Rock­opa­lypse now?

Pasatiempo - - Restaurant Review -

It seems im­pos­si­ble to shake my­self out of this zom­bie-like state. I wish I could blame it on freak­ishly high tryp­to­phan evels in the Thanks­giv­ing turkey, or sea­sonal af­fec­tive dis­or­der, or a gen­eral case of hol­i­day malaise, or even an over­abun­dance of sin­gle-malt scotch and a sec­ond go at last year’s strange-smelling fruit­cake. But none of these things are re­spon­si­ble for my veg­e­ta­tive de­meanor.

You see, I’m par­a­lyzed by fear. It’s not a ra­tio­nal fear, like, say, the fear of heights, spi­ders, high choles­terol, or shop­ping-mall San­tas and their elves. No, I’m afraid of some­thing you can’t see: the death of de­cent rock mu­sic. Some are even say­ing it has al­ready hap­pened, and it can be proven by point­ing out that My Chem­i­cal Ro­mance and Jon Bon Jovi still have ca­reers. But I tend to be­lieve that the Rock­opa­lypse co­in­cides with other, more telling signs — near-cat­a­clysmic events that have yet to un­fold, such as a Justin Bieber pres­i­den­tial run, the death of the in­de­pen­dent record store, the resur­gence in pop­u­lar­ity of the macarena, or an­other Rod Ste­wart al­bum.

I don’t think the world can sur­vive with­out good in­die rock, and if it could, who the hell would want to live in it any­way? As long as there’s still hope, I have to shake off the fear, con­tinue to fight the good fight, and keep re­ally close tabs on Rod Ste­wart. And, of course, I must con­tinue to sup­port lo­cal venues that pro­mote the sur­vival of in­die rock. Join me, won’t you?

I’ll start at (401 S. Guadalupe St., 983-4559), which hosts proggy psy­chrock­ers at The Ithaca, New York, five-piece band per­forms for the third time in Santa Fe while tour­ing in sup­port of a con­cept EP that ex­plores the Mayan cal­en­dar and the world’s fas­ci­na­tion with its sup­posed ref­er­ence to a fi­nal 5,125-year global life cy­cle that is set to ex­pire on Dec. 21, 2012. (It’s nice to know I’m not the only one who spends too much time wor­ry­ing and writ­ing about things I can nei­ther prove nor con­trol.)

Ayurveda sea­sons its gui­tar-heavy sound with for­ays into Ti­betan vo­cal tra­di­tions, which makes some sense: gui­tarist Di­was Gu­rung is from Nepal. Fans of The Su­gar­cubes and Tool who also don’t mind a lit­tle ex­per­i­men­tal-in­stru­men­tal me­an­der­ing à la Kin­ski and Awe­some Color should hit this 21-and-older show. It’s the day af­ter Black Fri­day, which means there are no more de­cent sales at which to waste your pre­cious time and beer money. For five bucks, you can’t beat an Ayurvedic treat like this one. Tick­ets are avail­able on­line at cora­zon­santafe.com and at the door, and lucky you, wicked-good lo­cal post-punk out­fit Man Hurls Hedge­hog opens.

If you need a lit­tle more time to re­cover from Aunt Bertha’s ran­cid green bean casse­role, make plans to be at at Evan­gelo’s (200 W. San Fran­cisco St., 982-9104) at

That’s when you can catch a per­for­mance by L.A. psy­chrock trio fea­tur­ing Queens of the Stone Age bassist Michael Shu­man (he sings and plays gui­tars and drums here), bassist/key­boardist/vo­cal­ist Zach Dawes, and gui­tarist/ key­boardist/vo­cal­ist Tyler Park­ford. Bring­ing Beach Boys­ready vo­cal har­monies, catchy hooks and melodies, and a creepy, hyp­notic sen­si­bil­ity to its moody pop-noir sound­scapes, Mini Man­sions is what cable-tele­vi­sion se­rial killer Dex­ter prob­a­bly lis­tens to when he isn’t slic­ing up his neigh­bors. Call The Un­der­ground for ticket info.

— Rob DeWalt

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