For a rocker, David Garza isn’t very manly, and at times even sings like a girl. But boy, is this fellow versatile, not to mention quite yummy-looking. His latest album, Overdub, opens with "Drone," such a bouncy, achy-breaky blast of pop sunshine, you might get the wrong idea about the songwriting Texan. Can he help it if the song sounds ready-made for a car-commercial jingle? (Move over, Geggy Tah.) The album grows increasingly engaging: There’s a wise and knowing folky quality to "Say Baby"; on the irresistible pounder "God’s Hands," he sounds like Jello Biafra’s inner Boy George; "Blow My Mind" comes close to inventing a whole new genre of industrial-flavored candy. And thatjust the first four songs; things go from glam to sad after that. Bonus: cheekbones. Also on the bill is sweet-voiced Sheila Nicholls, whose lyrics make the political personal. Her second album, co-produced by Glen Ballard, is due any day. (Libby Molyneaux)

SHEILA E. at El Rey.

RADICAL CHEERLEADERS at Fais Do-Do.

ADOLESCENTS at the Key Club.

XU XU FANG, BANYAN, SUPERSTRING at the Knitting Factory.

SAVES THE DAY, HEY MERCEDES, THURSDAY at the Palace.

CENTIMETERS, VUE, SAPPINGTON, GRAM RABBIT at the Silverlake Lounge.

CELESTE MORENO & THE NEW POOR at the 3 Clubs (see Other Rock & Pop).

Surf music is hobbled by shtick — most of it Hawaii Five-O covers, gaudy shirts, Ray-Bans and oh-aren’t-we-funny hijinks. But San Francisco’s Mermen are dead serious about translating the timeless blue depths of the sea into heaving instrumentals that weave a narcotic spell as lethal as the bends. And if anyone knows the mighty Pacific, it’s guitarist Jim Thomas and his bandmates, who spend a good deal of their non-music time riding the waves at Ocean Beach. From ‘95’s deliriously melodic Glorious Lethal Euphoria up to the magnificently aimless The Amazing California Health and Happiness Road Show, you can see the Mermen gradually shedding the genre’s Middle Eastern signatures (namely, the frenzied guitar inherited from the oud, or lute) for a more psychedelic open-endedness. Thomas is wholly consumed by his guitar’s reverb-riddled shimmering curlicues, while drummer Martyn Jones has a mini-orchestra of variously sized cymbals for conjuring all manner of frothy washes and wavelike crashing. (Andrew Lentz)

American Head Charge are pissed off — really pissed off. This seven-headed Minneapolis monstrosity churns out a dense, furious racket beneath Martin Cock’s throat-stripping rantings. They’re a Mad Max Ministry for the new millennium, a dark, dysfunctional fusion of organic and electronic utterings with nods to NIN, Slipknot and Faith No More amid the maelstrom. AHC have toured tirelessly behind their Rick Rubin–produced sophomore disc, The War of Art, initially making headlines through some controversial onstage antics at this summer’s Ozzfest, including an American flag–burning stunt unlikely to be repeated in these more sensitive times. Attention-seeking exploits aside, AHC are now a slick machine and, though heavier on style than content, should serve up a masterful display of calculated mayhem. Gen-Xers are eating up this brand of migraine-inducing rage, and AHC have friends in high places; this may be a last chance to witness their designer wrath in such cozy quarters. (Paul Rogers)

SACCHARINE TRUST, THE WEDDING’S OFF at CIA.

ZERO 7 at El Rey (sold out). See Music feature.

MEDUSA, FELINE SCIENCE at Fais Do-Do.

HELLRIDE at 14 Below.

LOS CREEPERS, DEVIL DOLL, CRANK WILLIAMS, SPEEDBUGGY at the Garage.

ARKESTRA CLANDESTINA, BLUE METROPOLIS at Mr. T’s Bowl.

CORPSE FUCKERS, MARKS-A-LOT, HIDDEN, SHARP EASE at the Smell.

SOULIVE at the Temple Bar.

