Due to weather conditions resulting from Hurricane Ike, all Lost Bayou Ramblers shows have been canceled. The half-moon sat low Saturday night around midnight in the Western sky, reddish and glowing just above the river as we drove South down Congress in a ’53 Mercury named Peggy Sue. Last time I remember a sky like that, a big yella moon was hanging over the Atchafalaya Basin as I was speeding across the Henderson swamp while the gators barked in the dark mists. This weekend, the Lost Bayou Ramblers bring a little of that mojo with them to the Continental. The Lafayette-based quintet started the year with a Grammy-nominated live album and now release a new studio CD, Vermilionaire. And no wonder they caught the Recording Academy’s attention: they are a Cajun band that sounds authentic without being too retro, and fresh without compromising that authenticity. Oh yeah, our own Chris “Frenchie” Smith produced the CD. Better yet, the Lost Bayou Ramblers evoke the old school Cajun dancehall feel of lazy Sunday afternoon French dances that begin around 4pm just this side of the Sabine and dot east across our neighbor state. A little bon temps rouler, sure, but more than throwing around clichés and stereotypes, the Ramblers nail their Cajun sound with flourish and panache. If you can’t make their evening shows Friday and Saturday, catch an in-store Friday at Waterloo Records with Mario Matteoli, 5pm.

At a Mount Eerie show several years ago inside Emo’s, a drunken buffoon wandered to the front and summoned Phil Elverum to edge of the stage. He bent over as the guy told him something along the lines of “Your songs suck,” before stumbling back to the bar. The Anacortes, Wash. bard was unfazed. He moved back the microphone and, in true Elverum fashion, composed a one-line tune in response, strumming a few chords as he sang, “The songs I write are only for myself.” It was an apt rejoinder. As the Microphones and Mount Eerie, Elverum has delivered wandering, solipsistic narratives that follow his own subconscious meanderings through self-examinations of doubt and ecstasy. It is what makes his music both so compellingly charming and difficult to enter into upon first listen.

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Episode Four: Dude, where's my solo? Lions tackle Guitar Hero 3.

If you’re one of those brave souls who shows their face in public on South Congress on Sunday morning, you probably go to the Sinner’s Brunch at Jo’s. This Sunday from 12:30-3pm, a special performance benefits our beloved Jon Dee Graham and the myriad medical expenses that came after his car crash in July. The folks at Sweet Leaf Tea Company will be selling “Something Wonderful Lemonade” and “Big Sweet Life Tea,” with youthful vendors Henry Ames (age 9), Oliver Ames (age 5), and Patch Pape (age 9) to dole it out. Amy’s Ice Cream created “Jon Dee Honey Graham” ice cream and will offer it to attendees. Tina Rose & the Jo’s Band perform, and a Jon Dee merch table will have CDs for sale. All proceeds from the event benefit the Graham family. When I read that Jon Dee’s accident occurred after he fell asleep while driving home from a gig, my blood iced. It’s the nightmare of all musicians, and no one talks about what it’s like to drive home late after a gig, drained of energy, tired of the day, distracted by what’s next, and lulled into sleepiness by the white lines dotting your route. “Playing for fun” is the way most folks view musicians, even those they intellectually know work hard and make little money at it. I always think of the late Ginger Shults, VP of the local musicians union, who said, “If you think this is fun, you try loading out of the Elephant Room at 3am!”

Mark Arm is not one for nostalgia. “I certainly don’t sit around and think about things that happened 15 or 20 years ago,” he shrugs casually. Yet two decades after cutting Mudhoney’s debut 7-inch “Touch Me I'm Sick” b/w “Sweet Young Thing Ain't Sweet No More,” a crude, Stooges-inspired anthem that practically sealed the fate of the grunge movement, life is coming full circle for Arm. Sub Pop reissued Mudhoney’s Superfuzz Bigmuff to commemorate both parties’ platinum anniversaries, and Arm reunited with Seattle stalwarts Green River for the label’s accompanying bash. (The band’s Dry as a Bone EP was the indie’s first non-compilation release.) He even found time to crank out a new LP with his garage-blues side project the Monkeywrench. Most importantly, Mudhoney’s latest, The Lucky Ones, is perhaps the band’s most stripped-down and lethal work since 1991’s Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge. Arm’s time is now.

