A Hot Ticket retrospective ...

Standing now in the cockshut (and you're crazy if you think I'm not going to use that word every chance I get until the Pulse actually closes up the print edition on May 16) of Pulse's tenure on the local media scene, I thought it would be a good idea to comb through past Hot Tickets I've written and collect them in one spot for safekeeping. The beauty of Hot Tickets, which are the little blurbs we write about upcoming events in the front of Pulse each week, is that I tend to write up to four a week, and once they're written, I tend to forget all about them. As such, it was kind of fun to look back at these. Maybe you'll enjoy it, too. They're in reverse chronological order.

STEVE'S HOTTEST TICKETS

SATURDAY, APRIL 21
Missing Numbers CD Release Show
Turf Club
If there's a band at the end of the world, that band is probably Missing Numbers. Since their first album in 2004, this Jimmy Peterson (of Bellwether) project has broken and weathered from a spaciously unspooling classic rock outfit into a clattering rattle bag. In a slick, streamlined age, Missing Numbers' new disc, More Salt?, is defiantly hydraulic, steam-powered and rusty, grinding along on a shot of Morphine (thanks to the tenor and baritone saxes of Hall Sanders) and co-piloted by the ghost of Bone Machine-era Tom Waits. Layers of grime and distortion transform Peterson's voice into the calls of a carnival barker, and John Crist's drums sound like they've been replaced with the burnt out shells of Volkswagens and discarded gas stoves. Echoing voices drift through "Clean Living," Mike Derrick's slinkily frayed bassline anchors the handclap groove of "Unlucky Numbers," and "10,000 Tens" drifts through a smokey blue haze of beatnik-leaning poetry and free blowing sax, completing a central triptych that would be at home soundtracking a Jarmusch, Wenders or Lynch film. This is ghostly, burning stuff. With Rank Strangers, The Slats and Faux Jean. 9 p.m $5. 21+. Corner of University and Snelling Aves., St. Paul. 651-647-0486.

SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 10, 2007
Grizzly Bear
7th Street Entry
I've long suspected that there's a perfect word out there to describe Grizzly Bear's aesthetic, and I think I've got it now: susurrating. I didn't make that up-- I swear. For a long time I was going with mossy, given the overgrown and organic sonic sprawl of last year's Yellow House, but mossy also suggests a kind of reticence, whereas I'm looking for something with a little more restlessness in it. Susurrating means "issuing soft noises," and that's what all the space around the music does on their record. Curtains gently rustle in drafts, chests rise and fall in loamy late-morning sleep and blades of grass flick to and fro the way they do when you get up real close to your lawn. Plus there's the onomatopoetic suggestion of a slurred, stuttery mumble in sussurating that captures tentative forward motion, forever arrested in mid-stumble. I missed them opening for TV on the Radio, a mistake I don't intend to repeat. With Portastatic and The Dirty Projectors. 8 p.m. $12. 21+. 29 N. 7th St., Mpls. 612-332-1775.

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 31, 2006
Staying Home
Your House
Come on, admit it: New Year’s Eve is a disappointment nine times out of 10. I spent a good six years as a musician living by my brother’s motto: “Everyone has to have a gig New Year’s Eve.” Enough. I’m getting old, damnit, so here’s my recipe for a great New Year’s Eve: diminshed expectations. When I was growing up, my family took the opportunity of staying up late to watch a really long movie: for a few years it was “The Right Stuff,” then it was “Lawrence of Arabia.” Of course, these days, 153 minutes and 228 minutes (respectively) hardly constitute a long movie. Maybe you could watch all of Krzysztof Kieslowski’s 10-part miniseries, where each part focuses on one of the Ten Commandments, “Decalogue.” That’s 550 minutes right there, and Stanley Kubrick called it the only masterpiece he could name that was made during his lifetime. Or how about every single episode of the woefully underrated “Freaks and Geeks?” It’s kind of like “The Wonder Years” if “The Wonder Years” were actually as good as you remember it being. Plus it features the wit and wisdom of everyone’s favorite lanky geek, Bill Haverchuck. And it will last you about 792 minutes. That’s probably what I’ll be doing; sitting on the couch with my fee-ance, some eggnog, maybe a glass of champagne, vicariously reliving my high school years through Lindsey and Sam Weir and turning in shortly after the big ball drops in Times Square. Admit it: you’re jealous. 8 p.m. - 12:15 a.m. Free. All Ages, 21+ to drink.

