For more than four decades, the KPOO DJ has been spinning ’50s and ’60s tunes on nighttime radio.
It’s a little before 8:30 p.m. on a Monday night, and Jim Rigsbee is sitting in the studio at public radio station KPOO, shuffling through a stack of CDs and 7-inch records. For more than 40 years, Rigsbee — better known to listeners as Rockin’ Jim — has been hosting Grinders Grooveyard, a late-night program consisting of pop and rock hits from the 1950s and ’60s.
Rigsbee inherited the show in 1976 from its original hosts, who created the program when KPOO was founded in 1971. A retired customer-service agent and “jack-of-all-trades” for the San Francisco Chronicle, the 69-year-old has long grown accustomed to the show’s nocturnal hours, which are currently 8:30 p.m. to 11:30 p.m. on Mondays, but in the past have continued as late as 2 a.m.
Rigsbee — wearing a crewneck sweatshirt, Manchester United sweatpants, and oval wire glasses nestled halfway down his nose — is an S.F. native who currently resides in the Outer Mission. He remembers listening to Elvis Presley on the radio at the age of 8 and can recall seeing shows at iconic (and now-defunct) turn-of-the-century concert venues, like the Fillmore West and Avalon Ballroom. (Click here to read more)
Incorporating weed into nail art is the new way to show your love for the plant.
Walk into any nail salon and chances are you’ll be greeted with the smells of rubbing alcohol and acetone. But a new trend is sweeping the nail-art world that might introduce another scent into the mix: marijuana.
Dubbed “weed nails,” the style incorporates cannabis products — such as the leaf itself, ground-up bud, or hash oil — into acrylic nails, and using them to create designs. Like flower pressings, weed can be sprinkled into the clear bedrock of the acrylic, color-blocked into a pattern, blended into an ombre, or bedazzled with rhinestones and glitter.
Louisiana “Louie” Pham, owner of the Orchid Nail Lounge in Santa Clara, has even used ash from a blunt and slivers of rolling papers to create decorations on her clients’ nails. On a Wednesday afternoon in February when I visit Pham at her store, she’s in the process of snipping out the “100” from a fake $100 bill to glue into the center of a weed-flecked acrylic nail. For almost four years, Pham has been doing weed nails, and it all started thanks to the customer whose nails she’s currently working on. (Click here to read more)
It took the award-winning London rapper Skepta at least a decade to get on Coachella’s bill. Even though the 34-year-old — widely regarded as a leading figure in the U.K. grime scene — has reached Kendrick Lamar status overseas, it wasn’t until 2016 that his name appeared on the festival’s lineup. Due to visa issues, he ended up canceling that performance, but he was able to get a raincheck for this year, showing up on the Sahara stage on Day 3 of Coachella alongside a phone booth.
Americans are still discovering Skepta and learning to embrace the foreignness of grime — best described as breakbeat-heavy electronic music — but if Skepta’s dogged perseverance in Britain proved anything, all he needs to do it is hang around the U.S. long enough and he’ll start to blow up. Putting out albums also helps. Since 2007, Skepta has dropped four records and five mixtapes, and if you listen to them in succession, you’ll see how far he’s come. (Click here to read more)
Bishop Briggs has made a name for herself as a moody, melancholic singer, but there’s more than one side to her.
Sometimes, mixing business and family can be a terrible idea. Other times, it can be a boon for the whole clan. Fortunately, things worked out for indie-pop singer Bishop Briggs and her older sister Kate.
Kate is Bishop’s manager, handling the singer’s Instagram account and day-to-day activities, and sometimes even moonlighting as Briggs’ “part-time therapist.”
“It’s really nice working with my sister,” Bishop says. “There’s something about having a sibling that you know will always stick with you.”
As Bishop tells it, Kate has always stood up for her younger sister. The 24-year-old shares a story about a time in high school when Kate came to her defense after a guy Bishop was dating started making out in front of her with two girls at a party.
“He kept his eyes open when he was doing it,” Bishop recalls. “Like, who does that?”
Sobbing, she left the party and called Kate. And then Kate showed up.
“I don’t really know what happened,” Bishop says. “I’ve tried asking her, but she still hasn’t really told me exactly what happened.”
Whatever went down ended up working in her favor, and the boy became even more invested in Bishop than before. (Click here to read more)
Leading the chorus was a 6-foot-3 man with chest-length dreadlocks flecked with gold beads, dressed in an unassuming blue anorak and a solid yellow baseball cap. His name is Rexx Life Raj and he alternated between singing the chorus and rapping the verses to the song, called “Father Figure.” The warehouse gathering and the dad-declaring crowd was in celebration of Raj’s debut album — also called Father Figure — which came out June 23.
