Californo's Dreaming

This was going to be a column about Californo's Storyteller-style Sabbath-night shows, at which alt-rock bands whose shows traditionally don't contain much folksy warmth or interactive banter unplug their guitars and chat about the muse behind each song. Unfortunately, word has it that the restaurant might trash the concept like a half-eaten entrée. But there's one last chance to listen and learn on Sunday, July 14, at 5 p.m., when the Capsules, a Lawrence-based act that packs more sugary kick than an after-dinner mint, serenades diners on the outside terrace. It's an all-ages affair, and there's no cover charge for the endangered event, though someone will be making the rounds to strongly suggest that concertgoers cough up a $5 donation.

The microphone is safe with the Capsules' charming vocalist Julie Shields, but when hammier performers let their inner comedians take charge, chat-intensive gigs can get ugly. Usually, cringe-inducing attempts at topical humor and painfully punny wordplay should be avoided at all costs, but the hapless Neil Hamburger, who stops at the Replay Lounge on Saturday, July 13, is one humor-deficient stand-up worth watching. Hamburger trips over his setups, delivers insipid punch lines to stony silence (other than a few "Get off the stage" heckles) and attempts to explain his obvious bits and flops like a speared fish when his audiences refuse to accept his unappetizing bait. On his concert discs, clinking cups far outnumber polite titters; his only hoots of approval come on gimme lines such as "Guys, do you like football?" Midway through Left for Dead in Malaysia, a concert disc that documents his disastrous stay in Kuala Lumpur, a disinterested audience member switches on the jukebox and starts chatting loudly, oblivious to Hamburger's hoary riffs on road-crossing and magazine-subscription inserts. Yet despite his wit-deprived routines -- or, more accurately, because of them -- Hamburger has become a cult sensation, a phenomenon aided by persistent rumors of the dud dropper's connection to a prolific Bay Area-based fringe icon. (Hint: Hamburger's 1996 disc America's Funnyman was coproduced by Mr. Bungle guitarist Trey Spruance.) His catch phrase "Thaaaat's my life" now draws cheers instead of glass projectiles; his act, once greeted with memorial-style moments of silence, now inspires supportive cheers, at least at hipster joints such as the Replay. "I've been diagnosed with a terminal case of funnyguyitis," Hamburger once said. "It's infectious, and you'll all be coming down with laughter." You've been warned.

For Rex Hobart's last two concerts before leaving Kansas City (and promptly returning at the end of the month to open an Alejandro Escovedo show), the crestfallen country crooner has enlisted some serious grrrl power. The Dishes, an all-female quartet that injects savage sass into bulging garage-rawk riffs, warms the stage on Friday, July 12, at Davey's; Neko Case, ready with enchantingly forlorn material from her August release Blacklisted, appears around the witching hour at the Bottleneck on Saturday, July 13, with Hobart setting the mood.

Finally, Coal Chamber, best known locally for its onstage temper tantrum at Johnny Dare's Birthday Party, clings stubbornly to headliner status despite being surpassed in sales and notoriety by most of its peers in the rhymes-with-blü-kettle pack. To its credit, the industrially charged outfit has blackened its sound instead of bidding for breakthrough success. Dark Days, its aptly named latest offering, gurgles like a foul beast drowning in a tar pit. Coal Chamber casts its gloomy cloud over the Granada on Wednesday, July 17.