Yep, that’s me, approximately AHEM AHEM years ago at 19 or 20, playing guitar and singing with Rahne, my Nine Inch Nails-like musical project about which you’ve probably read too much here. I had no idea this photo existed until my old bass player, Brian “Sterling” Kirsch, posted it on Facebook somewhere.

This is when Rahne was still just me and Sterling backed by a cassette player (fancy!), and our shows were more about dress-up than, um, music. I mean, the music was serious, but so was the planning that went into glamming up. This particular image was shot at Cyber-City Cafe, which was a gay-owned and very gay-friendly internet cafe at Flamingo and Maryland Parkway. And we were a gay-friendly band. That probably explains why this night, I wore a tight baby tee that read “SLUT” (now I remember!) on the front. I believe later I added the Rahne logo above it. And I think I still have it somewhere.

And yes, I was wearing sunglasses at night.

Somewhere, I have this show recorded on cassette. It includes a terrible cover of Prince’s “Darling Nikki,” long before everyone else covered “Darling Nikki.” If I find it, I’ll attempt to share a digital version with you. Because you’re full of self-loathing.

I was asked to write a story about a local Jewish musician. Off the top of my head, one came to mind immediately: Hal Savar, who leads the cover band Acoustic Soul. I wrote about Savar before, for the Las Vegas Weekly, but this would be a much longer feature, and I actually had a lot of material unused from my first interview with Savar. He and I met up again at a Starbucks to talk more specifically about his Jewish upbringing, which I didn’t expect played into his music so much, but it does! Kinda interesting. You should read the story.

DAVID is available for free at a bunch of places in Vegas, including Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, Barnes & Noble, Borders, etc. There’s no online version of the stories, but I did do a really poor scan of my story if you’re interested. Click below!

Muse + Silversun Pickups, April 10, Mandalay Bay Events Center.

Consider my mind blown.

I had to cover the CD release party for a young pop-punk-metal band, A Smile From the Trenches, at The Farm, one of Las Vegas’ only all-ages music venues. It was the Thursday before Nevada Day, the day our fine state celebrates its statehood — and it happens to be Oct. 31, so basically, state workers and students get off every year for Halloween. So The Farm saw a decent number of teens for a weeknight, a few hundred by my estimate. Good news for the local music scene, right? Yes. But …

Let me put this into perspective: I am 33 years old. I do not wear skinny jeans. I have significant gray in my beard. I don’t smoke. And I don’t care much for screamo bands whose names do not start and end with “Thursday.” So there I was, either stuck in a room surrounded by kids more than half my age listening to loud, screamy bands, or stuck outside surrounded by underage smokers, being very careful not to look even sideways toward a female patron for fear I’d look like a pedophile. Or more likely, feel like it. And this being an all-ages venue, there was NO LIQUOR IN SIGHT.

The article turned out all right, I think, and the guys from both A Smile From the Trenches and its record label, DC Hardcore, were very nice and accommodating. And the band was definitely far less terrible than its predecessors that night. But in all, it’s not a situation I’d like to repeat anytime soon. Fellow slightly-worn journalist Dave Surrat was there that night to write about the venue itself for the CityLife, and if not for his not-so-young presence and that of promoter pal John “Ducky” Slaughter, I’d likely have gone fully insane.

But I think this can all be summed up by my tweets from that night:

• The Farm has no signage but easy to find: Parking lot full of teens. Ugh.
• has never felt as old as I do at this all-ages venue right now. Oh the things I do for music journalism.
• is finishing my Corona and then heading back to the emo teen hell. Also, I lost $5 at video poker. Think @lasvegasweekly will cover that?
• Either this screamo band has six members or they just have a young girl who appears to play keyboards but really’s just there to look cute.
• Good news: The kids still mosh. Kind of.
• is standing next to the modern equivalent of rock hoes. The bands change but the hoes stay the same.
• Why yes, Virginia, I am watching a screamo band cover Katy Perry’s “Hot & Cold.” Why do you ask?

Those albums form a fairly cohesive aural snapshot of the band’s first four years, staying close to the darkwave groove first unleashed upon hipster bars of the world in 2005, sometimes adding more subtle textures, sometimes getting more funky, but generally keeping alive the flames of Bauhaus, Siouxsie and the Banshees and their ’80s counterparts. But with the release of “Up and Down,” She Wants Revenge puts that all in the past.

Welcome to She Wants Revenge 2.0.

Adam (I’m eschewing the formality of last names here as Adam is someone I’d consider a fair acquaintance, and let that be my full disclosure) has been hinting — OK, overtly broadcasting — on Twitter for the last few months that SWR has been making music by which to have sex. He wasn’t exaggerating. He and Justin have almost completely shed their ’80s postpunk sound (save for the EP’s instrumental, “Love Me”) for something entirely contemporary. From the opening, booming pulse of “Your Love” to the whiplash synths of “A Little Bit Harder Now,” SWR has found the place where Justin Timberlake meets Prince meets The Faint.

