecilia und die Sauerkrauts have French-language garage tunes for your go-go boots. NED LANNAMANN
LARRY AND HIS FLASK, WATER TOWER
(Doug Fir, 830 E. Burnside) Roots revival rock! Punkgrass! Swampcore! Post-Steinbeck! Whatever notions you're keen on employing with regard to the Dust Bowl ditties of Bend, Oregon's Larry and His Flask are likely to be scrambled like a campfire breakfast the moment they step on stage. Like rampaging cabinfolk, the sextet casts a formidable (read: chaotic) presence from the get-go, generating enough energy via headbanging, screaming (and harmonizing), jumping into the crowd, jigging and strummin' up lightning-fast folk-punk stanzas to power a small club. Luckily for the audience, this make-up performance marks a chance to see the band from in the intimate confines of the Doug Fir before they're whisked away across the country opening for the Reverend Horton Heat, then later in the year with Lucero to much larger crowds. Get ready to sweat. RYAN J. PRADO
BLOOD BEACH, HAUNTED HORSES, ANNE
(Mississippi Studios, 3939 N Mississippi) The original Blood Beach was a 1980 horror movie in which a monster lurking under Venice Beach shredded sunbathers to death. If it had benefited from production value, the soundtrack would have sounded like the band of the same name. Blood Beach's theremin suggests the creature prowling beneath the summery surf of the lyrics, but the melodies also tend toward The Twilight Zone—just ominous enough that you can't relax, but too much fuzzy reverb to not be completely enjoyable. Haunted Horses are another band that make you feel like something terrifying is imminent. The Seattle duo stared post-modernity in the face and it scared the shit out of them, so they set it to music: a noisy, fractured bundle of dark guitar melodies and vocals straight out of a nuthouse corridor. But it's the furious drums that tie it together and propel us along to our self-made demise. REBECCA WILSON
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