Raj, 26, writes all his own material, and occasionally mixes and produces his tracks as well. But what he really has a knack for is coining catchphrases and stick-in-your-head hooks.
Each song he performs has at least one line the audience belted out like an anthem, such as “I think I might have a mother-fucking problem / Crushing Adderall and marijuana!” or “Bitch, I’m a dad now!” (A “dad,” in Raj’s parlance, is someone who is “a boss,” not a literal father.)
Calls for “more!” and “again!” rang out when he finished “Shit N’ Floss,” what was supposed to be the last song of the night. Raj obliged, signaling the DJ to play the track one more time. Everything about this night had been a long time coming for him and he was willing to prolong it for as long as possible. (Click here to read more)
A.C. Newman of the New Pornographers has considered moving back to Canada, but he’ll never quit the band.
A.C. Newman lives in a “funky,” one-story house in Woodstock, N.Y., that has seen numerous renovations and additions in the eight years since he and his wife bought it. Even though the tiny cabin — which Newman describes as “not a mansion” — was a fixer-upper when they bought it, Newman was drawn to it from the moment he saw it.
“It’s a weird thing when you go to a house and it’s filled with portent somehow,” he says. “You’re like, ‘This is the one.’ ”
But on the Wednesday morning in March when I call him, Newman confesses that he and his wife are contemplating moving back to Vancouver, Canada, where Newman emigrated from 10 years earlier. The reason? Trump, of course.
“We’ve started asking ourselves, ‘Should we make a preemptive move?’ ” he says. “This country isn’t crushing us yet, but maybe we should get out before it does.”
Newman is particularly concerned about the Republicans’ recent plan to repeal the Affordable Care Act, which, at the time of our interview, was still a strong possibility.
“This is the first time in my life where I find myself in a place where I would be legitimately sad to leave,” Newman says. (Click here to read more)
U.K. producer Jax Jones is now more famous than the artist who helped launch his career.
Jax Jones’ parents really didn’t want him to pursue music.
“My parents are super-traditional,” says the British house producer, best-known for his 2016, island-inspired dance-pop single, “U Don’t Know Me.” “To them, any career in the arts — they just wouldn’t have it.”
With an Atari, Jones started making beats at the age of 14, but he says his dad still held out hope that he’d become a doctor, and that his mom always pushed for a career in investment banking.
“I could have done it,” the 29-year-old says. “I was pretty smart in school in terms of grades and stuff. I just got the bug to do music.”
Relations between Jones and his folks finally hit a boiling point when the musician tried to return home after graduating from college. Though his parents agreed to let him move back in, there was a stipulation: If Jones wanted to live there, he couldn’t come home later than 10 p.m.
As a burgeoning DJ trying to break into London’s nightlife scene, Jones knew that the ultimatum would be a death knell for his career. (Click here to read more)
Oakland hip-hop crew Down 2 Earth channels ’90s rap and laidback vibes in its new album.
Filled with obscure jazz and funk samples, internal rhyme schemes, and live bass, ’93 ‘til Infinity stood in stark contrast to the G-funk, gangsta-dominated, “gin and juice” era of hip-hop that was then sweeping through the West Coast. Mellow, chillout rap caught on like wildfire, and Souls of Mischief’s democratic style of trading bars so that each member got his share of the limelight became a common method for other acts.
It’s now been 20 years since the Oakland crew released its debut album, but Souls of Mischief’s impact is still reverberating — and you can hear their influence in the Oakland group Down 2 Earth.
“I think our formula is very similar to Souls of Mischief’s, even though that was 20 years ago,” says Down 2 Earth rapper Azure. “We’re very much a lyricist lounge type of act, and you can hear the similarities through little nuances, like making the drums extra-heavy.” (Click here to read more)
The Third Eye Blind frontman dishes on the band’s next album, trolling Republicans, and becoming ‘a whole person.’
Interviewing Stephan Jenkins is like herding cats or trying to get my very untrained dog Mischa to do a trick. He evades questions, changes the subject, gets easily distracted, and takes minutes to finish sentences, often using as many as a dozen adjectives to describe one thing.
“This isn’t really an interview,” Jenkins tells me shortly after we meet up. “We’re just chit-chatting.”
It’s a little after 5 p.m. in the middle of the week, and we’re sitting on the patio at Zeitgeist, a metal bar in the Mission, because that’s where the Third Eye Blind frontman suggested we go.
