POP MUSIC REVIEWS : Rave-Ups Pull Up a Bar Stool and Unload at Coach House

Say a stranger comes up to you in a bar and starts unburdening himself of all of his troubles, sparing you nothing, including a good helping of his self-pity.

Career setbacks. Relationship split-up. Sad stories about sad losers he’s known. Of course, he reaches into his wallet and tries to show you pictures of his kid, the one he misses so much because that woman has custody.

If you would seek the quickest possible escape from such an encounter, we’ll leave you to your pursuit of a pleasant, carefree life. Glad you liked the Janet Jackson show, and good luck scoring those orchestra tickets for the New Kids.

But if you’d stay and hear the guy out, and maybe buy him a round and encourage him to hang in there, we may have a band for you--the Rave-Ups.

Thursday night at the Coach House, the Los Angeles band’s singer-songwriter, Jimmer Podrasky, turned the stage into his own bar stool. This bantam-size rocker didn’t leave out the self-pity as he alluded between songs to his band’s woeful fortunes in the pop marketplace, and to “this strange custody battle from hell” he’s in with his ex, which left him watching “Twilight Zone” episodes all day on the Fourth of July when he wanted to be with his boy. Podrasky didn’t have to pull out his wallet. The baby’s picture, which happens to be the cover of the Rave-Ups’ current album, “Chance,” was emblazoned on posters flanking both sides of the stage.

The result was a concert memorable for its intimacy and dignified exploration of unhappiness in its many hues. Podrasky’s asides about his personal and career problems may have been freighted with self-pity, but it was good that he laid them out. They served as a useful signpost for a listener, lending a context to the moods that unfolded in his songs.

Podrasky looked like a sad waif himself, standing there in tattered jeans, with his tousled blond hair flowing out from under a baseball cap turned brim-backward and pulled down almost over his eyes. But there was no mawkishness in the songs, or in the band’s presentation of them. Less honest rockers would milk their sorrows for melodrama, turning them into mere performance fodder. Podrasky simply told his stories with a measured, almost stoical quality, singing with his eyes shut, or focusing them on the fretboard of his acoustic 12-string guitar. His four band-mates gave him room to tell those tales, coloring them in with sympathetic harmonies and playing that ranged from noisy (especially during Terry Wilson’s twisting, psychedelic guitar solos) to sensitive as the moment required. After a while, it seemed less like a show than a meditation in which the Rave-Ups sang for themselves as much as for the half-capacity house.

Podrasky’s voice sounds almost exactly like Tom Petty’s, but his delivery is more countrified, folksy and conversational than Petty, who by now is used to playing to the upper deck. Podrasky also has a personal voice as a songwriter, avoiding the hackneyed phrases and ideas that give away most rote imitators.

After opening with stormier, angrier songs that were solid, but not remarkable, the Rave-Ups settled down on their collective bar stool. “For the Loser” and “Train to Nowhere” told of bleak prospects while maintaining a forthright energy and musical vibrancy. The conversation continued with changing inflections of mood and style that kept this long plaint from ever becoming tedious.

The occasional memory of better times--the chiming, Byrds-style rocker, “She Says (Come Around)” filtered in among more troubled narratives, such as the dark, existential lament “Watching Out for Jesus” or Podrasky’s two sorrowful songs about fallen friends--”Sue & Sonny,” about a man who kills himself after his marriage turns into a lingering humiliation, and “Mickey of Alphabet City,” wherein a heroin addict’s decline nearly drags a helpless friend down with guilt.

Instead of ending on a false upbeat, the Rave-Ups encored with one of their sparest, most somber songs, “Radio,” which details a life that has lapsed into aimlessness--the kind of aimless feeling a person must get watching 13 hours of “Twilight Zone” episodes on the Fourth of July.

Like parts of the Rolling Stones’ “Exile on Main Street” and all of Neil Young’s “Tonight’s the Night” and Big Star’s “Sister Lovers,” this show had the feeling of musicians confronting the hurt in their lives without regard to rock’s commercial demands or conventions of performance. But for all the sadness and frustration that came out of the concert, it also suggested that venting those feelings is what helps a person understand sorrows and get through them. Hence the immense value of the bar stool and the sympathetic ear.

Second-billed 3D Picnic has produced a delicious pop-rock album, entitled “Dirt,” that sets a high mark for the band to aim for in live performance. The four-member Los Angeles band, which has its roots, and a continuing presence, in the Orange County rock scene, had problems playing up to that standard.

Don Burnet, the main singer, couldn’t match his recorded performances. His higher register was limited, and when he dropped to a more comfortable range he sounded muffled and attenuated. A sound mix that had him competing with the drums didn’t help. Any band that has good, melodic songs with smart lyrics--as 3D Picnic does--should pump up the vocals and let all the other sonic elements fit in as they may. Burnet’s guitar also was a washed-out casualty in the mix.

Besides sound and performance problems, 3D Picnic also showed confusion about what its musical attitude should be. On “Dirt,” the band makes fine use of all sorts of pop strains, from country and folk to the Beatles and punkish New Wave music. The potential unifying strand lies in an exuberant attitude, a straightforward and enthusiastic endorsement of pop’s pure pleasures. But 3D Picnic didn’t seem to want to have a picnic on stage. There was a certain distancing, a slightly sardonic reserve to the band’s manner. A pure, energized feeling cropped up in a pairing of the folkish rock songs “She’s Over Me” and “All Wrapped Up.” The band also showed that its fountain of good songs didn’t dry up with “Dirt,” including in the 40-minute set several numbers not on the album. But 3D Picnic still seems to be struggling to become as confident on stage as it showed it can be on record.

The nice thing about watching emerging bands on the local scene is that some of them manage to solve problems, shore up weaknesses, and develop. Witness the opening set by Circadian Rhythm. The Long Beach band was a complete waste of time when it emerged 2 1/2 years ago playing frenetic party rock, but now it is showing great promise.

In a 35-minute set at the Coach House, Circadian Rhythm’s songs all were well-crafted, melodic and made an emotional point. New lead singer David Telling, a transplanted Briton, fronted the band with clean, clear vocals that have gained in grit and forcefulness since Circadian Rhythm’s improved-but-still-lacking show at the Orange County Music for the Needy benefit last December.

The band’s basic sound is anglicized rock, with earnest singing and chiming guitar effects after the manner of U2. But Circadian Rhythm branched out stylistically with rowdier cover material--Elvis Costello’s “Mystery Dance” and David Bowie’s “Suffragette City”--and with its own surging “You Bring Me Down.”

The band remained strong, and took on a looser dimension, when rhythm guitarist Mike Flanagan stepped forward to sing lead on a song that recalled Camper Van Beethoven. The amiable Telling charmed the audience during a delay for equipment repairs by reciting a humorous poem about an English dance hall. Otherwise, Circadian Rhythm still is groping for a stage presence. The drumming could also be tighter. But at least the band is on a musical course that makes sense.