Cafezino (Sharri's), April 20

Okay, what's a nice, devoutly heterosexual male like me doing in a place like this on Saturday night? This is women's music. Hell, it's "women who like women music." For one thing, I was enjoying what is sans argument the best iced latte in Austin. The ice is crushed and the milk is whipped to a modicum of thickness and sweetness. Yummy speed. Jones' voice is like that; Cool, with a delicious mixture of sweetness and bite. Ninety-five percent lesbian audience or not, I could listen to Jones' Melissa Etheridge en flagrant with Joan Baez voice for the better part of a lifetime. But don't let an audience fool you. Jones doesn't shove her sexual predilections down one's throat. Sure, she has a lesbian anthem or two up her sleeve ("In Broad Daylight" rates right up there with Catie Curtis' "Radical"), but it goes much deeper than that. Playing her new LP, Imagine Me, song for song, Jones proved herself a universal songwriter of the purest order. When you're speaking directly from the soul, specifics don't really matter and a listener, gay or straight, can fill in their own blanks. There are many talented people who can paint on an aural canvas, but it's a rare and precious talent that can create a canvas for an audience. Jones has that talent.
- Joe Mitchell

Austin Music Hall, April 21

As guitarist Noel Gallagher sat alone on the Austin Music Hall stage during a four-song acoustic set, seguing his "Cast No Shadow" into the Beatles' "Octopus's Garden," it wasn't Lennon or McCartney that he reminded me of, but rather another seminal English lout: Pete Townshend. After all, besides writing all the songs on both of Oasis' albums (as well as co-producing the second), the elder Gallagher had stepped into the breach all night long, delivering one strong guitar solo after another - proving he doesn't just write a multitude of pop gems on the instrument, but that he can actually play it, too. Then again, Townshend probably wouldn't have run out of gas at the end of his shot in the spotlight - on "Wonderwall," no less - though Gallagher made up for it on "Don't Look Back in Anger" for which the band, minus little brother and singer Liam Gallagher, had returned. Liam finally reappeared for the 90-minute-set-ending "I Am the Walrus," but by this point Noel wasn't about to relinquish center stage and launched into an interminable, feedback-drenched wankathon. This only further demonstrated Noel's desire to be in command despite his brother's role as frontman, and truth to tell, Liam was not missed during the 25 minutes he was absent from the stage. True, Liam's back and forth pacing and his throwing down the tambourine again and again made him look like Mick Jagger compared to his stock-still Madam Toussaud impersonation at Liberty Lunch last February, but his too-long denim shirt, slightly bowed legs, and hunched posture made him look like a surly, caged orangutan. His singing left nothing to be desired, but without an MTV close-up or any real frontman skills, Liam was no Roger Daltrey - leaving me wondering if and when no-charisma Noel's nose will swell and he'll strike out on his own. And whether the appearance of the Who's Sell Out, which came on with the house lights, was just a coincidence.
- Raoul Hernandez

Liberty Lunch, April 25

Well, it wasn't quite like opening for Oasis at the Music Hall, but Austin's Cling showed why they made an appropriate fit for the bill: chiming, understated pop with high, wafting female vocals. They appeared entranced by their own sound, which often alternated light drones with some oceanic crunch, especially "Left Behind" and the new "Incidentally Caught." "E's Talking" featured some filigreed 12-string guitar over a syncopated beat; overall, the band displayed a high degree of musicianship. Skintalk, with Courtney Audain (Timbuk3), began their farewell gig with some promising industrial keyboard noise, but soon unveiled something one rarely encounters: Christian grunge. Psychedelic visuals and electronic noise laced the set of groovy, heavy songs, some insistently catchy, like "I Walk The Wire". There was also an unfortunate amount of guitar heroics complete with Rock Face. Clownmeat asked for beer quite a bit between their jumpy, three-chord punk ditties. The singer seemed oddly distant from her furious, rapid-fire singspiel, which ranged over bizarre stories of ennui, masturbation, traintrack suicide, and Grandpa Morgan lying in his own excreta. At one point she asked the crowd to imagine that they were Judy Garland singing at the Palladium, and "Liza Minelli is at the side of the stage watching Judy sing `Over The Rainbow.' We all know what that's about." Uh-huh.
- Ken Hunt

