FRUIT BATS, THE DONKEYS
(Aladdin Theater, 3017 SE Milwaukie) Fruit Bats—who helped lay down the world's current hunger for pop that's twangy, twee, and gorgeously earnest—is not just celebrating the 10th anniversary of 2003's Mouthfuls album. After tonight, the revolving-door project of Eric D. Johnson is calling it a day, hanging up its batwings for good. DENIS C. THERIAULT


THOSE DARLINS, DIANE COFFEE
(Bunk Bar, 1028 SE Water) Shaun Fleming was a child voice actor (Kim Possible) and he's now the drummer in Foxygen's live band. He's also Diane Coffee, and the first Diane Coffee album, My Friend Fish, was not an album I was prepared to love—child actors, Jenny Lewis excepted, don't usually make particularly worthwhile music, and Foxygen have mastered pretty much everything except their live show. But Diane Coffee's first full-length is in fact a homegrown album of pure pop delight, its lo-fi but never slapdash recordings carefully, lovingly constructed. "Never Lovely" is a rough-and-tumble soul-funk gem, and "Tale of a Dead Dog" is a stoned slice of folk-psych with sugar-sweet harmonies. Fleming opens for Nashville's Those Darlins, who've mellowed a little on their latest album, the very good Blur the Line, but surely remain a volatile live force of the best type of Southern rawk. NED LANNAMANN


SCREAMING FEMALES, UPSET, THE GHOST EASE
(The Know, 2026 NE Alberta) The last time the Know hosted New Brunswick's Screaming Females, the punk-rock trio was touring off their sprawling, guitar-driven opus, Ugly. The intimate venue was as packed to the gills with people as that album was with great songs, and singer/guitarist Marissa Paternoster shredded and howled through a set that was nothing short of mind-blowing. While the band did make it through Portland a few months later opening for Garbage, the road warriors ended up sidelined for the remainder of that tour, as Paternoster suffered through chronic nerve pains in her shoulder. She documented the struggle of being cooped-up through a webcomic, and you could feel the sigh of relief thousands of miles away when the band returned to life earlier this year. On Chalk Tape, the EP follow-up to Ugly, the band experiments with Middle Eastern rhythms and double-tracked vocals, showcasing some excellent range lying in wait behind Paternoster's time-tested axe-wielding. CHIPP TERWILLIGER


OREGON SYMPHONY, INON BARNATAN
(Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall, 1037 SW Broadway) While touring America on a massive publicity blitz in 1928, lucky bastard Maurice Ravel got to check out the raging jazz clubs of Harlem, accompanied by none other than George fucking Gershwin. This epic night on the town unsurprisingly seared itself into the Frenchman's musical soul, soon blossoming into the syncopated rhythms, wailing winds, and mad energy of the piano concerto he composed the following year. Fast forward to tonight (and Monday), when Israeli-born Inon Barnatan teams up with our Oregon Symphony to bring Ravel's heart-thumping showstopper to life. Barnatan may only be in his early 30s, but he's been performing with orchestras the world over for more than 20 years. Simply put, this red-hot piano god's upcoming gig with Rip City's biggest band offers a chance to catch a level of frenetic intricacy and raw, unplugged power impossible to find anywhere else. As a bonus, the Steinway rollout will be flanked by Shakespearean homage: The program kicks off with a trio of Macbeth dances from Giuseppe Verdi and concludes with a batch of Romeo and Juliet orchestral scenes from the always colorful Hector Berlioz. His star-crossed finale will likely have the Schnitzer crowd wetting its collective codpiece. The way I see it, gentle reader, you have three choices: get tickets, drink poison, or go stab yourself. ANGRY SYMPHONY GUY


OBITS, SURVIVAL KNIFE, PARADISE
(Mississippi Studios, 3939 N Mississippi) Obits continue to operate in their own dark corner of rock music, the one frontman Rick Froberg carved out in his previous bands Hot Snakes and Drive Like Jehu. The band continues to walk a fine line between ramshackle garage rock and more sophisticated guitar-driven post punk. And over the course of three records they've tinkered with the ingredients—in the best way possible—just enough to keep listeners off-balance. If guitars are what you want, there are plenty to be had on Obits' latest, Bed and Bugs, another unruly collection that mixes prog, surf, and blues into one noisy half-hour. Live, expect it to be even more relentless and cranky. In the best way possible. MARK LORE


JESSIE WARE, THE INVISIBLE
(Roseland, 8 NW 6th) Jessie Ware may be a newer face in the music industry, but with catchy pop riffs mixed with the increasingly trendy electronic sound, it hasn't taken long for her to gain a considerable fanbase. Ware is British, but her voice is so rich and smoky that she could easily be confused with an American soul singer from a bygone era. Her premiere album, Devotion, yields Feist-like soft tones and smoothness, but its love-adorned lyrics and '80s melodies could confuse you into thinking you used to put this album on in high school whenever you'd invite your crush over to make out. Though Ware's sound is somewhat retro, her songs embody a bittersweet complexity, haunting your ears in a way the Smiths or A Flock of Seagulls just can't. ROSE FINN


WHITE MYSTERY, NO TOMORROW BOYS
(Star Bar, 639 SE Morrison) It takes an intangible something—spirit, fieriness, recklessness, bravado—to thrive as a garage-rock band in the 21st century. The genre's been around for nearly 50 years, so it requires heroic energy and creativity to make it sound interesting at this late date. Chicago's White Mystery—redheaded dynamos Miss Alex White and Francis Scott Key White—harness those intangibles and write catchy, gnarly tunes that don't reek of Nuggets box sets or graying pudding-bowl haircuts. The duo's newest album, Telepathic, actually possesses more Pussy Galore/Blues Explosion-like DNA in its buzz-and-howl attack than it does the Seeds or the Standells. However the hell they're managing to accomplish it, White Mystery have those special ingredients that make their garage rock not sound museum-y. DAVE SEGAL