For more than two hours we sit there, facing each other while seated on the same bench — because the din from the crowd and the live thrash band is so loud that our knees have to be touching for us to hear one another.
“I feel self-conscious,” Jenkins complains, after I ask him to hold my recorder closer to his mouth so that it picks up what he’s saying. “I feel like, ‘Is this really what my voice sounds like?’ Fuck!” (Click here to read more)
In his debut album, Eldorado, fast-rising R&B singer Ro James showcases his many personas.
In some tracks, like the stripped-down, acoustic guitar number “Everything,” the 31-year-old comes across as the perfect man, cooing lines like, “everything’s about you, baby” and “you got me so weak like I need you.”
James reveals another side to himself in “Burn Slow,” a simmered down, cavernous track about convincing a paramour to “call in sick” and “call in favors” so that she can spend the day in bed with him.
By the time “A.D.I.D.A.S.” rolls around, James has dropped any semblance of subtlety, opting for a more straightforward, if not lewd, approach, intoning statements like, “Craving your body” and “All day I dream of sexing you.” (And yes, “A.D.I.D.A.S.” stands for what you think it stands for.)
Other songs, like “GA$” and “Permission,” promulgate this same devious, bad boy behavior, with James purring lyrics about his sexual prowess (“You ain’t never had it like this before”), favorite extra-curricular activities (“I wanna spend the whole night sipping on you”), and the things that are most vital to him (“Pussy, money, weed”). (Click here to read more)
Thank Clams Casino.
In 2011, Michael Volpe was a 23-year-old physical therapy student who lived in the historic township of Nutley, N.J., with his mom and her two dachshunds. In his spare time, Volpe produced beats under the name Clams Casino and used MySpace to pitch his glitchy, chillwave creations to other up-and-coming artists.
By the time graduation rolled around in May, he’d released his first mixtape, Instrumentals (which Pitchfork would later name the 17th top album of 2011), produced songs for the likes of Lil B, Soulja Boy, Mac Miller, Main Attrakionz, and Havoc of Mobb Deep, and had a record in the works with the then up-and-coming emcee, A$AP Rocky.
With one foot in two worlds, Volpe, who will be performing at Mezzanine on Thursday, Sept. 15, realized he had a decision to make post-graduation: He could either pursue music full-time or use his degree to get a job in physical therapy. With little hesitation, Volpe chose the former.
“I was just like, ‘I’m going to see how far I can take my music over the summer,’ ” he says. ” ‘And, if it works out and I can start making some money off of it, then I’ll just keep going with it.’ ” (Click here to read more)
Austen Afridi of Viceroy can heat up a dancefloor with his tropical house tunes.
“We had a very real winter,” says Afridi, who helms the San Francisco tropical house act Viceroy. “In fact, I got Seasonal Affective Disorder these last few months.”
Unluckily for him, The Old Farmer’s Almanac predicts more rain for the Bay Area and temperatures no higher than 60 degrees for the next two months. But now that summer is around the corner, Afridi is confident he can hang, even if the impending season turns out to be as cold and dreary as the last.
“You’re absolutely right, it’s not always sunny here,” Afridi says of San Francisco. “But I love it. I love it for a million reasons other than that.” (Click here to read more)
Beach Goth 2016 was a fiasco and City Club sounds too polished, but The Growlers don’t give a shit.
“I do the whole ‘I’m not talking to anybody anymore’ thing a lot,” the frontman says. “Even at this stage, I get people interviewing me who don’t know my music, who’ve never heard The Growlers.”
In fact, as recently as “like, two weeks ago,” Nielsen wasn’t taking calls from journalists. But I’ve caught him at a good time: The Growlers, all three of whom are from Dana Point in Orange County, are home for a week and have some time to spare. It’s a rare occurrence for the garage-rock band that has spent an average of seven months a year on the road since releasing its debut, Are You In or Out, in 2009.
“We didn’t know that we were touring more than anybody else,” Nielsen says of the band’s early years. “We didn’t know how much we were supposed to be touring.” (Click here to read more)
A lot has happened in the 12 years between Clap Your Hands Say Yeah’s debut and their fifth album.
On the one hand, there’s a lot of pressure to contend with — be it self-imposed or from others — and making an album that is both flawless and attention-grabbing is no easy task.
On the other hand, a debut can be viewed as a blank canvas. As a newcomer, you have no expectations to meet and plenty of leeway to do and try whatever you like. For Alec Ounsworth, frontman of the indie rock group Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, it was the latter.