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 19, 2006
Deftones
First Ave
The sublime, as a Romantic notion, concerns that which is terrifying and dangerous—think tornado—but which, through the remove of fiction, can be appreciated aesthetically for the very qualities that make it threatening. More than any other band out there today, the propulsively aggressive yet melodically angelic Deftones embody this grotesque beauty. “Kimdracula,” from their recently-released album Saturday Night Wrist, is a good example: Singer Chino Moreno whips from a hushed croon to towering falsetto to guttural howl and back again—it’s enough to give you whiplash, and that’s exactly the point. Since 2000’s White Pony, Deftones have milked that knife edge between the visceral and the ethereal, making forays into ambient textural territory and sound collaging. It’s not so much tied together as loosely bound by Moreno’s animalistic and sometimes violent imagery, all teeth, red leather and, yup, ball gags. For me, they occupy a strange oxbow in my musical taste; I listen to nothing else that’s even vaguely close to them in sound, aside from Japanese art-metal band Boris. Still, I’ll maintain my stance that they’re far more than just noise and fury signifying nothing: They’re an overwhelming amount of noise and fury signifying a vast and yawning emptiness—and it scares me, in the best way possible. 8 p.m. $20. 18+. 701 First Ave. N., Mpls. 612-338-8388.

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 1, 2006
Timberwolves vs. Nuggets
Target Center
Nothing lasts forever, but I’m way more torn up inside than I expected to be at the thought that not only may Kevin Garnett soon be leaving for greener pastures, but that he actually needs to. Being a fan of a team is a messy business: I love the T’wolves, and I love KG, and for as long as I’ve been a fan, those two things have been synonymous. Thus was sportswriter Bill Simmons’ article in the Dec. 4 issue of ESPN the Magazine all the more painful for being right: Garnett is missing out on a chance to be recognized as one of the all-time greats if he stays here. I was there when the T’wolves came back in the last eight minutes of the fourth quarter against the Los Angeles Clippers last Saturday night, and I was momentarily buoyed by the win, re-energized by the resolve shown by a team notorious for phoning in fourth quarters, but it was ultimately as hollow a victory as a peaceful, romantic dinner in the middle of a failing relationship. I know what has to happen: KG has to leave and find his championship ring with another team (please don’t let it be the Lakers) and, in the end, I know it’s right. The Timberwolves’ playoff run in ’04 will forever stand second in my heart only to the Red Sox winning the championship that same year as the defining sports experience of my life (I was born in Massachusetts). While he’s still here, you better get over to the Target Center and see him in person. In case you’re not up on your T’wolves history, we hate the Denver Nuggets, and this one’s bound to be a knock-down, drag-out fight. Kevin: It’s been a pleasure and an honor. 7 p.m. $10 - $700. 600 First Ave. N., Mpls. 612-337-DUNK ext. 1 or timberwolves.com.

SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 2006
Jeremy Messersmith
Nomad World Pub
I’ve had Jeremy Messersmith on the brain lately. I don’t know if you’ve read “The Twenty-seventh City” by Jonathan Franzen (don’t bother, by the way—it was terrible), but in it, a successful man is brought low by a carefully orchestrated set of disasters that appear to him to be mere chance. Occasionally, I feel that bands are doing this to me, albeit with less disastrous results than the death of my dog or the wooing of my daughter by some ne’er-do-well. Since the first time I caught wind of Mr. Messersmith’s disc Alcatraz Kid via a CD review by Andrea Myers here in the Pulse, he’s gotten love in the City Pages and various other pubs in town, and his careworn blend of introspection and pop savvy has been popping up everywhere I’ve turned. There he is on the Current, and there he is in the pile of CDs I’m about to bring to Homegrown to play this week, and there he is appearing live in person on Homegrown this very Sunday. Not that he should have to embark on a clandestine campaign to win the affections of music critics: His tuneful melodies are the kind that make you stop short when they come on the radio, beguiling and enchanting, but straightforward and honest. You’ve done it, Mr. Messersmith: You’ve won me over, so you can tell your goons to stop rooting through my trash. With Jayber Crow, The Dale Hush Hush (Coach Said Not To side project) and Harbor. 9 p.m. $5. 21+. 501 Cedar Ave. S., Mpls. 612-338-6424.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 2006
Band of Horses
Fine Line Music Cafe
Some bands make albums that only blossom when you strap on a pair of headphones and patiently soak them in. Dial in the mood lighting, crack open a bottle of Argentinean Malbec and kick back on your chaise lounge if you want to get the most out of the slow-growers, but Band of Horses is not a band to kill you softly with their songs. Anthems like “The Funeral” and “Wicked Gil” promise to rock your face off live, and that’s just what they did when Band of Horses hit the Entry on their first trip to the Twin Cities. Ben Bridwell and Matt Brooke fashioned the band out of the ashes of Seattle indie rock stalwart Carissa’s Wierd and their debut disc Everything All the Time is just the kind of sentimental arrow that aims for the chinks in every hipster’s emotional armor. In the gorgeous “Part One,” Bridwell sings, “I’d like to think that I’m a mess you’d wear with pride / like some empty dress you laid out on the bed for tonight.” I’m generally not one to quote other reviews, but Aaron Newell at cokemachineglow.com hit the nail on the head when he wrote, “When that’s sung over a slight, high school country waltz, by that voice, you can gauge how thick your skin is by how much you start missing someone.” His point was that Band of Horses aren’t experimental or daring, but rather messily and mercilessly precise in their harnessing of a certain adolescent emotion that never really leaves you. They go for the jugular again and again, and isn’t that why we’re paying attention in the first place? I doubt any rock writer worth his or her salt got into this racket to wax philosophical about popular music, even if that’s what we end up doing. We love music because way back in junior high, in a past beyond reach because we can’t feel ourselves as other than we are now, we heard a song that made the hair stand up on our necks, or pins and needles flood our cheeks, and wanted to feel like that as often as possible for as long as possible for the rest of our lives. With Chad VanGaalen. 7:30 p.m. $14. 18+. 318 First Ave. N., Mpls. 612-338-8100.