Bates Recital Hall, April 26

In many ways the piano/bass/drum trio is the quintessential jazz ensemble. In the hands of master musicians like Kenny Barron, Ray Drummond, and Ben Riley, the trio reaches a level of high art, engaging in a musical conversation that is both intimate and playful. Barron is a pianist of remarkable grace and eloquence who lent these qualities to an evening of primarily standards. They opened with a relaxed reading of "Sweet Lorraine" and a frisky romp around "Green Dolphin Street." The latter was most memorable for the artful yet frolicsome interaction between bassist Drummond and drummer Riley as they traded fours. Drummond's round, resonant tone was particularly noteworthy throughout the evening, while Riley was a model of precision and understatement. Of all his attributes, Barron is most proud of his refined touch, which he says is derived from his major influences, Tommy Flanagan and Hank Jones. This light, effortless sound can be heard on everything he plays but was most dramatically evident on two ballads, the ever-familiar "Blue Moon" and his new original, "Twilight Song." Thelonious Monk was another influence on Barron and his tribute piece to open the second set, "The Onlious One," was played in a typically rambunctious Monk style. A spirited version of "How High The Moon" was most remarkable for drummer Ben Riley's sudden shifting into a Brazilian beat which changed the whole flavor of this warhorse. Blue Mitchell's "Fungi Mama" found the trio in a loose Afro-Carribbean groove. I would have preferred a hipper, more varied and more challenging selection of tunes than the moldy standards they played; nonetheless, with a group of jazzmen at this high a level of musicianship, anything they perform is a work of art. (This show was taped by KUT 90.5 and portions of it will be broadcast on Sun., May 26 @ 7pm.)
- Jay Trachtenberg

Antone's, April 27

Guy Clark was a most unobtrusive legend at Antone's Saturday evening. Alone on the stage with just his guitar, his son Travis, and Travis' 5-string acoustic bass, Clark spent most of his first set as if he were unsure of the crowd's intentions. It went something like this: Clark finishes a song. Applause. Brief comment to the audience while he shuffles his feet. Audience laughs, claps, maybe hoots - politely. Clark starts intro to next song, say "L.A. Freeway." More applause. Audience silently mouths the words while Clark sings. Repeat 10 to 12 times. Clark's first set was more like a church service than a nightclub show; the crowd, perhaps a little too reverent, needed to be reminded that it's Texas - you're supposed to be drinking beer and having fun. (At one point, during "Homegrown Tomatoes," they began to clap along to the rhythm but then decided no, maybe they'd better not.) Clark melted the ice a little with "Rita Ballou" and a long story about his wife and a limo driver culminating in "Baby Took a Limo to Memphis," but it really took the 20-minute intermission to get things going. Maybe it was the raucous honky-tonk of Shaver's Unshaven over the PA, or maybe it was just that the audience finally had time to down a couple instead of gazing at Clark like he just fathered the Madonna's (no, not that one) baby. Whatever it was, when Clark & son walked back out for set number two, it was like going from a funeral to a wake. This crowd, which looked suspiciously like the same one from the first set, wanted to rip. They hooted, they hollered, they shouted requests, they stomped their feet, they sang along audibly. (Perhaps shaken by their earlier experience, they never clapped along again.) Clark finally noticed it was he who was making them feel this way and responded in kind - no more mumbling or self-effacing comments, he was suddenly an entertainer. And by the time he closed with "Texas Cookin'," the joint was stompin' like someone had just carried Santa Anna's head down the Drag on a pike. Mm-hmm. Now that's more like it. - Christopher Gray