The Xerox Rochester International Jazz Festival has announced two of the headliners for its 2010 edition:

[ ROCK/JAZZ ]

Xerox Rochester International Jazz Festival: Jeff Beck Thursday, June 17. Kodak Hall at Eastman Theatre, Gibbs Street. $50-$125. 800-745-3000, rochesterjazz.com.

[ LATIN/JAZZ ]

Xerox Rochester International Jazz Festival: Bernie Williams Friday, June 18. Kodak Hall at Eastman Theatre, Gibbs Street. $55-$90. 800-745-3000, rochesterjazz.com.

Meanwhile, WBER has announced its Holiday Show:

[ ELECTRONIC/RAP ]

WBER Holiday Show w/MC Lars Saturday, December 5 Water Street Music Hall, 204 N Water St. 6:30 p.m. $13-$15. 800-745-3000, waterstreetmusic.com.

The Cult’s show Saturday at the Armory had me torqued with nervous anticipation. This was a band I loved — yet a few red flags had me a little nervous. Ticket sales were slow initially. and the band was not doing any press. No photographers were even allowed in the building. And from what I remembered about this band, it was loud. Loud and the Main Street Armory don’t always play well together. But I simply had to go. I made it early, too; Boneyard was the warm up.

Just like The Cult, Boneyard draws upon the sounds and moods and ghosts of the American landscape. There’s big-sky beauty in that desolation, and Boneyard conjured it, kicked it, claimed it, and sent it back toward the sky. But this wasn’t just some rain dance. Boneyard mixes in just as much machine and accessory as it does the ethereal and inanimate. There are ghosts and demons swirling about, but they’re all on choppers. They don’t stop at red lights, and your mama’s on the bitch seat. It’s outlaw, it’s Southern rock, it’s fuckin’ beautiful. And the band was in its element on the Armory’s huge stage — plenty of room to stretch out and pound out a tremendous set. Singer J.J. Lang’s voice busted cobwebs and clouds; I tell ya, it is made for the arena. The band was well received by the crowd of about 2,000 (I’m guesstimating) and certainly won new fans with this show.

The lights went down, the crowd went wild. The lights came back up, the crowd went mild. This happened a few more times until The Cult finally mounted the stage and tore into “Nirvana.” From the first kerrang of Billy Duffy’s big White Falcon, the band sounded unbelievable. I can safely say it was the best-sounding show I’ve seen at the Armory. Yes, it was loud —LOUD — but the cat running sound had mucho knob-twiddling know-how.

Sporting a beard a la The Lizard King in his later years, singer Ian Astbury positively roared. The man still has those glorious pipes — definitely a signature voice in rock. The band front-to-backed its 1985 “Love” LP, and then immediately split. When they returned, they whipped out a couple cuts from my favorite album, “Electric”: “Electric Ocean” and “Wild Flower.” I left with my head ringing. It was an awesome show.

Cellist Helen Money is a rock musician who plays a classical instrument. I asked her before the show to describe her sound. “Dark, kinda raw, and melodic. I have a hard time describing myself,” she told me.

If I were her, I would be hard pressed to make any kind of sense of it, too. Using effects pedals and amplifiers, Money’s sound is in-your-face, which is surprising considering her instrument of choice. Her sound is dark, eerie, and loud. The soft-spoken musician lets it all come out on stage, bending slightly over her instrument, eyes closed, and seemingly entranced while she plays. The sounds of her instrument swelled around the caf

Tranquilatwist tranquilatwisted the dressed-up-to-get-messed-up crowd for the Devil’s Night Fetish Masquerade at Water Street Music Hall Friday. Singer Karlie Cary Lanni seduced and we succumbed as she wailed bitter and sweet beneath a pillbox hat and fire-engine red tresses. She was a captivating chanteuse within the band’s potent swirl. The sound was tall and wide and infinitely deep, as if it had no beginning and no end. The band drew a large, enthusiastic crowd, which apparently caught Lanni off guard with their screams and applause. The dichotomy between commanding sorceress and eager young girl was charming and cool.

