Wishgift are only mostly local, which is why this is only their second show in the past year and a half—the band’s bass player, John Paul Glover, lives on the west coast. They blow through what’s best described as wigged-out, free-form noise rock, except maybe during those fleeting moments when the snarling, herky-jerky guitar and rumbling low end blend into a monstrous swell that’s kept barely steady by drummer Marc Riordan (a staple on the Chicago improvised-music scene, where he also plays piano). The trio’s most recent EP, 2011’s Folk Twain (Sophomore Lounge), is a five-song blitz that kicks off with “Drover (Wish for Death Gift),” a tumble of greasy, seesawing guitar and glammy, sassy hardcore vocals that sometimes sound like a heated argument between David Yow and Jello Biafra. The EP’s wild deconstructive riffing—perhaps augmented by, say, saxophonist Mars Williams, blowing switchblades out of his bell—achieves a kind of deranged circus-punk aesthetic, all flourishing capes and gritted teeth. —Kevin Warwick Mayor Daley headlines; Wishgift, Foul Tip, and the Hecks open.
Chicago four-piece Making Ghosts aren’t putting up a front. “We make noise rock,” they declare on their Facebook page, and their logo incorporates what looks like a diagram of the wiring inside a Big Muff—the almighty, burly fuzz pedal immortalized in the title of Mudhoney’s first EP. These dudes drop cinder blocks of chugging, evil guitar noise atop stomping, swinging drum rhythms that lean hard on the crash cymbals. The first half of their only release so far, the 2011 EP 001, contains the highest concentrations of metal-inflected heaviness—the later songs dip into more experimental postrock territory, with wan clean vocals instead of red-eyed screaming. Track two, “The Burying Ground,” is the most fully realized firing squad of sound, its dirty vocals backed by a devastatingly straightforward instrumental punch. But the whole EP is loud, and a buck buys you a pair of earplugs at the bar. —Kevin Warwick Scientist, Rollo Tomasi, and Pale Horseman open. $5
The ninth annual Alex Chilton birthday bash.
Local one-man band Jimmy Whispers has the sentimental heart of a Brill Building composer and the confrontational philosophy of G.G. Allin, albeit (thankfully) sans the fixation on bodily fluids. During a typical show Whispers stage dives, pours cans of beer over himself, wraps his body in the American flag, and pushes together couples (frequently strangers) to slow dance to Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World.” In the process, he spends more time in the crowd than onstage. Singing along to an instrumental backing track consisting of vintage organ recorded on an iPhone, he plunges headfirst into postwar American pop and grabs on to the era’s almost tragically naive notions of romantic love, holding them up as some kind of shield against the encroaching darkness that surrounds us all. And the funny thing is, it works—at least for the duration of his shows, which tend to leave the crowd smiling, palpably more connected to one another than when they walked in, and possibly thinking that if this guy ever starts a cult there would be worse things you could join. —Miles Raymer Oozing Wound headlines; Magic Milk and Jimmy Whispers open; DJ Mike Lust spins. $20, $10 in advance