Justin’s distinctive robotic baritone and visual storytelling is still intact, but it’s been accented by raps hearkening back to his MC days (remember Bomb the Bass’ “Bug Powder Dust?”). As well, the duo is joined by new discovery ZinaStar on “All Wound Up,” where she delivers a Pussycat Dolls-style verse as well as background vocals.

The more goth-inclined members of SWR’s fan base might be put off by the suddenly mainstream club-friendly sound, but if they’re not able to grow with the band, then they’re missing out. This is pure ass-shaking ear candy you can enjoy without feeling guilty. And it’s made by two dudes who, I can confirm, are real people, writing their own music, playing in a real band that plays real venues. And they’re doing it all without the support of a major record label, so that $5 you should drop on iTunes today for “Up and Down” is money well spent.

Those albums form a fairly cohesive aural snapshot of the band’s first four years, staying close to the darkwave groove first unleashed upon hipster bars of the world in 2005, sometimes adding more subtle textures, sometimes getting more funky, but generally keeping alive the flames of Bauhaus, Siouxsie and the Banshees and their ’80s counterparts. But with the release of “Up and Down,” She Wants Revenge puts that all in the past.

Welcome to She Wants Revenge 2.0.

Adam (I’m eschewing the formality of last names here as Adam is someone I’d consider a fair acquaintance, and let that be my full disclosure) has been hinting — OK, overtly broadcasting — on Twitter for the last few months that SWR has been making music by which to have sex. He wasn’t exaggerating. He and Justin have almost completely shed their ’80s postpunk sound (save for the EP’s instrumental, “Love Me”) for something entirely contemporary. From the opening, booming pulse of “Your Love” to the whiplash synths of “A Little Bit Harder Now,” SWR has found the place where Justin Timberlake meets Prince meets The Faint.

Justin’s distinctive robotic baritone and visual storytelling is still intact, but it’s been accented by raps hearkening back to his MC days (remember Bomb the Bass’ “Bug Powder Dust?”). As well, the duo is joined by new discovery ZinaStar on “All Wound Up,” where she delivers a Pussycat Dolls-style verse as well as background vocals.

The more goth-inclined members of SWR’s fan base might be put off by the suddenly mainstream club-friendly sound, but if they’re not able to grow with the band, then they’re missing out. This is pure ass-shaking ear candy you can enjoy without feeling guilty. And it’s made by two dudes who, I can confirm, are real people, writing their own music, playing in a real band that plays real venues. And they’re doing it all without the support of a major record label, so that $5 you should drop on iTunes today for “Up and Down” is money well spent.

Air Raid Anthem is not the type of band I’d normally listen to, falling in line with all those interchangeable, synth-infused, post-emo bands out there, none of whom I’d probably be able to identify on the radio if I heard them. But though I didn’t want to like it at first, the band’s debut EP, Ready to Get Sweaty, isn’t bad. There’s good songwriting, sing-along choruses and even some surprising twists. The second track on the disc, “Unsolved Hystories,” reminds me a little of stuff from The Killers’ first album. That’s a good thing.

Slow Children … well, I don’t want to write too much here, as I actually reviewed the disc already, but I will say that after only tangentially hearing about this three-piece band but never seeing or hearing them before, I now a) want to see them live and b) want As Yet Unbroken to play a show with them. I think our melodic, diverse, hard rock sounds would work well together. Let’s make it happen, guys!

Five-sixths of Theory of Flight with The Fist. Photo by Michael Gaskell / MG Studio

My assault on the local music scene continued last week with a Las Vegas Weekly article about up-and-coming sextet Theory of Flight, whose Dishwalla-meets-30 Second to Mars sound is propelling the band to the next level.

We met for an interview in the green room at the House of Blues before a local music showcase featuring Theory of Flight. The guys were super-accomodating, very honest, earnest and passionate about their music and continued to reinforce just how great most of our local bands can be. In the last month or so, I’ve interviewed a number of groups — all male-dominated, sorry to say, which might be a topic for a future article — and surprisingly, there hasn’t been a douchebag among them. For the most part, these guys get along fabulously, work harder than they play and actually support other bands. I’ve been looking for some drama, but honestly, it’s hard to come by.

I’m optioning a few local acts to profile next for the Weekly, but I’ll be taking a brief detour for my next assignment; however, I’m not telling you about it until the story’s done. I know, I’m such a tease. In the meantime, you have been keeping up with The Utopian webcomic, right? Shit’s about to get heavy.

Would you trust this creep when he says "close your eyes?" I DON'T THINK SO, PALLY.

