Pretty Boy Thorson and the Falling Angels
Punks and outlaw country pickers share a knack for concealed vulnerability. Within the testosterone hangover that marks both genres lurk oozing soft spots, cuts and scrapes that, perhaps because of the fury of the music, refuse to scab over. To anyone even distantly aware of the Twin Cities punk community, Pretty Boy Thorson and the Falling Angels have been a tireless, dynamic staple; they've spent years making a basement cocktail of Merle Haggard's beer cans and Mike Saunders's Adderall prescription. With upright bass and a lead guitarist who can hammer out a four-cylinder rockabilly solo without losing an ash of his cigarette, the band's live shows almost keep you sweaty enough to overlook the often wry but always sincere confessions at work in Jesse Thorson's songwriting. Throw in whispers that the spring tour kicking off tonight at the Hexagon might be their last, and you're fresh out of excuses. With Cortez the Killer, the Framed, and Off with Their Heads. 21+.
Thu., May 15, 9 p.m., 2008
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