Michael Jackson and Mayyors, together at last

Dog Party drummer/singer Lucy Giles, 11, performs in the triple-digit midday heat at SN&R Music Fest last Saturday.

Dog Party drummer/singer Lucy Giles, 11, performs in the triple-digit midday heat at SN&R Music Fest last Saturday.

Photo By Nick Miller

Make that change: The global mourning over Michael Jackson’s shocking death seems partly driven by genuine surprise that the tabloid myth we’ve mocked for decades is actually human. Perhaps that’s why all of the retrospectives, essays and opinions published mere hours after TMZ (followed by the Los Angeles Times and The Associated Press) announced his demise were filled with deep, complicated sadness.

Some commentators have wrestled with Jackson’s real and imagined peccadilloes. But people in general tend to be a forgiving lot. Among our many idols are Elvis Presley (who began dating Priscilla when she was 14), R. Kelly and Jimmy Page (both of whom liked pubescent girls), and Jerry Lee Lewis (who married his cousin when she was 12). The problem, then, wasn’t that Jackson allegedly preyed on children—after all, devouring pretty little girls of every age is the societal norm—but that he apparently liked little boys. This forever marked Jackson as a “fag” in a society where male homosexuality is grudgingly accepted in theory and hated in practice.

So why canonize Michael Jackson now? The tabloid lifestyle, the disturbing personal revelations, the wonderfully timeless music and transcendent live performances are now part of the myth, the legend. And just as his hardworking Midwestern roots and black identity were distorted by cosmetic surgery, sexual repression, megalomania and consumer fanaticism, so has our generation drifted into an Internet-bloated world of fashion addiction, hypersexuality, video-game violence and philosophical narcissism. His death marks a passing of an era, even if we can distinguish his changes better than our own. Michael Jackson may have been a weirdo, but he was ours. (Mosi Reeves)

Crime of listening: A lithe woman falls from the ceiling, a cup or two of O-positive is spilt, tidal sweat and free undrinkable beer ebbs and flows. It’s a Mayyors record-release party, a major holiday for the well-heeled heel, and everything is going as planned. In a space no bigger than your mom, these four representatives of good living use closed fists of clotted noise to pummel, shake and, uh, pummel some more. And just when it seems the walls are about to give, a feedback siren warns of some ending—to the song, to your hearing and to all things good and sacred. And just like that, it was adiós amigos, later days and better lays.

And that new Mayyors record? It’s called Deads, four tracks over 12 inches “lovingly” pressed on 180 grams to maximize the damage. Deads is not only the Mayyors’ finest hour (more like seven minutes), it also stands as one of Sacramento’s all-time great records: dirt-crusted thug punk so heavy it sounds like it’s falling apart under its own weight and volume. The soundtrack to a strobe-lighted cockfight. Like a giant rusted robot frantically destroying mankind. The bass throbs like your worst migraine and the drums nail one foot to the floor, making you dance in bloody circles. The guitar … wait, that’s a guitar? And a larynx that heckles and berates you for the mere crime of listening. Crushing souls has never been this fun.

It’s the Mayyors’ party. The only reason you were invited is so they’d have someone to throw empties at. (Dennis Yudt)

Fishy: The “Salmon Fish House” on L Street in Davis is misleading. The sparsely populated pad is not a seafood joint, and even though Olympia bands Razzm’tazz and Sock and Sandals and Davis locals Mommy and Daddy (they’re a high-school band) played, it’s not a venue, either.

“They were originally supposed to play at my house, but I couldn’t get the neighbors to agree to it,” KDVS deejay and Davis High School student Ian Cameron said. Many of the sweat inferno’s doors and windows were sealed with duct-taped mattresses to keep noise-averse neighbors at bay.

Socks and Sandals was noisy, punky and sweaty. Razzm’tazz was poppy, synthesized, simple. I stepped out for Mommy and Daddy and let their tweeny groupies have the floor. I’m pretty sure it is written in the Showgoers Handbook that summer house shows are supposed to be a little janky, and a lot absurd, and this show lived up to it. (Megan Hanson)