Wolf Eyes come from Michigan and, no two ways about it, they make a really ugly sound. So, forewarned blah blah blah. But: Wolf Eyes — with their hideous homemade electronic sounds, gnarly arcane little ditties built on rinkydink attempted drum-machine rhythms, itty-bitty-scratchy-queasy synth nausea and anguishing insolent shrunken-head voices — make amazing use of aural space, and there’s a kind of bleak euphoria to be found in their funny/depressing electronic hash. Rick Potts and Joseph Hammer’s great Solid Eye bring a more colorized perspective in their spontaneous tape-loops-and-modified-instruments short stories. With whatever substandard or forgotten pieces of equipment that can be hotwired and humiliated, Rubber O Cement follow up their previous Puppenhorten appearance in a grudge match against Grub-ear Hump & the Sperm Jacuzzi, slinging great globs of groundbreaking music/noise and other cubist wrongness. (John Payne)

This just in: It’s possible for a rock band to age gracefully and not lose their edge. Next month, Concrete Blonde release Group Therapy, an album of eloquent rock & roll that will make fans forget it’s been eight years since they called it quits. Without ringing the National Enquirer, Johnette Napolitano, Jim Mankey and Harry Rushakoff snuck into a studio and, in 10 days, recorded 12 new songs. The album sounds like the natural progression from ‘93’s Mexican Moon, with lush melodies and Napolitano’s soul-baring vocals. "Did you really like me better when/I was a fool?" she sings on one of the album’s more personal moments, though photos of the band members strapped into straitjackets suggest nobody’s taking themselves too seriously here, either. Which is nice. Children of Night is the beneficiary of this event that also features a performance by 98 Degrees’ Drew Lachey, appearances by Six Feet Under’s Rachel Griffiths and Days of Our Lives’ Thyme Lewis, performance art by Dita Von Teese, clothes strutting by Lip Service and disc-jockeying by DJ Hydrogen. (Libby Molyneaux)

As a pioneer of U.K. breaks — or, as it is more commonly called, new-skool breaks — Adam Freeland is an important reminder of how dance styles we enjoy in America are often nurtured in England, the very place where Freeland founded the Marine Parade label and honed his chops at London’s famed Friction club. Whether you call this stuff sped-up funk or slowed-down drum ‘n’ bass, the Freeland disc to start off with is Tectonics. His newest, On Tour (Kinetic), is an endless flow of double-kick-snare cadences, echoey synths, disembodied chants and, of course, those phat funky fills breaking over and over. Besides collaborating with Josh Wink, this pillar-of-the-scene has heavily influenced more commercial breaks DJs, such as BT, so come on out to the source. 6655 Santa Monica Blvd., Hlywd. (323) 462-5508. (Andrew Lentz)

MOTHER TRUCKERS at the Cat Club.

MERMEN at 14 Below.

LORDS OF ALTAMONT, FLASH EXPRESS at the Garage.

BELLRAYS, HANGMEN, EXCESSORIES, FLASH EXPRESS at the Joint.

JOHN STEWART at McCabe’s.

COOL DADDY, GILBERT GAUTHIER at Mr. T’s Bowl.

SOULIVE at the Temple Bar.

CHUCK E. WEISS, MARK VOLMAN, VICKI RANDLE, many others at Highland Grounds.

Did someone say "scratching"? Well, no one can touch Mix Master Mike in that department. His Anti-Theft Device was a 31-track attack that turned our pop-culture rubbish heap into a seamless warp of booty-shaking beats, silly samples, hypnotic bass and vinyl destruction. His new one, Spin Psychle, has more of a song-oriented hip-hop approach, with less scratching, but for all his skillz Mike is reluctant to make the turntablist art the guitar solo of the late ‘90s — it’s all about, well, the mix. More in a rocktronic rapper mode is DJ Swamp. His new CD, Never Is Now, is a full complement of MC smart-assery, thick bass lines and scratch mania — he’s even bringin’ back those Ice-T–esque first-person storytellin’ raps, like on the hilarious "Malachai." Known to juggle and set his records on fire, Swamp’s giving a faceless dance scene some rock-star panache. (Andrew Lentz)

