The DBC at Starr Hill
Thursday, February 7

Alexandra Scott's naughty. She's nice. She's a vixen. She's the girl next door.

The Charlottesville expatriate and front woman for Washington, D.C., sample lovers, the DBC (as in the District Basement Collective), appeals because she's not an either/or gal. Though by no means the only floaty keeping the trio's heads above water, whether the band works depends on whether Scott's workin' it.

Despite her cutie-pie protestation ("Please don't hurt my DJ!") during a number late in their set opening for Baltimore's Lake Trout, Scott's not the I'm-with-the-DJ type. Quite different from vinyl-mining acts who push a vocalist up front so the nerdy mastermind can hide behind his samplers in peace, the democratic DBC hands the vocal, lyrical, and melodic reins to Scott. The consistency of their songs makes that seem like a solid play.

You can't breakdance to the DBC, but you can sway to it pleasantly enough. Aside from a mostly midtempo standard-- musically the beats set trip-hoppy paces, with an odd drum 'n' bass jolt-- Scott's penchant for having it both ways is the constant thread. On wax you're less blind to the devil than the angel on her shoulders, but the live setting affords a more even glimpse.

On the recorded "At Your Back," which features Scott's refrain "I feel like I might die/If you're not by my side," you know you won't be all that safe in a room alone with her. Live, subtract the dark synth sounds and add a purer tone to her vocals (which get treated pretty heavily on disc, and come out versatile and assured in person) and she's a shy but hard to ignore presence. You're still not safe, but the stalker inside is less overt, the space between crush and restraining order a little shadier-- and a lot more interesting.

During breaks filled either by the nimble necking of bassist Dex Dubious or the short but sweet scratchings of DJ Boom (both of whom defer more to her in concert than in production), Scott was more likely to fold her arms across her chest or cling to the mic stand than to sashay around the stage. Even when she did attempt a shimmy excursion, such as during the light and breezy Fatboy Slim-sounding rave "Enough," she didn't seem quite at home.

A betrayal of her more traditional songwriting roots? Maybe, but who knows? Like something from a David Lynch movie, Scott's the misguided but harmless and sweet bombshell who's convinced you're the one for her. Maybe you're not convinced. Maybe she'll slice off your ear with one her DJ's records. Maybe.

Lyman, with Medium, and Skyline Awake, at the Greenskeeper
Saturday, February 9

Make no bones about it, the Greenskeeper is a bizarre place to watch emotionally charged punk rock. Depending on where one directed one's gaze on this night, one noticed robust girls looking like they made a wrong turn off the New Jersey Turnpike, a big-screen display of Olympic ski jumping, ex-bus drivers taking shots from clear plastic cups, two lesbians-- at least one of whom was with the women's rugby team contingent-- making out like fiends, and a shore-leave sailor playing pool.

One would most likely have noticed these things during the set of Medium, who, with show-starters Skyline Awake, replaced m.i.a. the Simple Things as openers for Lyman and their thick, crunchy brand of punk. Unfortunately, Medium proved too accurate a moniker. With the middle slot and an average sound, their guitar, bass, and drums lurched in the gap between pop and punk.

Loud enough and then some, the band's volume seemed less the result of playing loud, fast, and hard-- because they didn't-- than simply pushing the amps up a few notches. Their opening number (don't expect lyrics or titles-- the sound at the 'Skeeper is surprisingly competent, but the room's acoustics were overmatched) could've been a harder number from a band studied in Brit-tempered hooks, but their poppiest wasn't very poppy at all.

Medium's frontman song, "This is the sound of a new generation," seemed more in keeping with the style of opening act Skyline Awake, who play the soundtrack to websurfing teens' angst. That foursome doesn't look the part, though: clean shaven and close cut, like the guys on the high school baseball teams who didn't beat up the nerds. Still, the band's vocalist/bassist had something to get off his chest, and vent he did-- with the passion that Medium lacked.

Throwing not-quite hooks that don't clog the brain but do make that head nod up and down, Skyline Awake make mad and sad tolerable the only way possible, with musical savvy. The band packs their hyperactive songs with pit stops, pot holes, and speed bumps: almost stop-start dynamics, and chords chopped up into staccato bursts and stapled to the rhythm section.

The lights dimmed, the room got smokier, the riffs got heavier, and the vibe got beefier with Lyman. Though the people sporting tattoos and wifebeaters try to peg them in the mook rock Bizkit bin, the foursome worms its way out every time you think they're about to skirt predictability. Their offensive lineman of a bassist, C.L. Power, is their MVP, laying down sludgy runs that still manage to sound swift and propulsive in the best tradition.

Got chops? Apply now; Lyman's guitarist Tony Pugh is leaving the band soon, and the band's on the lookout for a replacement. Think you can play metal and punk guitar? Possible. Think you can lay down fat, wide open, rippling chords of the Bizkit variety without sounding derivative? Good luck, but Pugh somehow accomplishes just that, giving Lyman, along with Power and lead singer Mike Vernon's Black Flag-style vocals, three distinct voices in front of Clay Caricofe's heavy beats. Call it the thinking mook's music.

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