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  • Phoenix New Times

    Pen Pal

    The nation's oldest Death Row inmate probably won't ever be executed. But he sure loves to write letters.

    By Paul Rubin

  • Miami New Times

    Budget Ballin'

    South Florida's lawless exotic rental car industry keeps rolling.

    By Gus Garcia-Roberts

  • Houston Press

    Crime Doesn't Pay Back

    In Texas, restitution for victims is nothing but a state-sanctioned sham.

    By Chris Vogel

  • Seattle Weekly

    Hot and Frothy

    If you thought Seattle couldn't fetishize coffee any more, you haven't been to a "cupping" yet.

    By Jonathan Kauffman

The Dials

9 p.m. Friday, March 16. Lemmons (5800 Gravois Avenue).

By Jaime Lees

Published on March 13, 2007 at 6:55pm

 The Dials are little balls of fury masquerading as a bitchin' Chicago quartet. On their latest release, Flex Time, these three girls and one boy manage to find the middle ground between power-pop royalty and frenzied garage blasting. Live, the Dials feed audiences a sound that's like dirty gravel disguised beneath layers of glazed pastry: Emily Dennison's fingers skip happily across the Farfisa, balancing the straight shredding by guitarist Patti Gran, as candy-coated sing-along verses explode into fuzz-covered choruses. In other words, the band plays as though it's been wound-up tight and waiting to unfurl. As always, a spoonful of sugar helps the big-blasting medicine go down. Local girl-pop outfit That's My Daughter opens.


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