Albany’s roadhouse rockers The Lustre Kings lit up Abilene Monday as if it were gasoline. They got Chops La Conte from the Mets, and his addition to the band had them rocking tight and mean. I had the pleasure of butchering Madonna and Eddie Cochran with the trio and delighted with the rest of the crowd as La Conte climbed all over his stand-up bass as if it were stand-up monkey bars. The Lustre Kings are pure juke-joint-jumpin’ fun, even on a Monday night in Rochester.

Good jazz often hits me like a cool blast of eucalyptus: it gets the flow flowing, the go going, and the going gone. Drummer Harris Eisenstadt and Canada Day served up a slinky, sultry groove in the Bop Shop Atrium last night. It was just the right mix of exploratory impishness and accessibility. The quintet swung beat, it swung sweet, it swung alreet. Its casual cadence presented room for those who wanted to take a ride, even though the destination was everywhere, man. I dug these cats deep.

Folks in the know may recognize Eisenstadt from his work with artists like Roy Campbell, Taylor Ho Bynum, and Paul Smoker, and in The Diplomats with trombonists Steve Swell and Rob Brown. I’ll be honest, walking in to the joint last night I knew little about the group, by pied proprietor Tom Kohn lured me in earlier that afternoon with phrases like “Early ’60s Blue Note stuff.”
The man was right and the band was righteous. It would’ve been nice to see you there…

It was a picture-perfect scene at Abilene Bar and Lounge Sunday night: five or six chairs inched up close to the performers in a circle, with some eerie candlelight, a packed house, and some gritty, straight-up folk coming from the stage. Real folk is played less like a song and more like a story, and singer Danny Schmidt stole the night with a series of compelling narratives sung straight from his chest.

The evening began with opener Greg Cunningham, a local singer with a gentle, Michael Stipe type of calm to his voice. The singer’s set started with a gentle acoustic vibe and random bursts of harmonica. Cunningham, a witty and down-to-earth type, kindly told the audience to “drink lots, I sound much better when you’re drunk.”
Cunningham’s best tune of the night came second in the set: Neil Young’s “Harvest Moon.” The audience felt the vibe and sang along. Cunningham widened the range of his set with a ballad halfway through. The ease of his voice matched the intimate lyrics — it was a subtle and well devised performance.

When I think of genuine folk, I think of a guy like Danny Schmidt. He brings his soul to the stage with him, and he seems to leave it there when he goes. He spends most of his set eyes closed, knees swaying, with his thoughts visibly off somewhere else. His style weaves in and out of a bluegrass/folk with a subtle dash of country twang. His poetry hits you first and his music hits you last, almost as an afterthought. His songs talk to you with elegance, narrowing in on the things we do not take time out to feel.

A majority of the songs carried several verses, each extensive but ending abruptly, with a repetitious, soft melody. The tunes came more like monologues, setting a scene and taking a comprehensive approach, nearly exhausting you if you let your mind travel along. His voice was fittingly simple to match the complexity of the lyrics and instrumentation. A few of the audience members seemed caught and embedded in the big picture of his work. Schmidt managed to engage and silence the entire crowd by the close of his set.

Arrived at the Main Street Armory Friday night as Aussie duo An Horse pumped out a big sound a la Sleater-Kinney. Cage The Elephant followed with a frenetic strain of Kentucky-fried indie rock set to a kind of accelerated funk groove. Singer Matt Shultz raved about the stage, shaking his head incessantly as if he had a real bad case of swimmer’s ear. The band was interesting and different with its controlled attack over songs where most bands would just plug in and peel out. It was a good set, but the band closed with a crummy version of The Stooges’ “Now I Want To Be Your Dog.”

Silversun Pickups headlined and harnessed a spectacular sonic pop wash. It’s nice to hear pioneering bands take classic tones and not fall into retro traps.

Saturday night’s 60’s spectacular at The Auditorium got better as it went on. The New Rascals pulled off a loud, cluttered, and flat set with only the power of their hits to save them. The Turtles recreated their harmonies remarkably, with Flo and Eddie doing their best Hope & Crosby corn between numbers. Peter Noone still sounds like a teenager as he thrilled the crowd of roughly 1,400 that first discovered him when most of them were teens, too. For the most part the show was weak and kind of depressing. It’s kind of the same reason I don’t go to open-casket funerals; I want to remember them as they were. RIP.

