Chuck Palahniuk, 7pm, $35
Sundance Kabuki Cinemas - 1881 Post
The outer reaches of porn are a little hard to fathom. Splosh films? Furry fetish? 2 Girls 1 Cup? (Wait — forget about 2 Girls 1 Cup.) Fortunately — or maybe not — Chuck Palahniuk makes the world of world-record gangbanging a little easier to swallow with his new book, Snuff. Using first-person alternating narratives, he gets into the heads of three of the 600 people awaiting their shot at Cassie Wright, aging porn star, who is attempting to make history by taking on the entire horde over the course of a day. Obviously, those three heads are a scary place to be — but also thoughtful and meditative, full of backstory and emotion. Palahniuk writes literary novels and not letters to Penthouse. On the book jacket, Snuff is described, almost gleefully, as “thoroughly researched,” and by God it is. You feel you’re actually standing there in the green room, stripped down to your boxers, shoveling down greasy chips, popping Viagra, shaving your ass, reeling from the stench of the single-toilet bathroom (and of bronzer and cologne from the male ringers in the mix), awaiting your turn to briefly cohabit with Wright using one appendage or another (the rules for world-record gangbangs aren’t as specific as you think). Palahniuk has had a little fun with promoting the book as well, releasing a fake trailer on MySpace for one Wright’s old films, The Wizard of Ass, and interviewing the lady herself (who, for some reason, is a man) in a faux interview on Amazon.com. Palahniuk appears for an onstage interview and book signing. --Michael Leaverton
The Cure, 65daysofstatic, 7:30pm, $35-$65
HP Pavilion - 525 West Santa Clara
When the Cure canceled last year's entire North American tour at the last minute, the news was enough to make longtime fans smear their lipstick and wear their best mopey Robert Smith impression for days. But fear not: Like the legendary English band['s music, the doom-and-gloom news came with a sugary silver lining. The tour was postponed so the band could finish its long-awaited 13th album, due September 13. The new material comes with the requisite Internet gimmick, wherein four new singles will be released, one at a time, on the 13th of each month. If first track "The Only One" is any indication, the Cure's sound is a bit more rocking and guitar-oriented now. But longtime fans shouldn't worry that the group's only area show will be a departure: with longtime members Simon Gallup, Jason Cooper, and even Porl Thompson gracing the lineup again, they should be breaking out all the hits that made your first kiss, joint, or prom so memorable. --Ezra Gale
Jamie Lidell, 8pm, $23
Bimbo's 365 Club - 1025 Columbus
The blackest-singing white man since Rick Astley, Jamie Lidell is as delightfully inscrutable on his albums as he is charmingly unhinged in person. In between sips of a champagne cocktail at a swanky New York hotel, the electronic producer and musical virtuoso announces he’s not really here on a publicity stop for his third solo album, Jim. Lidell’s true intentions for coming to town were to “shop my ass off, eat like a bastard, get pretty wasted, and hang with the beautiful people. And moonwalk.”
Then, apropos of nothing, he begins riffing on his plan to impress the locals. “Aren’t folks into gunsports here?” he asks. “I’d like to catch a fur or two to display in an opulent manner, and to walk around with freshly killed meats — a steak under my hat, maybe, a little bit of blood dripping down my face just to show it’s fresh.’”
Though the native Englishman — who was once, believe it or not, vegetarian — is a goofy ad-lib machine in person, Jim is a fairly sober work. It veers away from both the electronic gymnastics of Super_Collider (his side project with techno producer Cristian Vogel) and the bundle of voice and sound manipulations that was his last album, Multiply. The disc also features little of Lidell’s famed beatboxing, although that doesn’t mean he’s unwilling to contemplate a pair of hypothetical battles. He doubts he could take Darren “Buffy, the Human Beatbox” Robinson of the Fat Boys, but likes his chances against Michael Police Academy Winslow. “I would swallow the mike, then shit it out and use it to floss the colonic tract,” Lidell imparts.
Edging away from these types of whimsical (and perhaps hospitalizing) experimentations, Lidell headed to Los Angeles to make his sunny-sounding record. Jim is indeed a heartfelt existential celebration, beginning with its earnest lyrics. “Another day, another way for me to open up to you,” he sings on the album’s opener, “Another Day,” sounding like a man in love. (After living in Berlin for eight years, Lidell is moving to Paris to be with his girlfriend.) Helmed by Lidell and frequent collaborator Mocky, the album’s organic, ground-up production style reflects an evolution in his recording philosophy — but the album doesn’t skimp on the rump-shakers. The electro-tinged, Jamiroquai-recalling “Figured Me Out” boasts a retro-futuristic beat, while the almost surf-rock “Hurricane” is a prime example of the California sound Lidell traveled halfway across the world to obtain. But the album’s Motown and soul-style ballads stand out. The only problem is that in an era of endless irony it’s almost hard to accept the songs’ sugary honesty. Lidell’s ecstatic yelps and the disco-bass on “Little Bit of Feel Good,” for example, feel like a dead-serious take on Snoop’s “Sensual Seduction,” while the relaxed, rollerskate synths of “Green Light” feel only a half-step removed from the smirking R&B that was Beck’s Midnite Vultures.
While it’s hard to reconcile the wisecracking madman peering out from behind the champagne flute with the author of such sincere-sounding ditties, Lidell insists that the album’s title reflects the fact that its contents represents the real him. Still, that doesn’t erase the entertainer’s mammoth commercial intentions. “I want to go triple platinum,” he says, “or quad.” Like most everything else that comes out of Jamie Lidell’s mouth, you can be sure he’s kidding and also quite serious. --Ben Westhoff
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