The last time I saw the Aurora Roarers, it was well past midnight in a coffee pot in Tacoma, playing to a crowd of eight. The Aurora Roarers were not happy about this; the tambourine player, in particular, was livid. They had good reason. Over the course of the evening, the room had swelled to capacity and then ebbed, leaving only the owlish members of the opening bands, their dates, and the lone, hairy bartender to heat the place. As bar time wound towards two, certain members of those bands got called out, dates found themselves surreptitiously fondled, drinks imbibed, and all the while the Aurora Roarers did what they came to do: kick ass.

Tightly wrapped riffs, knocking rhythms, and a giant of a bass player, The Aurora Roarers are the greatest garage band ever. This might not, I suppose, be true. There could be a better garage band, still playing the basements and backyards of house parties, one too wild for the harsh confines of the stage, too pure to care what a part-time critic like myself has to say anyway, so let's make it official with a caveat or two to weed out the argumentative: The Aurora Roarers are the greatest garage band currently performing in the Northwest.

And they're playing a fantastic room: The Skylark is one of a handful of spaces around the city where the dual purposes of entertainment and food aren't dueling; where it makes sense for you to eat a burger while some brash upstart (or, in this case, an old, knowing hand) whittles your face into elaborate scrollwork with the jagged blade of a melodic line. This is a good thing. Honestly, I don't know how you can't be there, and, yet, I hope you're not: I know for a fact they're fantastic when no one's around.

The Aurora Roarers
Whisky Ship Choir
The Freehands
@
Skylark Cafe

If Walt Disney hadn't been as crazy, but yet was also somehow more committed, we'd be obsessively watching the one full-length movie (or maybe the seven or eight shorts) he produced--written, drawn, animated, and scored solely by Walt--about a magical balloon that, one day, takes a lucky boy on an incredible flight. He wasn't, though thankfully Don Hertzfeld is.

Tonight, at The Grand Illusion, Hertzfeld will host the local premiere of his new flick I Am So Proud Of You, and since the Hertz is legendary for being involved in every aspect of creation, I can only assume the following skinny comes courtesy of him:

Cult animator and Academy Award nominee Don Hertzfeldt (Rejected, the Meaning of Life, Billy's Balloon) visits Seattle for a special one-night-only event! A selection of Don'ss classic animated shorts return to the big screen, culminating in the exclusive regional premiere of a brand new film. His longest piece to date, I am so proud of you is the eagerly anticipated second chapter to Everything will be OK, winner of the Sundance Film Festival's Grand Jury Award in Short Filmmaking and named by many critics as one of the best films of 2007. The screening will be followed by a live interview and audience Q+A with Don Hertzfeldt.

The only review of the film appears to be the one posted on Herzy's site, and reads: ""....a f- masterpiece. I can't even begin to articulate my thoughts about the film but it just gave me shivers and I wasn't able to attend the party after the screening. Just had to be alone. It had this effect on a number of other people here too.... stunning, beautiful, tragic, absurd work." - Chris Robinson, artistic director Ottawa International Animation Festival"

Hyperbole? Probably. But then again Hertzfeld is a genius. Hmm.

What if...what if Robinson is underselling this thing?

Well, the OIAF exists, and Robinson writes for Salon.com, and the Internet never lies, so it might be true. It really doesn't matter, actually. H-feely is something of a recluse, and this is one of only a handful of dates he's appearing at; we owe him, as a city, our attendance.

Plus: shivers!

People dance around the issue, but I think you can handle it: we're in the midst of interesting times. From the economy to the election, uncertainty is rife. Staycation isn't an alien portmanteau, stocks are no longer bond. And no matter where on the political spectrum you fall, we can agree the future is cloudy, yes?

Which is precisely why you should consider joining the Jamie Lidell party.

His platform is a stage, his politics your hips and how to move them, his beliefs anchored in the surprisingly still fresh early Motown era, back when men were men who could sing like women over horn breaks and a confident bass line that would ask for your name even as it was wandering around the tops of your stockings.

It used to be Mr. Lidell worked alone. He was the show entire, using loopers and breath to build this danceable funk behomoth. I interviewed him when he swung through Seattle the first time, and his equipment had not made it with; he still did the show, still killed. He played Bumbershoot a year later, this time with the giant mass of wire and aging modulation equipment on a table in front of him, constructing intricacies; then a fuse blew. So he did what any responsible entertainer would do: he suspended his performance.

I kid.

"May I sing you a song I love?" he asked the crowd in his adorable English fashion (Lidell was born in Huntingdon, Cambridgeshire, England, and lives now in Berlin) before laying into an obscure Marvin Gaye cut, waiting for his hardware to reboot.

