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The number 47, Grape, Flag, Sheep, Uhuru, Lipstick, Keys, Eyes, Dice, Heart Procession. And now Lips. All we need is a Sabbath-coverin’ salsa band calling itself Black Tortilla and all possible “Black”-plus-noun band-name-combo options will have been exhausted. The Black Lips’ lifeless, plodding self-titled debut disc shows as little imagination as its name, and the band actually has the guts to allow it to bear a dedication to a dead band member. De mortuis nil nisi bonum and all that shit, but I can think of nothing more depressing than being immortalized on the back of a mediocre garage-punk record—not to mention that said dedication is an inch below a pixelated picture of someone’s bare bottom. Black Lips’ live shows are rumored to involve urine and fire; perhaps those desperate shock-rock tactics, combined with the pimping of their dead bandmate, can compensate for a complete lack of songwriting and rock ability. Black Lips play with Grandma’s Mini at 9 p.m. at the Velvet Lounge, 915 U St. NW. $5. (202) 462-3213. (David Dunlap Jr.)