Sussing out the real thing

Happy new year, buzz bands, every one of you.

At Los Angeles’ bustling little music venues in 2003, one theme emerged: Whether in the rock-star theatrics of the Sunset Strip, the hands-in-pockets slackness of Eastside hangouts, the suburban restlessness of Orange County or the intimacy of singer-songwriter havens like the Hotel Cafe, there was nary a prepackaged pop star in sight, yet plenty of American idols.

There were bands from afar -- British Sea Power, adorning the Spaceland stage with foliage and stuffed animals, ended its memorable set when keyboardist Eamon donned a waist drum and marched into the crowd, down the hall ... and into the men’s room.

And there were bands from near -- such as Rilo Kiley, who turn virtually every show into a sing-along; or Run Run Run and Midnight Movies, with their stark stage presence and gripping rock; or Subthunk, twisting genres by playing a computer that looks like a guitar; or Books on Tape, bending ears by playing a computer that looks like, well, a computer.

There were artists with contracts, artists with tired acts, guitarists with handlers, handlers with guitars, the Natural History and Natural Afrodisiac.

Several merited second and third looks -- here are three, one band in the fast lane, one in the slow lane and one idling, itching to get started:

So good, it hurts

Forget the bloody-fanged album cover -- the four guys in the Bronx aren’t all that dangerous, except maybe to themselves.

Formed in October 2002 and signed to Island Def Jam last January, the quartet released its self-titled debut in August and spent the rest of the year touring like gadget salesmen, leaving a lurid trail of busted equipment, broken bones and near-death experiences. Maybe no band lived so much in one year.

They’re combustible types to begin with -- if their neck-snapping, old-school riffage doesn’t get your attention, vocalist Matt Caughthran’s panicky screams will ... when he has a microphone that works. He broke a couple one night at the Roxy, once simply snapping the cord, no easy feat for a singer who looks more like a Hobbit than a warrior orc.

Ah, equipment is nothing. “In the last nine months we’ve come close to dying a few times,” says guitarist Joby J. Ford, the only band member to have escaped serious injury in 2003.

Let’s inventory: Bassist James Tweedy sustained a broken hand punching an inanimate object in a fit of disgust. Caughthran’s broken hand came after an ill-fated dive into the crowd. And drummer Jorma Vic injured his elbow in the U.K., Ford explains, while clambering over a vehicle to watch some sort of I-dare-you stunt involving “a drunk English kid” and a kick to the groin.

Again, child’s play ... at least, compared to the two wrecked vans.

“The first one was in Detroit -- a drunk driver just launch-ramped his car over an embankment and completely hammered our van,” Ford says. The van was parked, Ford and bandmates were not in it, and their kind-hearted tour mates, the Distillers, already an hour out of town, turned around to corral the Bronx.

The drunken driver tried to run from the fiasco. He was corralled by authorities.

Last month, the Bronx’s van hit a sheet of black ice in an Idaho snowstorm and careened out of control. “The trailer snapped off and actually flew into oncoming lanes. The van rolled a couple times ... I can’t believe we walked away from that one.”

Adds Ford, not thinking for a second about product placement: “We’re keeping Ford in business.”

The hardest part

The Peak Show hasn’t been living so fast -- in fact, the Highland Park-based outfit has been playing a waiting game, tweaking their material and polishing their live show.

“Sometimes I get the feeling we’re so underground, we were swallowed by the quicksand,” singer Holland Greco says.

By the time Atlantic releases the Peak Show’s debut album in 2004 -- spring, perhaps? -- you might wish you’d caught them on a chilly night in December at the Echo. Aside from the delayed album by the Moving Units, few releases by Eastside bands are more highly anticipated.

“It’s been excruciating,” Greco says, “but it’s good to give things more time, promote the album and do it right.”

The album’s deft mix of trip-hop and rock forms a melodic trampoline for the vocal calisthenics of Greco, who seems capable of evolving from punky songstress to Billie Holiday protege in a single set.

For now, idle moments can be spent speculating which song might be worthy of airplay -- not that anybody’s getting carried away. Says Gabe Rowland, the band’s co-founder: “It’d be a big blessing to hear any of our songs on the radio.”

On the verge

Then there is Porcelain, the Australian quintet that made L.A. its home while trying to earn notice for its Pretenders-meets-hip-hop style of rock. Try they have, gigging almost nonstop.

Most recent Monday nights they were stationed at Club Lingerie in Hollywood, with vocalist Lo Roberts, violinist Nadege de Vet and guitarist Ben Richards out front, winning friends with old material and new.

While talks with record companies creep along, the band has begun work with outside writers and producers, including Michael Elizondo, who has worked with Dr. Dre and 50 Cent.

“We’re talking to three companies and we’re very close with one,” the band’s manager, Robie Porter, says from Sydney, where the band is playing a New Year’s Eve show. Porcelain will be back at its Monday night post on Feb. 2, persevering, playing and imagining the possibilities.

Says Porter: “They’re very excited about it.”

Kevin Bronson can be reached at kevin.bronson@latimes.com.