But now Lidell has a backing band, guys who understand and value his vision. Let's push the metaphor: having built support from the ground up, he's assembled a team of experts to help craft his message. And that message is: times are tight; we are tighter.

The Showbox in the Market
$20

The Whatcom Poetry series commences tonight, and while I can unconditionally recommend the reading to you, I must warn you in advance: it's in Bellingham. But that should not stop you; head up now, walk around Fairhaven, grab a bite, then bop over to the Lucia Douglas Gallery (1415 13th St. in Fairhaven) to see two fantastic poets work to examine and explain the inner loft of language.

Samuel Green was born in Sedro-Woolley, Washington, in 1948, and raised in the nearby fishing and mill town of Anacortes. After four years in the military, including service in Vietnam, he attended college under the Veterans Vocational Rehabilitation Program, earning degrees from Highline Community College and Western Washington University (B.A. & M.A.). A 30-year veteran of the Poetry-in-the-Schools program, he has taught in literally hundreds of classrooms. He has also taught at Southern Utah University, Western Wyoming Community College, and served six winter terms as Distinguished Visiting Northwest Writer at Seattle University, and six summer sessions in Ireland. He has lived for 26 years on a remote island off the Washington coast in a log house he built himself, and is, with his wife, Sally, Co-Editor of the award-winning Brooding Heron Press, which specializes in publication of fine letterpress editions of poetry. In December, 2007, he was named by Governor Chris Gregoire as the first Poet Laureate for the State of Washington.

Lorraine Ferra was born and raised in Vallejo, California, a seaport on the east side of the San Francisco Bay. At the age of nineteen, Lorraine's mother died of cancer. This loss left her directionless, overturning her desire to become a newspaper columnist and leading her to the decision to enter the convent. She was a nun for seven years, majoring in theology and education and eventually teaching in Catholic schools. After leaving the convent, she was offered a position as curriculum director in the Salt Lake City Diocese. While living in Salt Lake, she pursued seminars in modern and contemporary poetry and creative writing under the directorship of the poet, Robert Mezey, at the University of Utah. She was accepted to the Utah Arts Council's Poets-in-the-Schools program and was awarded a Utah Arts Council Award in Literature.

I caught Sam Green by email, presumably in between his teaching sessions at Seattle University, and Lorraine Ferra via phone at her home in Port Townsend.

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The Mars Bar is aptly named: it is red, angry, and out there. It is interested in war. And drinking. And definite articles. Tonight it hosts a monstrous bill: The Ruby Suns, Karl Blau, and The Final Spins (with members of Throw Me the Statue and Siberian).

I just thought you should know.

THE RUBY SUNS
Karl Blau
The Final Spins

9 p.m. $6.

While I don't doubt the existence of hardcore Toadies' fans--this show is ample evidence of that--I'm betting that most of the people streaming through Showbox's doors tonight will have but one song in their heads. This one.

And it's possible that's a damn shame: The Toadies could have a legitimate back catalogue of rogue earworms that, because of issues with labels and mates, never made it into the popular consciousness; they could rock harder now--their website makes that claim with no whiff of bias--the intervening years since their 1994 debut spent sharpening; No Deliverance, their newest, may well be a monster of riffs and licks and fistpumping choruses.

Or: you could be better off popping in Guitar Hero, where Possum Kingdom can be a private fiefdom ruled benevolently with your plastic pretend six string, instead of waiting interminably through opening acts and by other people for the inevitable encore placement of said song.

As ever, I'm betting on the latter, but hoping for the former.

DeLeon plays 15th Century Spanish indie rock infused with the deeply mysterious and entrancing cadences of the ancient Sephardic tradition. The band, named for 12th Century Kabalistic philosopher Moses DeLeon and front man Daniel Saks' great-grandfather Giorgio DeLeon, reconciles Saks' cultural journey with modern influences. I reached Saks at home in Brooklyn, a couple days before his Saturday appearance at Neumo's. His newest, self-titled, is freshly out on JDub Records.

Your debut just dropped on JDub. How'd you find them? Or did they find you?
I crossed paths with the people of JDub before DeLeon existed. I knew they'd be down, so I gave it to them first.

The press release says the album 'brings your personal history to life' and 'reconciles [your] lengthy cultural journey', but cagily refuses to give details. Spill.
They meant my familial history. All these songs are from the 1500s, from Inquisition Spain, which is where my family was 500 years ago.

