Concert Recommendation: Fountains of Wayne, Vic Theatre, Wednesday, November 19

Fountains of Wayne write such hook-filled pop songs that it should be a guilty a pleasure. But for starters, there's Jody Porter, who gives their songs just enough guitar muscle to avoid the cloying coyness of bassist Adam Schlesinger's other band Ivy. But their real strength is in their lyrics. Songs like "Stacy's Mom" and "Fire Island" are written from the perspective of teenagers, but songwriters Schlesinger and Chris Collingwood are in their 30s and drop subtle hints at the delusion of that younger age. Choruses like the one from "Little Red Light:" "It's not right/it's not fair/I'm still a mess/and you still don't care" are like clichés in the making -- the words flow together so well it's astonishing no one has thought to assemble them previously like dance/chance/romance. Their concerts lend themselves to audience sing-alongs, and the band members have the self-deprecating sense of humor needed to survive when they look like they got beaten up, or at least teased, frequently in high school.

Fountains of Wayne play with Caviar at the Vic Theatre, 3145 N. Sheffield, Chicago, 773.472.0449 at 7:30 p.m. on Wednesday, November 19.

Concert recommendations: Kristin Hersh, Howe Gelb and Andrew Bird, Old Town School of Folk Music, Saturday, November 15; Steve Turner and Marc Olsen, Empty Bottle Sunday, November 16

It's "band members going solo" weekend in Chicago. Tonight at the Old Town School of Music, Andrew Bird appears without his Bowl of Fire, Howe Gelb appears without Giant Sand and Kristin Hersh appears without the Throwing Muses. Hersh has been doing solo shows for over a decade, and what she loses in not having the full band, she makes up for with great between-song banter. At one show, she talked about her difficulty in leaving her young son behind when touring; the crucial phrase of the anecdote was, "Big fat dog butt." Bird and Gelb worked with her on her latest album The Grotto.

Tomorrow at the Empty Bottle, Steve Turner leaves behind the Superfuzz and the Big Mufff of Mudhoney for a solo show. Don't expect acoustic renditions of "Touch Me I'm Sick," but it is an interesting turn for Turner. And Marc Olsen is the former guitarist for Seattle psychedelic goth outfit Sky Cries Mary, not be be confused with Victoria Williams' husband Mark Olsen, the former guitarist for alt-country outfit Jayhawks.

As for Gelb and his Giant Sand connection, it reminds me of the "Clown Without Pity" segment of the Simpsons "Treehouse of Horrors," when Homer buys a Krusty doll for Bart at the House of Evil.

The only time I saw Giant Sand, they were really boring.
That's bad.

Since they were so boring, I suggested to the guy I was talking to that we leave and get something to eat, leading to our dating off and on for six months.
That's good.

He turned to be a jerk.
That's bad.

His jerkiness made the next guy I dated, my future husband, look even better.
That's good.

So I have mixed feelings about Giant Sand, but at least they never tried to kill Homer Simpson.

Kristin Hersh, Howe Gelb and Andrew Bird play at the Old Town School of Folk Music, 4544 N. Lincoln Ave., 773.728.6000 at 7 p.m. on Saturday, November 15.  Steve Turner and Marc Olsen play with Matt Marque at the Empty Bottle, 1035 N. Western Ave., 773.276.3600 at 9:30 p.m. on Sunday, November 16.

Concert Recommendation: Firewater, Empty Bottle, Friday, November 7

Imagine the Pogues but with less alcohol cutting a wider swath across Europe. Firewater are less overtly folky and incorporate gypsy and Eastern European sounds into their rock, and frontman Tod A has a cigarette-burnished voice, less raspy than Tom Waits but more in control than Shane MacGowan.

Firewater play with TV on the Radio and Birdland at the Empty Bottle, 1035 N. Western Ave., Chicago, 773.276.3600 at 10 p.m. on Friday, November 7.

Concert Recommendation: David Mead, Schuba's, Friday, November 7

Not sure why Mead is touring now since he hasn't released an album since 2001's Mine and Yours. But it's a fine album. Unlike many singer/songwriters, Mead realizes that songs consist of more than just lyrics, and he crafts some catchy melodies to accompany his words. Or maybe all you need to know is that it was produced by Adam Schlesinger of Fountains of Wayne and bears an obvious stamp of the collaboration.

The other good thing about his playing Schuba's is that they've redesigned their web site, making it far less cumbersome.

David Mead plays with Mark Johnson at Schuba's, 3159 N. Southport, Chicago, 773.525.2508 at 7 p.m. on Friday, November 7.

I'm generally all for anyone taking their inspiration from Who lyrics. But why must the entire indie rock aesthetic be based on a pair of lines from "I'm One" on Quadrophenia?

Ill fit clothes
I blend in the crowd

The just-slept-in look is not only a cliché, but it is an utter lack of style. The only thing more tired than the trend of trucker hats is media references to the trend of trucker hats. One band looks exactly like another looks exactly like the audience, like they grabbed the clothes off the floor that smelled the least. Even the once-stylish Robert Plant fell prey to the anti-look on his last tour. The current perception of the punk look may have been distilled to the Sid Vicious/Johnny Thunders spiked hair/black leather jacket motif, but at least it was deliberate. And besides, the Ramones all had long hair, except C.J. who immediately grew out his military cut.

This was particularly obvious at Halloween. I attended a party where four people went as the different members of Kiss. With few other bands could outsiders figure out not only what group but what specific members each costume was. Just try dressing up at Pavement or Bright Eyes or Modest Mouse for Halloween. Even the most hardcore indie snob would have a hard time guessing you were in a costume, let alone which distinct band you were supposed to be.