In 2005, when the Brooklyn band, then a quintet, was recording its self-titled debut, the sky was the limit because there was “nobody looking over our shoulders,” Ounsworth says. The group had ample creative freedom to be as weird and experimental as they wanted — so they were. In album opener “Clap Your Hands!” eerie carnival music comingles with distorted and harmonized vocals, and throughout the entire record, Ounsworth morphs his creaky, nasally voice into whinnies, wails, and yelps.
“We didn’t really have any expectations for the album,” he says. “It wasn’t any grand statement, but simply a first album.” (Click here to read more)
The history of San Francisco’s most iconic music venues
SF Weekly (Cover Story)
From techno warehouses to indie-rock taverns, San Francisco has no shortage of music venues. We’re especially lucky to have a few that are over a century old, having weathered fires, multiple owners, and at least one earthquake.
But if you’ve visited any of these spaces, a few questions have probably popped up (aside from “How much are the drinks?” and “When does the headliner come on?”). You might have wondered why The Fillmore gives away free apples or why there’s a window behind the stage at Bottom of the Hill. Perhaps you wanted to know why there’s a balcony above the stage at Great American Music Hall that never gets used. Or maybe you were curious about Social Hall, the music venue below the Regency Ballroom that looks like a mid-century school auditorium. (Click here to read more)
How DJ Jazzy Jeff and 20 others spent a week creating an album.
If there’s one thing you should know about DJ Jazzy Jeff, it’s that even though he lives in the woods outside of Philadelphia, there’s almost always a few people at his house. In fact, it’s for this very reason that he was 30 minutes late to our phone interview.
“I’m sorry,” he tells me when I finally reach him. “I had some family members stop by.”
For someone who averages 160 shows a year and always seems to have his hands in a new project or two, you’d think the constant deluge of visitors to Jeff’s home would be distracting, not to mention unwanted. But he insists it’s not.
“There’s always someone here, but it’s not a bad thing,” the 52-year-old says. “I’m trying to create a creative safe haven for people.”
In fact, Jeff — who most people associate with Will Smith, a longtime friend with whom he formed the two-time Grammy Award-winning hip-hop duo DJ Jazzy Jeff & the Fresh Prince in the mid-’80s — thrives on collaboration and teamwork. It is for this reason that he has hosted biannual workshops and sessions — called the PLAYlist Retreat — for producers, DJs, and songwriters at his house for the last three years.
“It’s like a camp atmosphere,” Jeff says. “We get about 18 to 25 trailers and line them all up outside.” (Click here to read more)
Popping our collars with Juicy J.
One of the co-founders of the legendary Memphis rap crew Three 6 Mafia — the same group that gave us the Academy Award-winning single “It’s Hard Out Here For A Pimp” from the film Hustle and Flow — Juicy J has spent the last half-decade pursuing a solo career, collaborating with the likes of Kanye West, Nicki Minaj, and Katy Perry on a multitude of projects, including his forthcoming studio album, Rubba Band Business.
And though his sound has definitely diverged from the gritty gangsta rap style he perfected while in Three 6 Mafia, the rubbery-voiced emcee, who now makes upbeat, bouncy party jams, is still every bit the crunkmeister.
From a treadmill in his Beverly Hills home gym, the 41-year-old regaled us with stories about reading books on music at the age of 13, his lifelong commitment to health and fitness, and what it’s like being an OG in the industry. (Click here to read more)
The millennium is still alive and bumpin’ in San Francisco DJ and producer Miguel Migs’ soulful, deep house jams.
“That was a magical time,” says the 44-year-old who will be playing at Audio on Saturday, Jan. 28. “There were these amazing warehouse parties that had the greatest music.”
In fact, it was the music scene that brought the then-underage Migs to S.F. in the first place. Though he lived in Santa Cruz at the time, Migs and his friends made a habit of driving up on weekend nights to attend the city’s numerous parties and raves.
“We would draw on hand stamps or have fake IDs,” he recalls. “You know, whatever it took to get in.”
Today, the dance music scene in San Francisco is totally different. Though Migs says there are still underground warehouse parties that occur on the weekends, they’re few and far between, and San Francisco is far from the electronic music mecca it once was. Nowadays, if you want to hear dance, house, or techno, you’re better off just going to a club. (Click here to read more)
The Seattle producer and beatmaker wants to elevate his craft to superstar status.
“It’s kind of popular now,” Seattle producer Sango tells me over the phone. He’s talking about beatmaking — loosely defined as the art of making hip-hop sans words — and it’s something the 25-year-old, who has produced songs for the likes of Tinashe, Casey Veggies, and Denzel Curry, has been pursuing since the age of 12.
