I took a pause from the non-stop nuptial bliss to hit some shows here in town last week. With the new wife (the word still cracks me up) and a handful of Australians in tow I hit the second night of the Big City Summer Fest. Due to some liquor law speed bumps the entire schedule was somewhat discombobulated. Sixties garage rock legends The Invictas kicked off our journey in the former Tiki Bob's hollowed-out carcass. The band has boundless energy but its gotta lay off the golden oldies, goddammit, and stick to that beautiful Mersey beat, go-go twistin' rock 'n' roll it was famous for. Keyboardist Sammy G was absent as he was blowing B3 hell through his Lesley in the former Bru's with The Legendary Dukes. A newly blonde-ified Elana James played with a trio that was essentially 2/3 Hot Club Of Cowtown. The band swung light and pretty outdoors with its Western swing swinging slightly into café jazz every now and then. The fireworks bursting in air above and behind the bandstand added to the romance. And talk about guts; James did a slick version of "Smoke That Cigarette" made famous by Commander Cody, who incidentally followed her set. When the crusty 'ol commander did the tune himself I watched a woman simultaneously dance and sign the words to her deaf friends. It was literally a dance of words and fascinating to watch.

Rarely have I looked so forward to a show as I did for the debut visit from Motor City neauveau-soulsters The Detroit Cobras. It was a stacked quadruple bill with St. Phillip's Escalator, The Cheetah Whores, and Ghostharm pre-steaming the wrinkles outta the joint. The Cobras rocked with a ragged r&b stomp. Singer Rachel Nagy wailed wonderful in high-heeled boots and camouflage grinding behind the mic with a minx mix of slither and shimmy. It sounded good. It felt good. It was everything I wanted. The Detroit Cobras wrung me out.

Thursday night I joined the teensters and scenesters at The Club @ Water Street to catch The Hedrons, a female punk rock quartet from Scotland. The band played raw and snotty punk to the half-filled joint with the same energy most bands reserve for a full house. They were cute but genuinely ballsy. They looked like they could drink and fight. So while bands like The Donnas are in the ladies' re-applying lip gloss, The Hedrons are gonna be at the bar stealing their boyfriends. Or beating them up.

The four lasses seemed a little taken aback by the crowd's lack of physical enthusiasm, though it was clear the people dug the band. In what could be a mantra for this town, about three songs into the set, the drummer shouted "Wake the fuck up, Rochester!" I think it's better than that "Made for Living" shite, don't you?

The Boulder Coffee cats have been cool enough to host some satellite shows for A/V Space while it does the relocation mambo. Last Thursday night's show had Ithaca's Dufus on stage. Now if I were to be the off-the-cuff guy I try not to be (but still wind up being every now an then), I'd say it was one of the worst things I'd ever heard. It was loud, shrill, and stupid. But I stuck it out for a few more tunes and discovered that the on-stage insanity was actually tandem chaos. Though loosely tethered, both members of the duo were on the same page; the songs were actually written that way. And despite my dislike for what was coming out, it elicited a response, and conveyed ideas, and laid down challenges - much the same way music I actually like does. I might even check them out again.

The Hi-Risers' shows at The Dinosaur are starting to get a bit tight. Everybody wants to here that rock 'n' roll beat. Holding court at the bar Friday night was Los Straitjackets' Eddie Angel, who lent some twang to the trio's bang. The band was tight and swinging, just like the dance floor - and any flat surface in the joint that could accommodate happy feet.

Lucinda Williams' Thursday, July 19, performance with the legendary Charlie Louvin has been moved from the High Falls Festival Site to The Main Street Armory, 900 East Main Street. I guess promoters were afraid Lucinda's haunting Americana was gonna make the sky cry. (Or perhaps it was the threat of severe thunderstorms. Who knows?) The show is still free, doors at 5 p.m. Be there, square.

Before we trip over ourselves looking for adjectives to describe just how bad the sound was at Lucinda Williams' Thursday night show at the Main Street Armory (the rain location for Party in the Park), let's remember: it was free. I will say, however, had I not known a lot of the songs, I would have had a hard time telling what the hell was going on. Cool layout and atmosphere, but they might wanna accoustify this joint some.