Fortunately some new bands are making an effort to forge a unique image. The Hives and the White Stripes have color schemes. The Mooney Suzuki all don black but pay attention to details, such as the drummer's neckerchief. Interpol always look like they've gotten their hair cut within the last month, while most indie rockers barely look like they've gotten their hair washed within in the last  month. And older acts that are still strong musically are also still strong on the style front: the Fall's Mark E. Smith took the stage at the tiny Empty Bottle in a freshly-pressed shirt and well-cut trousers. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds all sported their unique take on haberdashery. And there's always the Echo & the Bunnymen option: keep the lights dim and swath the stage in so much fog that no one can quite tell what you're wearing anyway.

Concert Review: Echo & the Bunnymen, the Stills, Metro, Chicago, October 29

Consider the Who and Echo & the Bunnymen. Both lost their drummers to tragic, early deaths. Both continue to tour despite being down to just their original singers and lead guitarists and apparently past their creative prime. As their frontmen find diminishing interest in their solo careers, soldiering on with the band could be interpreted as desperate cash-in on nostalgia. The difference is that Echo & the Bunnymen still make their songs sound vital. Any doubts I had as to whether Ian McCulloch, Will Sergeant and the four new guys (bass, rhythm guitar, drums and keyboards) are still worth seeing were immediately replaced by the shivers up my spine.

The newer songs lack the jagged edges that  make their '80s output so much more intriguing, but they were mainly trotting out the old hits and the old obscurities. The tour is in celebration of the band's 25th reunion; in December, Rhino will be reissuing remastered versions of their first five albums. The ones with the memorable, moving songs. The ones before Pete de Freitas died and McCulloch embarked on a solo career. The good ones.

I've given up on their playing anything from the underrated Electrafixion, Sergeant and McCulloch's precursor to the Bunnymen reunion, and they passed on the driving "Do It Clean." But what they did include was inspired. "Crocodiles," "Rescue, "Lips Like Sugar," "The Killing Mind." One encore included a localized cover of  "Walk on the Wild Side," rhyming "Chicago" and "Metro." They closed with "Ocean Rain." McCulloch started with a nearly-whispered delivery, Sergeant eventually came in with a searing guitar line. By the time McCulloch finally went for the high notes at the song's close it was orgasmic.

One of the great mysteries in life, one which I have given up on every figuring out, is what the hell Ian McCulloch is saying between songs. I've been left befuddled at numerous venues with otherwise clear sound systems, so the problem has to be a semi-indecipherable Liverpudlian accent combined with a tendency to mumble except when singing.

As for opening act the Stills, they've been compared to the Chameleons and Echo & the Bunnymen, but I just kept wondering when Gay Dad changed their name.

Concert Recommendation: Echo & the Bunnymen, Metro, Wednesday, October 29

I have mixed feelings about recommending this show. On one hand, Echo & the Bunnymen have created the epitome of grandiose songs of yearning, and Ian McCulloch's soaring voice sends shivers up the spine. On the other hand, their albums since reforming in the late '90s have come nowhere near their prime '80s output, essentially watering down the brand name. If the Chameleons are Interpol with better vocals, Echo & the Bunnymen are Interpol with better lyrics. Come discover where the sharp haircuts got their start.

Echo & the Bunnymen play with the Stills at the Metro, 3730 N. Clark, Chicago, on Wednesday, October 29 at 8 p.m.

Concert Recommendation:  Mr. Scruff, Metro, Friday, October 24

In one of proudest moments in my career as a music librarian, I was able to answer the question, "What's that song that's used in the Lincoln Navigator commercials?" I had been exposed to the commercials, and therefore the song, innumerable times because Lincoln Navigator was a major sponsor of cycling coverage on OLN last year, and OLN provides lots of cycling coverage. I was already familiar with music of semi-obscure jazz musician Moondog, the fortuitous result of being on Atlantic Records' mailing list in the mid '90s. One Google search for "Lincoln Navigator Moondog" later, I discovered it was "Get a Move On" by Mr. Scruff, who will be hitting the Metro tomorrow night.

I subsequently found out about Music from TV Commercials, an index that answers many such questions.

Mr. Scruff plays with DJ Spinna the Metro, 3730 N. Clark, Chicago, on Friday, October 24 at 10 p.m.

Album Review: Joe Strummer & the Mescaleros Streetcore

This is more of a gut reaction since I haven't even listened all the way through twice yet. This posthumous release is unnerving in its ruminations and allusions to life and death considering Strummer's sudden, unexpected death last year. Eeriest of all is the closing track, "Silver and Gold," a renamed Fats Domino tune about kissing the girls, dancing every night and generally living life to fullest "before I grow too old."

Apart from the after-the-fact symbolism is the bigger issue that the album raises: why do you keep doing what you're doing? Athletes' bodies wear out, so they definitely reach a point where they can no longer match the top professionals in their field. With musicians, it's more vague: once you've reached a commercial and/or critical peak, is it possible to surpass or even match earlier successes? So why do you continue? Is it for the process or the outcome, the joy of the activity itself or the glory that results in terms of fame, money, acclaim and power? Cyclist Sean Yates was always happiest helping other teammates win races and was uncomfortable with the attention when he was in the lead; rather than retiring, he started racing on the masters' circuit just for the love of getting on a bike and going fast. And it's obvious from Streetcore that even if the Mescaleros were never going to be labeled "the only band that matters these days," former Clashman Strummer was recording and touring for the love of playing music. The album is joyous.

Especially in light of Elliott Smith's apparent suicide, Streetcore is a needed reminder of a musician ending his days doing something that made him really happy.