DJ Derezon and Illfated Tre have this new jam out on the Soundscan Mixshow called 14 Deadly Secrets. The Berlin-based DJ and his right-hand man bring in guest producers for the stories behind some of their deepest cuts. Part one included a 36-minute session with DJ Premier, and week two reeled in the RZA for a study in Wu lexicon. He also digs up the Notorious B.I.G.’s “Long Kiss Goodnight Remix” and Cypress Hill’s “Killer Hill,” plus you get to hear RZA and Primo reminisce about how the tracks came about. A sampling after the jump.

One of the all-time great pop bands, Squeeze has gone through its share of tumultuous times. Despite breakups and various lineup changes, the songs of Chris Difford and Glenn Tilbrook, often and reasonably compared to Lennon and McCartney, stand up to time better than most bands that emerged in the New Wave era of the late 1970s and early 1980s. With John Bentley (Squeeze’s bassist for Argybargy, East Side Story, and Sweets from a Stranger), and Simon Hanson (drums) and Stephen Large (keyboards), from Tilbrook’s solo band the Fluffers in tow, they play La Zona Rosa on Friday with local popsters Fastball opening. What follows is a conversation with Difford about the band’s songs and longevity, record label difficulty, and the easy task of getting their audience to sing-along.

Those who know me well know I put Fela Anikulapo Kuti on the highest of musical pedestals. In my home office, four framed photos of the Afrobeat pioneer adorn the walls, including the one above my desk, where a shirtless Fela – face painted as if preparing for war – places a chain around the neck of his bowed head. As I write this, Fela watches over. In my ears only James Brown rivals the radical Nigerian rabble-rouser. From the playful wit of “Gentleman” and “Expensive Shit” to the scathing indictments of the military government on “Zombie” and “Coffin for the Head of State,” Fela’s marathon polyrhythmic funk jams are utterly hypnotizing. The Afrobeat torch is now in the hands of Fela’s sons Femi and Seun who, like Damian and Stephen Marley, are burdened with introducing their father's enormous legacy to a new generation. Femi is a phenomenal live performer but I’ve never been enamored with his studio albums. The modern R&B and hip-hop touches don’t always work and too often sound like Afrobeat lite. If you’ve had similar misgivings about Femi allow me to introduce you to Seun Anikulapo Kuti, youngest son of Fela. Seun (pronounced Shay-oon) Kuti’s debut album, Many Things (Disorient), finds him fronting his father’s Egypt 80 ensemble, a band he first played with at age eight. The youngest of the Kuti clan doesn’t run from the shadow of Fela, proudly wrapping it around his shoulders like a sorcerer’s cloak. With tracks clocking in at an average of seven minutes, Seun takes aim at Nigeria’s government and big oil corporations over classic Afrobeat grooves. Songs like “African Problems” and “Don’t Give That Shit to Me” tend to bludgeon social issues rather than prod them with the wry humor present in Fela’s best work. Of course, Seun is only 25 and with years will come nuance. More importantly, he shares his father's unflinching intensity and fierceness of spirit that is at the heart of Afrobeat.

“We women are vulnerable. We get lonely and weak in our lives and we get careless. But we have to keep our guard up. Now that I'm older, I definitely keep my guard up.” – Lavelle White About ten years ago, I wrote about women in music and their choices regarding having children. It was a phenomenally profound experience for me, because the subject was so deeply felt by those with whom I spoke. I found the quote above from Lavelle White in that story and found a lot of comfort in it lately. I also thought about that story when I picked up Austinite Mary K. Moore’s The Unexpected When You’re Expecting: Clear, Comprehensive Month-By-Month Dread, advertised as “The pregnancy guide that has terrified millions.” The book is a parody, of course, at least that’s what it says in bright pink ribbon across the back. Moore is hosting a book signing and discussion at By George (524 N. Lamar), 6pm Thursday, for her new arrival.