“Everyone’s a bedroom producer these days,” he continues. “All you have to do is release a track on SoundCloud, and even if it’s just beats, people will go crazy over it.”
It wasn’t always this way. Sure, there were beat pioneers — like Flying Lotus, J Dilla, Madlib, Gaslamp Killer, and Daedelus — who paved the way for future generations. And chances are they had a lot harder time convincing people to listen to their lyricless music than Sango did.
Still, in the beginning, he struggled to grow his audience until a series of fortuitous events in 2009, including a particular round of the video game Call of Duty, got him interested in Brazil and led him to discover baile funk (or “funk carioca” as it’s called in Brazil). (Click here to read more)
Compton rapper Problem reps all of California (and the L.A. Rams) in his music.
“One of my friends called me one day and was like, ‘We’re gonna call you Chachi,’” Compton rapper Problem tells me. He’s talking about Chachi Arcola, Scott Baio’s character in Happy Days, the younger cousin and sidekick of Henry Winkler’s Fonzie. Toward the end of Happy Days’ 11-season run, Baio co-starred in the show’s spinoff, Joanie Loves Chachi, then got his first chance to be sole lead on the ’80s sitcom Charles in Charge.
“So that’s kind of how my career went,” continues the 31-year-old, who’s using the nickname in the title of his next record, Chachiville. “First I was writing for people, then I started being a featured artist on stuff, and then I had my own thing.”
It’s Sunday morning and we’re in San Bruno, a sleepy suburb south of San Francisco, having breakfast next door to a taekwondo studio and a Weight Watchers. The goatee’d emcee, whose most famous track is the 2013 single “Like Whaaat,” has brought along his manager, Melissa Keklak, and nephew-turned-DJ Kyle aka DJ Kai, who, though only 15 years old, has already joined the rapper for one national tour.
Problem grew up in Compton in the ’90s and considers himself lucky, because his musical awakening came around the same time many of the West Coast’s second generation of rappers were coming up. He says he used to run into Nipsey Hussle while pasting promotional posters around South Central and recalls meeting Ty Dolla $ign back when he “looked like D’Angelo, sitting in his mama’s house, just playing the fucking piano and shit.” Problem credits Inglewood rapper Skeme for helping him get on the radio the first time, and says that Schoolboy Q was once his roommate for six months. (Click here to read more)
The groudbreaking Bay Area trio is using music to connect global cultures.
SF Weekly (Cover Story)
I’m standing in the pit of the Fox Theater in Oakland on a Saturday night in December, waiting for the electronic world-fusion band Beats Antique to take the stage. The venue, with a capacity of 2,800, is packed with people wearing yoga pants, utility belts, sombreros, and crystal necklaces. Whiffs of weed, patchouli, and peppermint are everywhere.
It’s the kind of crowd where random high-fives are doled out, and I overhear clips of conversations about Renaissance Faire-themed weddings, the best stretches to do in the morning, and whether or not “these are drugs or just pills.” In fact, if I didn’t know better, I’d think I was at a Burning Man party.
The guy to my right, a techie from S.F. who’s wearing a zip-up fleece jacket, tells me he rode BART in to see the band, which he’s never before seen live but has been listening to since 2012. Earlier, I met a throng of women clad in flared pants and adhesive gold tattoos who had flown in from Boston just for the show.
“They’re my favorite band of all time,” one of them tells me, before being interrupted by a friend who brags about liking Beats Antique “since high school.”
Eventually, the lights dim and a hush falls over the crowd as a woman with long, dark hair, smeared eyeliner, and a gold bra with tassels on the nipples takes the stage. She’s Zoe Jakes, Beats Antique’s principal dancer, and she’s carrying a glowing golden ball of twine, just as she does on the cover of their most recent album, Shadowbox. The ball of light casts shadows across Jakes’ face as she dances in the darkness, and the beginnings of an Indian raga, created by the other two members of Beats Antique — Tommy Cappel and David Satori — peal throughout the room.
Ten minutes in, and Jakes is still performing, her gestures and movements mirroring the song’s changing tempos. As strobes of red light beam down from the rafters, the bass picks up, careening into a full-fledged gallop, and Jakes starts spinning in circles, the ball extended horizontally in front of her.
When the bass dies down, Jakes stops spinning and slips backstage while Satori addresses the audience.
“It’s good to be home,” the bespectacled musician says, picking up the violin. “We love you, Oakland.” (Click here to read more)