Williams kicked it off narcotic and slow, but bailed on that approach as the band kicked into "Lonely Girls." Didn't nobody wanna hear about "heavy blankets" in that heat, so she and her band proceeded to rock from then on. Besides the tube top's apparent comeback this season, the evening's thrill had to have been when show opener Charlie Louvin joined Williams to duet on "Get Right With God."

It was1985, the summer of lust, when I first heard Barrence Whitfieldand the Savages' "Bloody Mary" blasting out of the Bop Shop's speakers. Rusty, raunchy sax, a savage beat, and a singer who wailed like Screamin' Jay Hawkins with his nuts in a vice grip... well, that's all it took. So it made sense to have Whitfield play as part of The Bop Shop's 25th anniversary weekend in the Village Gate courtyard. Whitfield was backed by the high-flyin' Hi-Risers. Saxophonist Mark Bradley joined in making it a quasi-Salamanders/Essentials reunion - which, incidentally, doesn't sound like a bad idea. Whaddaya say fellas?

Even when the PA cut out for a breather, Whitfield kept it going. The energy was high and all the way live, despite his casual attire. I mean, he looked like he was ready for a round of golf. And I've scene this cat sportin' some class with the sass in slick suits and tall turbans, crawling across the bar screaming his head off.

Still, Whitfield wailed incredibly on a wild 'n' loose set, working dancers up so much they just started jumping up and down and howling. It was like church without the guilt.

Interpol's concert last week at the Harro Ballroom was the first show for the band since the release of its new album, Our Love to Admire, but the band still played incredibly tight on both the new and the old songs. Really it's had plenty of practice with the new material; it has been in rotation for most of the band's dates this year.

The band has always had a knack for great opening songs, and they led off with the creepy, building, "Pioneer to the Falls," setting a mood that only shifted slightly for the rest of the night. Lead singer Paul Banks managed to affect a weary, captivating tone, which he kept throughout, making for one of the better shows I've seen in a while.

Interpol is, as anyone familiar with its work knows, the antithesis of a jam band; in concert the members play the songs much as they are on the album, with little improvisation. Still, they manage to add something through careful song sequencing, stark light effects, and a stage manner that, if not welcoming, at least acknowledges the presence of the audience.  (Even if the bassist, Carlos D., only does so between vacant stares and drags on a cigarette.) The bulk of the set was made up of faster songs from their first two albums played assuredly.

The band really did stick mostly to older stuff, playing only three songs from "Our Love." It wasn't clear whether the rest of the audience did or didn't want more.  I, however, was glad--though "Pioneer" is one of their better songs, "The Scale" and "Resting My Chemicals," the other two new ones, are, more or less, boring.

The crowd stayed involved and the set stayed consistent excepting a few minor sound issues early on. Interpol closed with "Not Even Jail" to heavy applause, bringing on an encore. They were at their best for the encore, starting with "NYC," the most languorous song of the night and the prettiest too.  "Stella Was a Diver and She Was Always Down" struck the perfect note for a final Interpol song: gloomy, oblique, and excellent. 

If I were allowed a couple of crazy wishes, I'd ask the genie for a band like The Isotopes. I'd keep them in a hutch, next to the blue-and-white china and the crystal champagne flutes. I'd get them out like a marble chess set, whenever the urge hit me just right.

I remember reading about them a while ago and thinking, What? Go-go dancers? Pocket protectors? Now I say, "Go-go dancers and pocket protectors! What more can you ask for?"

The Isotopes were the perfect gang to, as a fellow Boulderfest After Hours attendee put it, "Pop the cherry" of Boulder's new B Side Lounge space, which is poised to make this hippest of hang-outs even hipper.

Meanwhile Meghan Taylor pulled moves that Tina Turner would approve of, but anyone who saw and scratched their heads about that City cover a couple of months ago was probably wondering what the hell happened to New York City.

Well, I'll tell you what happened: the hype of the big lights and the packed streets ain't nothin' compared to good, clean fun with your hometown hipsters. And Taylor is the hip-shakin' proof.