MONDAY, MAY 8, 2006
Sigur Ros
Orpheum Theater
Sigur Ros is a band that fairly demands to be the soundtrack to your life in moments of need and transition. Their lyrics, written in a phonetic jumble called Hopelandic, aren’t statements so much as empty vessels into which you inject yourself, and the swell of orchestration that accompanies their dynamic peaks would be overwhelming if they hadn’t been so careful in bringing you along on the journey. Their latest, Takk…, could be called more of the same, but this is a band that knows the power of motif, that creates impact not from aping the frenetic kineticism of modern life, but by applying a steady hand to our musical pressure points: melody, minor-major resolution, dynamic movement. I can’t recall exactly when, but I remember being on a bus in Chicago, mid-fall, headed down Lake Shore Drive late at night, Ágætis Byrjun (their first LP) streaming through my headphones, sodium streetlights flashing by. That night, they were the sound of something beginning curled up inside the sound of something ending. Had I left the East Coast already? Had my band broken up? What is it about buses at night that inspires gentle melancholy and wistful whenandifying (as in, when and if I ever figure this all out)? I can’t tell you; just keep some Sigur Ros handy in case you ever find yourself in similar straits. With Amiina. 7:30 p.m. $30-$40. 805 Hennepin Ave., Mpls. 612-339-7007.

MONDAY, MARCH 13, 2006
The Wedding Present
400 Bar
I feel bad for any woman who’s been involved with David Gedge: Judging by his songs, he either cheated on you, broke your heart and then went on to immortalize it in song or you cheated on him, broke his heart and you still got immortalized in song. Either way, you’ll never live it down—not when Gedge plants his lyrical daggers inside of sticky, bittersweet hooks. After years of fronting the high-fidelity-meets-infidelity Cinerama, Gedge returned to the gritty, guitar-driven fold of his first band, The Wedding Present, who’ve been on hiatus since 1997. If you’ve been watching Tom Hallett’s space, you read his glowing review of Take Fountain, but I’ll sum it up for you: The Wedding Present are as toothy and toothsome as ever, Gedge spinning tales of heartbreak with clear- and cold-eyed honesty. You can bring your girl, but if Gedge has anything to do with it, you won’t be leaving with her. With Sally Crewe & the Sudden Moves. 8 p.m. 21+. $15. 400 Cedar Ave. S., Mpls. 612-332-2903.

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 24, 2006
Alvin Lucier
The Spark Festival at the School of Music
What is music? No, seriously: ask yourself. My Intro to Experimental Music class at Wesleyan, taught by Alvin Lucier, changed my answer to that question considerably. Lucier has pioneered many new methods of music making, but is best known for his piece “I Am Sitting in a Room,” in which the performer reads a short text into an empty room. The performance is recorded, played back into the room and recorded again. And again and again. It’s an amazing enough concept that’s laid out in the performance’s text (“I am going to play it back into the room again and again until the resonant frequencies of the room reinforce themselves”), but what’s truly stunning is how unexpectedly beautiful the result is. With the sparest of concepts and tools, Lucier creates a sonic painting of the sounds that lie dormant inside every space we inhabit and in the process makes us realize that music is so much more than arpeggios and appoggiaturas. Lucier is the keynote speaker at the Spark Festival, and several of his pieces will be performed as well. The schedule of performances is extensive and sure to shift your paradigm if you’re willing to open yourself up. Lucier’s keynote lecture is at 11:15 a.m. in Anderson Hall, Rom 370. All events are free. For a complete listing, visit spark.cla.umn.edu.

TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 21, 2006
An Early Evening with John Corbett
The Fine Line Music Café
Actor John Corbett made his name playing a range of characters—from that ruggedly handsome and offbeat nonconformist DJ on “Northern Exposure” to Carrie’s ruggedly handsome and offbeat nonconformist boyfriend on “Sex and the City” to the ruggedly handsome and offbeat nonconformist male lead in “My Big Fat Greek Wedding.” But his true passion is music: “When I was on the set of my last movie,” Corbett muses in his bio, “all I wanted to do was get back to making music. I wanted to be with my guys on stage, rocking the house.” When he first appeared on “The Tonight Show,” he asked if he could bring his band, and despite not having anything recorded to play for the talent director, they got their shot—“a rare case of a musician getting a coveted performance on the late-night talk show without a record deal, or even a record at all.” Being John Corbett probably didn’t have anything to do with that. His bio has a lot of other heartwarming stories like that, too, but don’t feel alienated if you haven’t yet fallen for his charms. “A lot of my fans are women,” he says, “but when they’re [sic] husbands and boyfriends hear the album or see us live, they’re going to like it, too. When we play, the guys come up and say, ‘Dude, I didn’t know you were going to rock like that.’” His blend of country and Southern rock starts early so you should be able to make it home to catch him in “Raising Helen” at 8 p.m. on Encore. 6 p.m. $16. 21+. 318 First Ave., N. Mpls. 612-338-8100.

FRIDAY, JANUARY 20, 2006
Roy Haynes
The Artists’ Quarter
When it comes to jazz, there are legends, and then there’s everybody else. Haynes is firmly in that first category, and in his five-decade-long career he’s shared the stage with fellow giants Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Charlie Parker and too many others to mention. But his long list of credits and plaudits don’t really do justice to what the man has done for jazz in our time. Where Max Roach approached the drums from a rhythmic foundation that allowed for crisp melodic improvisation, and Elvin Jones didn’t abandon so much as steamroll through notions of traditional melody to create a cascading, roiling rhythmic force to match Coltrane’s improvisation, Haynes fuses melody and rhythm in equal parts to create a style that is as comfortable in the bop of Parker as it is in the context of Andrew Hill’s Black Fire (my favorite Haynes performance). The marriage of Hill’s deft and spooky piano work to Haynes’ simpatico backing is emblematic of the phenomenal syncreticism of avant garde jazz in the early ’60s, when rules were stretched without being broken, and free jazz still meant you didn’t have to pay. His three-night stand at the AQ is being recorded for a live album, but you should go see for yourself: There’s a special magic that happens when a drummer who’s swung his whole life hits that ride cymbal with the first triplet of the evening. Suddenly, everything swings. Fri. & Sat. 8:30 & 10:30 p.m.; Sun. 7:30 & 9:30 p.m. $25. 18+. 408 St. Peter St., St. Paul. 651-292-1359.

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 2005
The Oranges Band
The Triple Rock Social Club
From the instant the chunky sparkle guitars and rehearsal-space drums kick in on “Believe,” you won’t have a hard time believing that The Oranges Band leader Roman Kuebler spent time playing bass on the road with minimalist juggernauts Spoon. “Believe” is something of a red herring, though, as their latest album comes off as decidedly sunny over the long-haul and works as a kind of companion to Broken Social Scene’s self-titled slice of summer breeze. If BSS is the van full of cool kids heading to a beach party, Oranges are the brooding wallflowers reluctantly following in their VW Golf. They’re blasting their Nuggets box set and arguing about whether Morissey could take Robert Smith in a fight. Along for the ride are a couple local vets, including Tad Kubler, who took their promo photos and raved about the band in a recent interview, and Craig Finn, who wrote their press release. With winter fast descending here in lake country, you should take the opportunity to snatch up as much sunshine as possible. With Die Electric and headliners Askeleton. 10 p.m. 21+. $7. 629 Cedar Ave., Mpls. 612-333-7499.

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 22, 2005
The New Pornographers
First Avenue
I have to admit: I wanted to hold the horrible interview I had with Carl Newman against the New Pornographers and their new album Twin Cinema, but I just can’t. Once you get past the twists and turns and some of the spikiness which separates Twin Cinema from the sunny smackdown of Electric Version, you’ll find a record brimming with fantastic melodies, crisp production and some of the best damned drum beats and fills you’ll hear this year. The kind that make you (or at least, me) look like an idiot while waiting for stoplights to change. Yup, that’s me flailing my arms in the air and trying to hit the high harmonies on Neko Case vehicle “These Are the Fables.” The usually non-touring Dan Bejar will be joining them on this outing, and that’s great news, because his angular and difficult compositions make for great and slightly bitter palette cleansers between Newman’s relentlessly (if nonsensically) sanguine pop gems. You’ve probably heard “Use It” on the Current and even though I can’t make heads or tails of the lyrics, I still shout along. So if you see me at Marshall and Cretin making a fool of myself, laugh quietly to yourself, and if you run into Carl Newman, tell him I’m not taking it personally that he didn’t feel like talking much. 6 p.m. 21+. $15. 701 First Ave. N., Mpls. 612-338-8388.