About the worst thing you can say about Andy Summers is that he isn’t very crazy. And those who feel there’s enough insanity in the world like the way his guitar zings in, second to second, on the most satisfying and essential notes. It was obvious that there was something different about Summers when he joined the Police back in 1977: He was nearly a decade older than Sting and Stewart Copeland, and his musical background was broad — which wasn’t necessarily an advantage in the crudiferous English punk scene, but proved to be a cornerstone of the band’s worldwide success. In fact, he’s a highly unusual combination of arty guy (he’s played with Kevin Ayers and Robert Fripp) and all-around communicator; his electrified interpretations of Mingus and Monk are intelligent and vervy, making spare and effective use of dissonance. His trio tonight features bassist Riccardo Fierabracci and drummer Anastasios Panos. (Greg Burk)

ROY ZIMMERMAN, KAREN BENJAMIN & ALAN CHAPMAN, AMANDA McBROOM & GEORGE BALL, SHARON McKNIGHT, many others at Atlas.

TRACY & THE HINDENBURG GROUNDCREW, I SEE HAWKS IN L.A. at the Garage.

JOHN WESLEY HARDING at McCabe’s.

CANDYPANTS, GREEN & YELLOW TV, THIRD GRADE TEACHER at Spaceland.

SPEAK NO EVIL at the Whisky.

DOS, many others at Sacred Grounds.

You get the feeling that Jack Bruce doesn’t think much about his career. Instead, he thinks about what feels right to him. So sometimes, in his post-Cream years, the bassman-pianist-singer has connected with the general public, as when he has teamed up with Leslie West or John McLaughlin or Tony Williams. Other times, his forays into solo introspection or the European improvisational avant-garde have gotten him little except critical and musicianly respect ¾ and that’s often when he’s made his most interesting music. Like now: Bruce’s current CD, Shadows in the Air (Sanctuary), paints from a subtle palette, using jaunty jazz, dark blues and stately balladry to put across moods of lyricism and despair. The first track, "Out Into the Fields," has a way of building from the soul unlike anything you’ve probably heard. And the least engaging cut is a reworking of Cream’s "Sunshine of Your Love." Bruce is best working new. (Greg Burk)

EVEN JOHANSEN at Fais Do-Do.

JACK TEMPCHIN at the Joint.

CAKECUTTER, ORPHANS, CRACK at Spaceland.

L.A. GUNS at the Viper Room.

With the kind of acclaim the trio received this year, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club could have played one big venue, but these consecutive Silver Lake gigs make a lot more sense. Like a contact high, BRMC’s moody melodies are more intoxicating the closer you are to the source. At their recent sold-out show at 1650, the kids in the back seemed a little bored, while those in front were completely mesmerized by the band’s backlit figures as they glowed amid smoky, reverb-thick air. Similarly, the band’s Virgin debut is no background music; it’s best turned up loud and listened to without distractions. The Jesus and the Mary Chain influences are obvious, but there’s just as much Velvet Underground, T-Rex and Pink Floyd stirred in to recall the dazed and confused eras. Not surprisingly, the boys are huge in the U.K., where messy moptops and mysterious demeanors will always be appreciated. Here at home, BRMC’s dark energy and subtle personas have made them indie gods rather than rock stars, and these psychedelic torch bearers probably wouldn’t have it any other way. Also Wed.-Thurs. (Lina Lecaro)

WE ALSO RECOMMEND:

PETE YORN, PHANTOM PLANET at House of Blues.

JUDITH STAR at the Mint.

Punk Rock Karaoke with DEREK O’BRIEN, ERIC MELVIN, GREG HETSON, STEVE SOTO at Spaceland.

FLYS at the Viper Room.

