Hot New Tunes and Shows
Look, I know that the Budos Band’s new album, VII, comes out on May 30, and I am unlikely to give anything released after that date a whole lot of my time because I usually put their albums on repeat for a few years after they arrive and don’t get around to listening to much of anything else. Over the past few of these, their airtight blend of instrumental funk, soul, and Afrobeat which sounds like the soundtrack to a gritty ’70s crime noir that doesn’t exist has expanded into psyche-rock guitar textures and a lot of melodic brass-section gloom, and I expect VII to be a perfect score to yet another “hottest summer on record.”
Awaiting VII’s May 30 release means I have a couple weeks to give Maren Morris’ Dreamsicle (May 9) a spin. Apparently, her new songs unpack her drift away from Nashville and country music and into what Allmusic.com calls “the transcendent creative freedom that comes with knowing who you are.” Sounds pretty heady, doesn’t it?
Though not so heady-sounding as the new album from Garbage (May 30), which comes laden with the ponderous title Let All That We Imagine Be the Light. Is this a Garbage album or a self-help book by some massively popular wellness grifter? I don’t know what Garbage frontwoman Shirley Manson has been up to since 1999, so maybe it’s both!
June’s slate of major artist releases that might find their way into my ears include a trio out on Jun 6: More, Pulp’s first new album in 23 years; Cynthia Erivo’s I Forgive You; and a live Cypress Hill album capturing a performance of their earthshaking gangsta-rap classic Black Sunday at the Royal Albert Music Hall with the London Symphony Orchestra.
Between the anticipation of a new Budos album and the delightful who-would’ve-thunk-it absurdity of Cypress Hill performing with the London orchestra, I can hardly spare a thought for the new albums by Haim (I Quit, Jun 20) and Lorde (Virgin, Jun 27), but they exist, and surely people will listen to them and enjoy them, but as for me, I ain’t going out like that — and anyway, the rest of the summer’s releases don’t really grab me. The Revenge of Alice Cooper (Jul 25) by Alice Cooper? Eh, not when “I Want to Get High” with the London Symphony Orchestra exists. How about Joe Jonas giving Greetings from Your Hometown (Aug 8)? Sorry, but I will be trapped in the Budos Band’s “Lair of 1,000 Serpents.”
Now, concerts. This month — this Thursday, in fact — Austin-based rockers White Denim come to Tulips FTW. The incredibly prolific band’s blend of jazz-inflected punk, psych-infused R&B, and proggy approach to jam-bandish odysseys makes for a don’t-miss live show.
Pop-punk heroes Mest reformed with their original lineup in 2018 and put out a couple new albums since then: Masquerade in 2020 and Youth in 2024. They’re playing Tulips on Jun 6, so if you need a break from listening to that new Cypress Hill album, go to this show.
Wu-Tang Forever: The Final Chamber tour comes to Dickies on Jun 13, with support from Run the Jewels. Wu-Tang Forever pretty much ruled my dorm room for a whole year after it debuted in June 1997, and this tour is a reminder that the greats of the late 20th century will be history sooner rather than later.
Speaking of 20th-century greats, Willie Nelson and Bob Dylan headline the Outlaw Festival at Dos Equis on Jul 5, which also features the Avett Brothers, the Mavericks, and Tami Nielson. Broiling on top of a blanket to see a summer show from the yellowed, far-off land that is Dos Equis’ lawn seating is a North Texas tradition, and this concert is your best bet for that.
Oklahoma art-punks Broncho are playing Tannahill’s on Jul 17. I don’t know why I had to call them “art-punks,” but they play up-tempo indie rock with some brainy arrangements and plenty of oddball humor, and a lot of it resembles — sorry if this bothers you — a pop-punk band that nobody is embarrassed to follow. And, frankly, after writing the previous graf about lawn seats at Dos Equis in July, merely imagining the air conditioning inside Tannahill’s makes me want to go there.
Remember True Detective Season 2? No? Really? I know you watched it, because we talked about it. You kept saying there’s this Elvis impersonator in that dream sequence, and I kept saying, “Actually, it’s a Conway Twitty impersonator,” and we argued about that. (Let’s be honest. We were both kind of drunk, but I’m pretty sure you still don’t know who Conway Twitty is.) Anyway, that season also features a haunting dive bar performance by country singer-songwriter Lera Lynn, who’s playing Tulips on Aug 22. — S.S.
