Where do old MTV VJs go to die? Apparently, the Red Light in the U District. His 15 minutes now mournfully passed, the channel's own


Days of our nights

Where do old MTV VJs go to die? Apparently, the Red Light in the U District. His 15 minutes now mournfully passed, the channel's own Jesse Camp—looking more like an underfed Fraggle than ever—wandered the racks at the vintage retail palace, trolling for more bizarro getups and asking passersby where to find the "hip, cool places" in Seattle. Who says Vancouver gets all the good celebrity sightings? . . . On to or own glitterati: Wait till you hear the dream lineup slated to appear this fall on a Kinks tribute record put together by Sub Pop employee and all-around super guy Kwab Copeland: Mark Lanegan, Love as Laughter, Murder City Devils, the Makers, Young Fresh Fellows, Mudhoney, the Briefs, Baby Gramps, and Heather Duby are sure things, and so far there's not a "Lola" or "You Really Got Me" among them. . . . Back to the national scene: One really smarty-pants guy we know says this is old news, but we're not so hip, and we're going to assume you're not so hip, either: We have it from a reliable source that no less than Beck has been sucked into the L. Ron Hubbard vortex. That's right, he allegedly has joined the Cult—oops, we mean Church—of Scientology, which may have a little something to do with some of the recent personnel changes in his life (business and otherwise). Anyway, we're sure his new religion will bring him much success. Just look what it did for Kirstie Alley's career. . . . Speaking of the Beckster, we apologize to his former paramour Winona for last week's accusations about Weezer's Rivers Cuomo. It turns out we had it all wrong; she actually skipped SNL's band o' the night and went straight for cast member Jimmy Fallon. Maybe the talent-sucking imp has moved on from eating boys in bands for breakfast to feasting on her own kind. Then again, perhaps poor Jimmy is but a

palate-cleanser between meals. . . . More dot-goners: Disney-backed Wall of Sound, an online music site with news, features, and magazine-type bits, went to the pixelated graveyard last week after an impressive five-year run (that's, like, 20 in print-years). It was shut down June 1, with thousands of CD reviews and hundreds of interviews sailing off into the ether. Based in the Smith Tower, the site was headed up by former Rocket staffer Erik Flannigan, who unsuccessfully lobbied the Mouse to keep it afloat. Visitors to wallofsound.com are now greeted with the blunt message "Wall of Sound is now closed. Thanks for your support!" . . . Do you want to hear about some shows? Let's begin with the wonder that was Aveo, Poseur, and S. Saturday night's show once again predicated this town's ability to constantly reinvent and revamp its rock scene. All three acts dynamically displayed their own brand of energy and astute musicianship: Poseur's unfettered and emotional delivery set up S's powerful strumming and broke-down bloodletting, which led, somewhat paradoxically yet perfectly, to Aveo's tightly reigned honesty and hard-hitting, melodic rock. Because two of the three are Brown Records bands—and because the third exhibits such alluring promise—a few onlookers couldn't help but wonder when Poseur would be invited to a back table at the Cha Cha to negotiate a recording deal. . . . When does live instrumental music become boring live music? That's a line everyone's gotta set for him or herself, and boy, can that line become blurry. Witness this past weekend's slate of internationally respected performers, starting off with Tortoise. The shelled ones' Friday appearance at the Showbox attracted a, well, surprisingly attractive crowd of men and—get this—women! The math-y, prog-rock-tinged, jazz-with-a-lowercase-"j" noodling could hardly be confused with the soundtrack for a revolution, but Tortoise's

deft use of vibraphones and skittering rhythms is worth at least a little praise, no? Depends on who you ask. We here at DOON were split, with some admiring John McEntire & Co.'s dub- inflected grooves, and others deriding the band's onstage sluggishness and general lack of spark. A more peppy affair at the lovely Baltic Room Saturday caused a similar critical reaction, with Cibo Matto members Yuka Honda, Timo Ellis, and Duma Love—no relation to mediawhore Ma'chell Duma, we think—pushing aside their usual hip-hop flava in favor of giddy electronic jamming. With Honda leading the way on synths, the trio conjured house-inspired grooves, causing those who couldn't see the musicians to assume they were merely DJing. Again, a DOON critical split. But nobody can deny: When it comes to background music for a social weekend in the clubs, you can do a lot worse than Tortoise and members of Cibo Matto. Of course, you also couldn't do much better than Ming & FS at I-Spy that same night; the duo, and their mix of hip-hop, jungle, and what-the-fuck, just gets tighter every time they come to town. For two human beings to have such good taste in records and such impressive deck skills almost seems criminal. Meanwhile, across town, a packed house partied like it was 1989 as the Showbox hosted a private fan club party and live recording session for Queensrche, proving that Geoff Tate could still rock the mike, and the leather pants, like nobody's business. Too bad he's already got a Jet City Woman—his lovely outfit was accessorized, alas, with a wedding ring.

Contributors this week: Laura Learmonth, Richard A. Martin

Send sightings, news flashes, and bitchy bits to nights@seattleweekly.com.

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