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THURSDAY

My record-collecting friend Jake told me recently that he’s boycotting one of his favorite New York City record stores. The store and Jake had a deep love affair—the owner even kept a cache of records behind the counter just for Jake, nerd love letters waiting to be unwrapped. But lately this stockpile, containing mostly new garage rock, had burned him too many times, and now it was just easier to walk right by the store than to tell the owner, “Dude, I’m over reverb-damaged college kids with bangs.” This sad story is made sadder still by the existence of the Gris Gris—the finest example of psych-rock since psych-rock entered a Texas mental hospital. Sure, the Bay Area band’s new self-titled album delivers the sort of late-’60s ventriloquism the genre’s nostalgists demand—all hazy atmospherics and sonic dive bombs—but it adds indelible melodies you won’t forget. Think of Galaxie 500 blotter paper when the Gris Gris plays with the Cuts and Thee Snuff Project at 8:30 p.m. at the Warehouse Next Door, 1017 7th St. NW. $8. (202) 783-3933. (Jason Cherkis)