Summer Musical Memories
Summer is an odd time for someone who has defined his life by sad music. When your tastes have always leaned heavily in favor of the minor key over the major, the school-free months can just seem out of place on the musical calendar. The plaintive slowcore of Low and the dark trip-hop of Portishead are proper soundtracks for falling leaves or winter bleakness, and while spring can feel right for the erudite folk of Dylan or Nick Drake, for me, summer can be a musical vacuum. There’s just something inherently incongruent about trying to luxuriate in the gray melancholia of Radiohead or The Smiths while the bright Texas sun cauterizes your corneas and the blistering heat splits the asphalt. No one plays “Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want” at a pool party without trying to be irritatingly “ironic.”
Despite my somber sonic preferences, I’m certainly not immune to succumbing to the occasional summer anthem. Though they run counter to my traditional musical programming, I’ll follow right along with Miley when she exalts about putting her hands up when they’re playing her song. (“Party in the U.S.A” is a legit all-time bop.) I’ve had summer flings with the likes of Outkast’s “Hey Ya,” CeeLo Green’s “Crazy,” and Coolio’s “Fantastic Voyage” — summer bangers that jump out of nowhere to occupy every corner of your psyche for a few months, then fade into next year’s Now That’s What I Call Music compilation. Further back, I remember my best friend and I trying to cook up a scheme to ride down (what was then) Wet ’n’ Wild’s waterslides in full suits and shades (a la Men in Black), carrying a briefcase that would somehow open up to reveal a waterproof boom box that would simply play Will Smith’s “Summertime” on repeat.
Yet each of these brief dalliances with the more saccharine side of the musical pantheon were generally out-of-character moments for me and carried out without much enthusiasm. It’s like eating a bowl of Cool Whip for dinner. It sure is sweet but wholly unfulfilling. Like that one year in junior high that I decided I no longer wanted to be seen as the shady punk skater kid and gave myself a full normie glow-up over one summer. Showed up the first day to school with my hair slicked back (long bangs and side-spiked chili bowl cut gone) and wearing Cross Colors™ overalls, on backwards of course. (Remember Kris Kross?) The only ones to see more clearly through my cheap, half-hearted attempt at seeking popularity than me was literally everyone else. I think the bootleg Jordans and Guess jeans I procured at Trader’s Village the month before lasted a week before I returned to my Chucks and wide-leg jorts and sneaking cigarettes at the bleachers during gym.
If there is some genuine latent musical association I have with the 100-degree days, it likely involves festivals. Music festivals now are bloated, overpriced, and full of artists I’ve never heard of and probably am glad I haven’t. But there was a time when you could see 10 or 15 bands you genuinely loved in one day for one modest price. Fry Street Fair, North by Northwest, the blessed heyday of the Fort Worth Weekly Music Awards Festival, and now Lost ’N’ Sound. So many great sets by so many great artists. Granted, infinitely more endurable by being decades younger. Chiefly among them, when I pair music and summer in my mind, I am immediately transported back to August of 1995 (how is that 30 effing years ago?!) and the Lollapalooza of that year at (what was then) Coca-Cola Starplex. I may have had my wallet stolen and ended up dangerously close to hospital trip-level dehydration (it was the ’90s, and they certainly didn’t give water away for free), but I gained a lifetime’s worth of musical memories over that a single day. I saw Beck, Cypress Hill, Jesus Lizard, Pavement, Hum, fIREHOSE, Hole, Sonic Youth … so many more. For every drop of sweat exiting my body, I gained a cherished musical memory that I can recall, now 30 years later, as vividly as if it happened just 20 years ago. The giant gold Buddha statue holding palm tree-sized pot leaves during Cypress Hill. Courtney Love flipping off my girlfriend directly for screaming “Kurt Murderer!” at her. Talking to Lee Renaldo after Sonic Youth closed the night with a flawless 20-minute version of “Diamond Sea.” They just don’t make ’em like that anymore.
I get it. Was it Dylan who said nostalgia is a stinky cologne? I’ll leave the Hot Girl Summers to the younger gen. I’m fine baring down and waiting out the coming months of the next “hottest summer on record” by unironically spinning “Please, Please, Please” and sustaining myself on ’member berries. See you when light-jacket weather returns. — P.H.