Rudy Ray Moore is one of the wildest, raunchiest singer-comic showstoppers ever to sizzle across a nightclub stage, a man whose blend of venereal philosophy, low-down R&B shouting, eye-popping wardrobes and cheerfully dignified madness rank him as an unparalleled force. Perhaps better known as Dolemite, his 1970s big-screen, superbad alter ego, Moore slithers and stomps through his patented brand of XXX ultra-sleaze, a double dose of untamed entertainment so delightfully vile and unexpectedly surreal that he seems to defy not just the laws of God and man but every established tenet of the cosmos itself. And Moore is seemingly poised to re-establish himself as public decency’s enemy No. 1, with not only the just-reissued CD version of his 1971 masterpiece, This Ain’t No White Christmas, but also the imminent release of Dolemite 2002, starring no less an acolyte than LL Cool J. The American mainstream will never be ready for Rudy Ray, but, thankfully, he’s prepared to strike out against it anytime — and he always does so with thunderous impact. (Jonny Whiteside)

Trends may come and go, but you’ll never see any rap metal or techno pop at the Pretty Ugly Club. After three years, it’s still the epicenter of raunchy rock in Hollywood, a place where you’re guaranteed to see plenty of leather, dyed hair and on- and offstage debauchery — on a Wednesday night, no less. This anniversary bash showcases the club’s all-stars, including promoter Taime Downe’s two bands, the Newlydeads and recently re-formed Faster Pussycat. Just back from a long tour in which he melded both groups, Downe has honed his gloomy glam into one skin-tight package. Tight may not be the word to describe the other acts on this bill, but that’s actually the point. Not that the players in local faves Texas Terri & the Stiff Ones, Coyote Shivers, Motorcycle Boy, Motochrist and the rest rockin’ tonight aren’t skilled musicians — they are. But each offers volatile and at the very least unpredictable live shows, where swigging brewskies, flashing sweaty bods and frolicking with the crowd are just part of the fun. (Lina Lecaro)

LAMPSHADES at Improv Olympic West.

PETE YORN, PHANTOM PLANET at House of Blues.

BLACK REBEL MOTORCYCLE CLUB at the Silverlake Lounge.

GOGOGO AIRHEART, NEON KING KONG at the Smell.

SILVERSUN PICKUPS, PINE MARTEN, MOLECULAR at Spaceland.

JIMMY ANGEL at Stevie’s Creole Cafe & Bar (see Other Rock & Pop).

INVISIBLE MEN at the Bigfoot Lodge (see Other Rock & Pop).

Lacuna Coil makes the sort of goose-fleshing melodies that can recycle in your head for days, like the one that drives the title track on their second full-length CD, Unleashed Memories. This Italian sextet is indebted to the ‘80s power ballad, but given the way the band puffs up its goth-metal suites, they come off more like power arias. Without a doubt, Lacuna Coil’s driving forces are singers Cristina Scabbia and Andrea Ferro. Their layers of haunted vocals, coupled with Cristiano Migliore’s and Marco Biazzi’s thick, resonant guitars, truly deserve that hackneyed metal-zine adjective "majestic." Perfectly complementing Lacuna Coil is Lisbon’s Moonspell, doing their patented gloom-doom thing. While their latest record, Butterfly Effect, is lovely, the synth-fueled tapestries are sometimes effete. New record Darkness and Hope is more like a death-metal band fighting depression, but with more Transylvanian flourish and graveyard romance than ever before. (Andrew Lentz)

VAZ, URINALS, SMOKE at the Garage.

TENACIOUS D at House of Blues.

CHRISTOPH BULL at the Knitting Factory.

OZMA, TRILLION STARS, BEETERS at Mr. T’s Bowl.

BLACK REBEL MOTORCYCLE CLUB at the Silverlake Lounge.

ARKESTRA CLANDESTINA, QUETZAL, FIVE DEGREES OF SOUL at the Temple Bar.

BRIAN JONESTOWN MASSACRE at the 3 Clubs (see Other Rock & Pop).

JEFFREY FOSKETT, JOHN WICKS, KIM FOX, MIKE RANDLE, LISA JENIO, many others at Highland Grounds.