Friday's episode of Portlandia on IFC had no shortage of indie-rock cameos: Modest Mouse's Isaac Brock attempted to donate some bad records to an elite preschool (Talk Talk, Temple of the Dog); Annie Clark, aka St. Vincent, did a runway walk in a proposed new cyperpunk uniform for the Portland Police Department.

The comedic duo of Carrie Brownstein and Fred Armisen also hit one of my favorite hipster-for-life archetypes: the itinerant ex-D.C. punk. (Sadly, the clip's not online.) "Do you know Ian, who runs the label?" says Armisen's character to Brownstein's. "He's got that other band now, but for a while he had those other two huge bands?"

Brownstein: "Yeah, so do you know the other Ian, he was in Nation of Ulysses..."

"Yes, do you know Dante?"

"Yes."

"He had the restaurant for a while."

"And you know Zach?"

"Yes."

"Moved to New York?"

"Which Zack are you talking about?"

"Barocas."

"Oh, I was talking about Zak Sally."

"I know Zak very well."

"I know Zak too, we were very close."

And so on. (No Mary, though.)

Nicely played. But the joke's a tad familiar, no?

There was a moment last night, during Wild Flag's set at the Black Cat, when singer/guitarist Carrie Brownstein basically gave herself over fully to her band's musical frenzy. During "Racehorse," she fell to her knees as if in a trance, slapped her own face a couple of times, and writhed around on the stage, all while pulling chords from her guitar and taking the audience down a hypnotic path. Even the other band members were looking on in amazement. NPR streamed the sold out show last night; give a listen to it here.

You can see additional photos from the show here.

District shredder Mary Timony—of the great '90s bands Helium and Autoclave, a wealth of jarring solo product, and most recently local sleeping giant Soft Power—is in a new band.

Since announcing the existence of Wild Flag last year, a sort of all-star indie-rock outfit, Timony and friends—Carrie Brownstein and Janet Weiss of Sleater-Kinney, Rebecca Cole of The Minders—have been maddeningly coy about what will emerge from their new moniker. Wild Flag's guarded online presence emphasizes only two adjectives: wild, flaggy. Only a Velvet Underground cover on YouTube bootleg signaled potential. Even the helpful Merge publicist quipped via email: "I wish we had something to sell with all of this press."

Fans would tune in based on the players, so the long wait to taste material had to be about building mystery in a wide open world. Or a calculated revolt against hype. Something punk.

"We decided we wanted to play a lot before we recorded," Timony says. "It's the best way to get really get tight, so that's why we booked all of these shows."

Timony is straight-forward and likewise quick to admit defeat on questions about legacy and context. Our interview is littered with referrals like, "I'm sure Carrie could give you a better answer," and qualifiers like “I can’t speak for the rest of the band.” But her explanation of Wild Flag's creative process not only makes perfect sense, it's a big reason why there's anticipation for more than a throwaway album of super-group jams.

"[Super-group] was one of the first things written about us and it stuck," Timony says. "It's kind of ridiculous. But I'm really psyched to have a chance to play with these people I respect so much."

In Helium, Timony toured Europe with Sleater-Kinney. Wild Flag is a culmination of 15-plus years of friendships brought to life with airplane miles.

“Over the last year it’s been me flying to Portland every few months and for weeks at a time,” Timony says. “Carrie has a TV show; Janet is in two other bands. So we see when we can get together.”

Throughout her career, Timony has been on an assortment of seminal labels—Matador, Lookout!, Kill Rock Stars, Dischord—but next week will only be her third trip to Texas for  South by Southwest. Her enthusiasm for a muggy marathon of southern shows is unexpected.

“I’m not that jaded,” Timony says. “I didn’t book any of the shows; I don’t worry about the business side of things. This is the first time I get to hang out. We’ll be there Wednesday through Saturday and doing at least two shows a day. It’s exciting.”

Timony assures me that a tangible Soft Power album will exist but gets far more excited talking up her kids. In between sold-out West Coast dates, Timony’s been coaching fifth through seventh grade band students from her home. She has 20 guitar students she’s been assembling into bands, and there will be a big showcase in June.

A few hours after I speak with Timony, Wild Flag forks its stellar debut single over to the Internet. Timony doesn't mention "Glass Tambourine"  or its dissemination in our interview, though surely she had no idea it was about to be released.

She also isn’t one for colorful adjectives. Describing Wild Flag's sound, she says: "I would say influences from punk to classic rock and I dunno. We like to play loud and fast. I try to avoid thinking about how someone else perceives the music."

Wild Flag performs with Yellowfever and The Aquarium 8 p.m. Thursday at the Black Cat, 1811 14th St. NW. $13.

As you might have heard, local legend Mary Timony (Helium) recently got together with Sleater-Kinney guitarist Carrie Brownstein, Janet Weiss (Quasi, Sleater-Kinney), and Rebecca Cole (The Minders) to form the Merge Records powerhouse that is Wild Flag. Today, NPR posted a new Wild Flag single called "Glass Tambourine." It's one half of a Record Store Day 7-inch the band will release on April 16. Produced by Spoon's Britt Daniel, the track kicks off just how you might might expect from an ex-Sleater-Kinney, ex-Helium band—casually delivered vocals following the catchy melody of the single-note guitar line. From there, it just gets trippy. The mildly psychedelic post-punk doo-wop vibe morphs into a sea of vocal harmonies and gives way to a freaked out guitar solo, replete with swirling effects and interstellar riffs. The song yields both a rad pop chorus and sonic exploration. If you're headed to SXSW this month, make Wild Flag's set a must-see on your schedule. Or if you're not, catch White Flag March 10 at the Black Cat. $13.

How did you meet Carrie Brownstein, who you're now working with?
I don't really remember. We have conflicting stories. We had many mutual friends over the years. I think we met in San Francisco at a show. Carrie thinks it was New York.

Where did the idea for your comedy duo ThunderAnt (and more recently, Portlandia) come from?
We just wanted to do something fun. We both liked the idea of making videos that would make us laugh. After a while we had a bunch and put them online. Soon we had quite a few and we decided to pitch it as a TV show. Then we changed the name to make it a little more specific.

Does the fact that you were both in punk bands affect how you interact as comics?
I think so. I think there's a sense of, it's okay if you're not perfect at doing it all. And there's give and take like there is in a band.

With Portlandia, you poke fun at a lot of bohemian liberal tropes. Do you feel like the show is more of a friendly satire rather than a pointed one?
Way totally friendly. It's a friendly postcard.

Does your experience at SNL play into your work on Portlandia at all?
Oh yes. I learned a lot about writing and making sure to think about the audience.

Do you feel like you have more freedom on Portlandia than you do with SNL?
No, I'd say it's about the same. All of us (including Jonathan our director) edit ourselves pretty heavily.

You played drums on some of Les Savy Fav’s 2007 album Let’s Stay Friends; how did you score that gig?
Syd just asked me to do it. I said yeah absolutely!

Did it make you long for the days of Trenchmouth?
It did in a way. Playing drums in the studio is so gratifying.

Certain D.C. musicians, notably the guys in Q and not U, were really big fans of Trenchmouth. Did you make many connections through playing in that band?
I did. I made some lifelong friends.

Do you find yourself listening to many D.C. bands or punk bands in general these days?
Recently yes. I've been listening to Lungfish (I know, I know, it's Baltimore), Jawbox and the Evens.

You previously opened for Jeff Tweedy as a comedian, and you’re touring in rock clubs now. Do you feel more comfortable in rock venues than in more typical comedy clubs?
Definitely. Comedy clubs are too comedy-ish for me.

Correction appended

The clock is ticking for Corin Tucker. Her 9-year-old son Marshall's piano lesson is just wrapping up, and she only has 10 minutes to spare. “This is my only time to talk,” she laughs.

Fortunately, brevity is her strong suit. As frontwoman of the legendary ‘90s Riot Grrrl outfit Sleater-Kinney, Tucker only needed two or three minutes to fire off some fierce elocution. Every verse and chorus on the Portland, Ore., trio’s 1995 self-titled debut played out like fight songs—gritty, fist-pumping anthems that marked the emergence of a new synthesis of feminism and punk.

In summer 2006, the group announced an indefinite hiatus. As Tucker’s longtime songwriting partner Carrie Brownstein began blogging for NPR, Tucker stopped recording entirely. (Not including her voicemail greeting, which she sings to the tune of “Pomp and Circumstance.”) A resident of Portland, she is now a mother of two, and has released her first solo effort as The Corin Tucker Band: 1,000 Years, from which she will perform tonight at Black Cat.

At the encouragement of the rest of the band—fellow Portland musicians Seth Lorinczi, Sara Lund, and Julianna Bright—1,000 Years features another first for Tucker: acoustic tracks. “It was a good challenge for me,” she says. “It's just really neat to hear my music arranged with these different instruments, and just to pull different things out from my songwriting.”

On “Half a World Away,” she sings wistfully of “the lands, the story, the pictures, your car,” recounting possessions and experiences she's shared with her oft-traveling husband. The record is no Riot Grrrl revival, but it does grapple with a different facet of feminism—Tucker's juggling act as a stay-at-home mom, wife, and songwriter. “I really enjoy being a mom and being one to my kids,” she says, “but there is almost a negative association between feminism and motherhood. And that's really a shame.”

In Sleater-Kinney, Tucker was the group’s spitfire, her scream a rallying cry. Now, she hopes that 1,000 Years’ more subdued moments will be just as resonant. Her tenor has not changed, even if her tone has, and she is still talking about feminism and gender roles quite a bit—now, with Marshall.

“It's something that's an important part of my ideals, and important to my kids as well,” she says, before she hangs up to take her son home.

Correction: Corin Tucker lives in Portland, Ore., not Washington State, as the article originally stated. Also, Sleater-Kinney recorded seven albums, not five, and Carrie Brownstein sang the lyric “I know how to scream," not Tucker.

So who's right? Well, it’s all a matter of opinion. But one current band that both Azerrad and Brownstein would probably enjoy is D.C.’s Imperial China. On the band’s debut full-length, Phosphenes (Sockets/Ruffian), the local trio shows that challenging indie music can be crafted with plenty of teeth, heart, and aggression without sacrificing content or creativity. Here, the group manages to reshape the kind of aggressive, angular riffs indicative of classic '80s post-punk into a swirling, mathy, and electronically inclined mix that stands strong at nine tracks .

Though combining punk rock with electronics was once considered heresy in certain circles (and probably still is), Imperial China does just that with a skill and fluidity that sounds natural. Only the most cantankerous old punk would scoff at the metallic riffs and noise-infested highs of songs like “Mortal Wombat."

Standout track and lead single “Go Where Airplanes Go” is tranquil and dub-entrenched, perfect for new-school indie kids to groove to. But it doesn't sacrifice the band’s penchant for complex, engaging instrumentation.

Although Imperial China wrangles a host of disparate sounds, the group also finds a central, unique voice. The chemistry between bandmates Brian Porter (vocals/guitar/bass/keys/samples), Matt Johnson (guitar/bass/percussion) and Patrick Gough (drums) seeps into every note. The group’s determination to push certain aesthetic boundaries has resulted in a record that’s endearing and complex, aggressive yet skillfully composed.

These days, the indie field is oversaturated with derivative groups trying to resuscitate a bygone era or mirror a sonic fad note for note. Rather than merely exhume the past or copy the present, Imperial China engages alternative music’s storied history as a whole on Phosphenes. Perhaps Porter says it best on the song “Invincible”: “We bring new life.”

Afternoon, y'all! I keep forgetting how self-righteous music critics can be when it comes to the term "indie," which was coined as shorthand for "independent music," or music that is made and released independently of the Big 4.

But as with other words–"gay" no longer means thrilled to be alive, and "damn" will no longer send one straight to hell–the meaning of indie has changed to connote, as often as not, an aesthetic.

No one really agrees with me on this, besides Carles, who agrees ironically. But I firmly believe that this word, if it still exists in five years, will no longer mean what the tofu-eating, burlap-wearing, coke-snorting Amero-Zapatistas  had in mind when they coined it in 1812 1968 the late 1970s.

Remember when CNN had that special report called "Inside the Indie Scene"? Yeah. That actually happened. In a 2006 article, CNN wrote, "According to critics, indie is now nothing more than a branding tool: a highly commercial and money-driven movement, more concerned with marketing a particular image instead of culture with a truly independent nature and passion for its art."

When was indie *not* concerned with paying the bills? When has indie never been about selling shit? Did all these people play every show for free? Give out all their merch for free? Give away their music for free? If they did, and if that was how we defined indie–an extreme allergy to sustaining yourself financially–isn't it a good thing that's come to connote a profitable aesthetic?

I was hoping that some of the people who responded to the  Monitor Mix survey question, "What does 'indie' mean to you?" would agree with me on this. Or, at least agree somewhat that cultural evolution is OK.

But no. The dinosaurs all share a hatred for Kidz Theze Dayz and their insistence on using "indie" to describe the way music sounds or the way people dress or anything other than Fighting the Power.

My own survey question would be: Isn't it a good thing that a bunch of stodgy critterpoos have absolutely no control over how Kidz Theze Dayz uze wordz?

Partyline (2005-present): Fascination with the riot grrrl movement burned brightly and briefly, but the members of Bratmobile—which formed in 1991—kept making music, on and off, until 2002. Sort-of based in D.C., Partyline isn't the first other project for singer Allison Wolfe, but it's had the most staying power. The band's name sort of reminds me of that chirpy Doris Day/Rock Hudson movie where they share a phone line, but Partyline's music—snotty, high-adrenaline, feminist—quickly corrects that association. The trio plays at the Velvet Lounge tomorrow night at 9 p.m. with Edie Sedgwick and Noisy Pig. Tickets are $8.

More riot grrrl second acts after the jump: flowcharts, riots in MTV studios, and Christina Aguilera!

Julie Ruin (1998): When Bikini Kill split up in 1998, singer Kathleen Hanna recorded a one-off album under the sobriquet Julie Ruin. Sonically, it's a bridge between Bikini Kill and Hanna's later electroclash outfit Le Tigre. The lyrics, too, are of the same smart, anarcho-feminist mold, but they also irreverently take measure of riot grrrl itself. Take "Aerobicide," whose spoofy video plays with the cop-show aesthetic of Beastie Boys's "Sabotage" promo, and contains mustachioed suits strategizing how to sell riot grrrl. Best shot? A flowchart in which all arrows point to "dance party."

Sleater-Kinney (1994-2006): This jagged Olympia, Wash.-based band emerged from Heavens to Betsy and Excuse 17, and took the riot grrrl ethos to its largest audience yet. The best testament to the trio's success? None of the Sleater-Kinney fans I know have the same favorite album. Also, member Carrie Brownstein's Moniter Mix blog is one of the Web's best blends of hard thinking and excellent taste.

Comet Gain (1993-present): The members of the U.K. band Huggy Bear all joined other groups, none better than Comet Gain. This jangly outfit featuring bassist Jon Slade—one of the few males to play in a riot grrrl band—formed around the time Huggy Bear started a minor riot in an MTV studio, thus earning canonization by British rockists. Production assistants have rested easy since: Comet Gain's vibe is decidedly calmer.

Le Tigre: (1998-present): