RED FANG, FEDERATION X, DOG SHREDDER
(Wonder Ballroom, 128 NE Russell) Who needs a face? You'll happily watch it melt off with the beer-drenched rock 'n' roll of Portland's Red Fang. Happily! Your body will be so busy shreddin', it won't even notice. Just shotgun a couple PBRs, then get that face-less head a-banging,f because these boys don't play around town as much as we want 'em to. COURTNEY FERGUSON
COHEED AND CAMBRIA, BETWEEN THE BURIED AND ME, RUSSIAN CIRCLES
(Roseland, 8 NW 6th) Coheed and Cambria suck. A lot. Do I have to elaborate? They're an only-slightly more palatable Dream Theater. The Second Stage Turbine Blade is basically just Rush's Hemispheres on 45 rpm. Compositional helmsman Claudio Sanchez's entire demeanor is as ridiculous and overblown as the title I just gave him (his hair is pretty cool, though). Anybody—with the exception of Peter Gabriel, circa 1974—who utilizes the concept-album medium to tell a story is absolutely full of shit. Like their similarly lame conspecifics Fall of Troy, at the height of their popularity Coheed and Cambria appealed equally to prog fanatics and scene-mall dwellers, two insufferable human sub-groups. Wait, did I already make the Dream Theater comparison? MORGAN TROPER
BLACK MARBLE, LIGHTHOUSE, VICE DEVICE
(East End, 203 SE Grand) Black Marble's musical backbone is exacting synth, with vocals that convey something dark and dreamy. Imagine, if you will (oh, you will), a man with an exceptionally low but beautiful voice. It's very dark, and for some reason he's inside of an old toy store, drunk. Rows and rows of windup toys make persistent beats in unison—little bears, dolls, and soldiers click and ting, playing their instruments with factory precision. As the melancholic crooner slowly weaves through the toy displays, his voice echoes around the room, creating a blissful numbness. Now snap out of it! EMILY NOKES
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