Thursday: Went to see Anthony Cools at the Paris Las Vegas Hotel & Casino, home of the world’s largest Eiffel Tower that isn’t the Eiffel Tower. Cools is one of those stage hypnotists whose shtick is making allegedly hypnotized audience members do lewd and ridiculous things on stage like disrobing, performing faux sex acts and generally acting like asses. However, despite the predictable and questionably authentic antics, I couldn’t help but actually enjoy myself. And worse, I believe I acquiesced to “going back” at some point after leaving the show Thursday night. What.

Friday: Opened escrow on a house. No biggie.

Saturday: Attended the Vegas Magazine Sixth Anniversary Party at Pure nightclub inside Caesars Palace. I have gone to the Vegas mag anniversary parties every year since 2006, and until this year, they were always held at large, outdoor venues: Green Valley Ranch Resort’s pool in 2006, Mandalay Bay Beach in 2007 and the Palazzo Hotel & Casino’s pool in 2008. These events were typically massive gatherings, involving (at alternating times) daredevil motorcyclists, a live scorpion pit, go-go dancers inside giant floating bubbles, a graffiti wall and, sadly, an American Idol finalist.

Pretty much all you need to know about Saturday night.

But perhaps as an indicator of our weak (but recovering? Right, Obama? Yeah?) economy, this year’s fete was scaled back considerably. First, it was in Pure, which I typically despise. But apparently it’s not such a horrible place when it’s filled with people you know and like as opposed to wall-to-wall d-bags. Secondly, there were no death-defying stunts, pools or annoying singers to be found anywhere. But there were models in fluffy pink wigs, Pussycat Dolls dancing and, supposedly, Vegas mag cover girl Heather Graham hiding somewhere among the masses.

Most importantly, thanks to an equally scaled-back guest list, there were plenty of easily accessible bars serving free drinks and, well, within a two-hour period I may have had more than my share. OK, so a few of us had more than our respective shares. And I may have stumbled out of the club, past the throng of waiting suckers–er, clubgoers–and had to be driven home due to a certain lack of brain-body coordination. But I guess that’s to say, “Thanks, Vegas Magazine for getting me sh*tfaced. Happy anniversary!”

Sunday: Band practice. Working on a cover of Helmet’s “Unsung.” Realizing how bad of a drummer I am. The rest of the band ran through the song without me and they sounded pretty good. Then I came in on the drums and OH MY GOD WHO LET THIS MAN JOIN A BAND DOING ANYTHING OTHER THAN PLAYING THE SKIN FLUTE MAKE THE NOISE STOP PLEASE HELP.

"Dios mio! My fingers are motherf*cking possessed!" Photo by Erik Kabik | Retna (www.erikkabik.com)

Later that night, as if to destroy my fragile musical ego even further, we headed to the new Joint inside the Hard Rock Hotel, Casino & Den of Debauchery Even On a Sunday to check out “Supernatural Santana: A Cash Grab on One Man’s Lifetime of Music Featuring Unknown Singers Performing his Greatest Hits.” Yes, Santana is the first rock band to hold a residency at the Hard Rock’s revamped venue, and … hell, it’s Santana. Carlos and his band churned out the songs we all know and love — “Oye Como Va,” “Black Magic Woman,” Maria Maria,” etc., etc.  — as well as a few lesser-known tunes that surely only hardcore Santana fans know from one of the man/band’s 36 albums. But despite the music — and band’s — age, Santana poured as much passion into this material as if the songs were days old and not decades old. Sure, the imagery of doves, pivotal moments of hope throughout the last century and the changing face of Carlos Santana was all a bit schmaltzy, but even Carlos’ occasional mini-speeches about love and God and whatnot couldn’t break the rockin’ vibe inside the Joint, even if at times it felt like a church revival.

Oh, and assuming last night wasn’t a lark, the verdict’s in: The new Joint is a goddamned better venue by leaps and bounds than its predecessor. I mean, I already reported on its improved visual appearance, but after actually experiencing a live performance there, I can honestly say that the Pearl (inside the Palms Resort & Whatever) has sonic competition — though the Pearl’s seating arrangements are still far superior.

After letting the story “cool” overnight, I awoke on deadline day with the revelation that the article might best be served by a Gonzo-style, experiential trip through the night at the Hard Rock. I described the gyrating go-go dancers, the wobbling, drunken tourist frat boys, the individual band members and their particular tics, the basketball fans glued to the flat screens … you name it, I threw it in there. Problem was, that put me over my word count before I even finished the second paragraph.

Sigh. Such is freelance journalism.

So I ended up with a serviceable piece that hopefully did the band justice, if not the overall experience. After finding ways to squeeze stories into 200-word boxes for Six Degrees, I’ve gotten pretty good at compressing a whole lot of content into not much space. But it still doesn’t mean I like it.