Emmylou Harris’ name was written in the big letters on the marquee, but it was Buddy Miller’s show Wednesday night at The Auditorium Theatre. It isn’t just the fact that I root for the underdog, spin the B-side, constantly look below the radar, and thrive on music traveling the airways less traveled. It’s because my goose bumps are in limited supply. When the cheese-grater flesh does make the scene it’s due to a Molotov cocktail of factors — incendiary and mostly elusive, as most music I like tends to be.

Miller strapped on a guitar and strode out in the pointiest cowboy boots I’d ever seen. You could have lanced a boil with those pig-stickers. His voice was rich and ragged as he opened with the somber “How I Got To Memphis” — a tune he penned for King Solomon Burke, who in turned recorded it on his last album in Miller’s living room. The goose bumps showed up and stayed up when Miller copped an electric guitar just slithering in slinky tremolo for “Does My Ring Burn Your Finger.” Harris’ bass player showed up for this one; his solid 2/4 on the doghouse helped put the song in gear and point it hip-ward. It was all lovely dovely and mysterious with an ominous undertone. In fact, ominous is like hot sauce; you take any song of any topic, any mood, any groove, and you splash on a little ominous…it’ll burn ya, baby.

God, she’s beautiful. Harris’ voice is almost as luxuriously silver as her tresses. She sang in a voice that sounded a fraction of her 62 years. She floated like a butterfly and stung like, well, a butterfly. It was a mid-tempo honky-tonk lullaby that hovered just beneath the clouds, but I’d already spent my awe on Miller. Harris was still mesmerizing — especially when she and Miller tag-teamed on the Nazareth classic “Love Hurts.”

Just kidding, I know it’s actually a Roy Orbison tune. Gotcha again; I know it’s Gramm Parsons. Suckers. I thought I’d fuck with the wiz kids that read this column who freak out and roast me when I get something wrong. I get it right most of the time; give a brother a break. Besides, I know you like the Nazareth version the best. I think I do, too.

Pushing a mix of cuts off the new “Crash Love” CD and older stuff, AFI rocked Water Street Music Hall Friday night with a full-throttle set and a lightshow that would give the planetarium penis envy.

Singer Davey Havok has changed since I saw him rock Darien Lake two years ago in his quasi-gender ambiguity. Homeboy got a haircut and some new moves. The coif was pure Elvis – skinny, pre-Army, pre-jumsuit Elvis – and his suit kind of Sha Na Na. It sort of distracted from the band’s somewhat dark leanings, which I had frankly found a little distracting previously. Havok’s on-stage demeanor was dramatic and intense and somewhat Pentecostal. He was riveting, and his voice came across strong and decipherable. And the rabid faithful hung on every prayer. The band laid down a great set.

And here’s where I come clean once again. I’m opinionated, I like what I like, and am quick to holler “Bullshit!” when I smell it. But I’m also sometimes a little too quick to judge, and I’m working on that. For instance, I couldn’t have given a good goddamn about AFI; I was there to hear the other act, Gallows. But I gave AFI a shot – myself too, I suppose – and wound up seeing a great show I otherwise might have missed. See? I feel better already.

There was no way in hell I was going to miss Gallows since I’d been bowled over by the band’s classic hardcore-infused new core at this past summer’s Warped Tour. It’s a nice mash-up of Black Flag, Minor Threat, Bad Brains-era reactionary rock with some of the younger sounds that cross into metal and hard rock, with perhaps a little more precision. Singer Frank Carter sang (howled?) one tune on stage and then dove into the middle of the crowd for the remainder of the show, where he conducted the moshing, a circle pit, and even a human pyramid while liberally throwing the finger and spitting in the air.

The rest of the band on stage spent the majority of the time airborne, as if they were in a kung-fu movie. Gallows played mostly stuff from its new “Grey Britain” record, to the obvious disappointment of a few in the crowd. Regardless, it was a great – albeit oddly paired – set.