Do you see the disparate music styles as naturally fitting? Or did it take some time for others to wrap their heads around it? You, even, maybe?
It came surprisingly easy. I knew a handful of these songs. My parents had a stack of CDs and I found sheet music in the library. Then I started to rethink them without overthinking them, reading through lyrics, getting them in my mind, and taking what I thought worked. They're essentially folk songs about timeless subject matter like murder, love, God, and revenge--things that never go out of fashion.

What has the response been?
The critical response has been minimal. Putting this work out in public has been overwhelmingly positive. Our 1st gig, for instance, was at the Bowery Ballroom. We practiced our asses off for that show.

One of your listed influences is Talking Heads. Oftentimes, artists can hear where critics are coming from even if they don't necessarily agree. Do you?
I love the Talking Heads. I'd be hard pressed to pin down why someone would say that; it's hard to say.

What's next for you?
I'm finishing new songs. I've 20 more songs that work like the ones I have. They are fresh and new for me.

In the waning light of a late Tuesday evening, the first bellows of an advancing onslaught were heard. Witnesses later reported the noise as "enchanting", "unusually affecting", and "bouncy", telling reporters that the four main instigators were alchemical madmen bent on changing the world. Medical attention was quickly given.

What few dared acknowledge at the time was that those brave, drifting souls (five of the six witnesses were never able to rejoin polite society; the sixth is a hostess at an independently franchised Bennigans in the upper Midwest) wore the first marks of Pillow Army's vision: a throw cushion bruise across the auditory cortex.

Fronted by former East coast roustabout and carnie barker Tim Franklin, Pillow Army features cellist John "The" Simpson, violinist Ben "Big A" Hawthorne, and Paul "Cupid" Culala on drums. Their unique arrangement, halfway between a chamber quartet and a slack-pop fantasy, pulls from the criminally unknown Jellyfish and Siamese Twin-era Pumpkins in equal measure, flavored with a bitter splash of singer/songwriter to taste. This is also, coincidentally, how you make Gunkan Maki.

Tonight, they're at the Tractor, the same place they completely destroyed all fans of Uncle Tupelo with this cover of Neutral Milk Hotel's Oh, Comely:

Submit now or wait for the knock on your door.

Pillow Army
@
Lady Drama
&
Hoots and Hellmouth

It seems to me that Al Green should be dead, and I think it's important to note that's an observation I make based solely on averages in actuarial tables, not a strangely particular wish; if I was going to do that, I'd say: Al Green should live forever, tour for most of it, and play venues his equal.

Tonight, however, he's at the Emerald Queen Casino, a place where delicately aged pop culture asks you entertainment's eternal question: is this joke on us or you?

What's more, the show tonight is sold out and I am not currently holding tickets, which makes this a very strange piece of writing indeed: let me tell you about a show both you and I can't attend.

Not that you really need me. Even if you've slept through his comeback albums (an ignominious use of a bed when it comes to Al Green, by the way), you know his hits: Take Me to the River, Let's Stay Together, I'm Still in Love with You, Tired of Being Alone, and so on. Then that voice, so full of joy and sex and God, softly touches your ear like a breeze on a summer night where the only things around are you, another, and the winking possibility of fireflies.

The new album, Lay It Down, bobs restrained in the long ripple of Green's previous, easily as good as his oldie* greats if not as instantly iconic. Produced by ?uestlove of The Roots, it thumps your abdomen soundly while loosening your hips and legs. It's almost an elixer.

I am not a doctor.

I am sad though I won't be there tonight. I take comfort in the fact you won't either.

* (RIP:KBSG)

If you're a person who writes about music like I occasionally do, finding a Bio page like the one gracing X-ray Eyes' Web site is something akin to a complete stranger high-fiving you on the street with a high-poppin pap up top and then out. Multi-instrumentalist Brendan Hogan grew up with the Partidges and loves Klezmer. Drummer Shane Durham not-so-secretly loves the Eagles, The Beatles, and mathematics. Lead singer/songwriter/son-of-a-gun David Lavin owns and runs local Hercules Studios, played for an Italian Princess and Philadelphians, and probably wrestles bears during late summer to keep from getting soft.

And so on. It's fantastic.

But what about the music, you ask. What do they sound like? A grizzly bris? Dear reader, do not tease!

The songs ford influencing tributaries and warm streams of consciousness with ease and guile. They're smart, cleverly written pop songs that nearly hide (let's say "effectively distract") the lyrics twisting on comma pins and clauses. Verbal indictments come packaged with clean scapel cuts of tempo shifts, guitar riffs, and just enough swagger to sway you.

X-ray Eyes
Chop Suey
with
Elevator
Velvet Drive
Pretty & Nice
$8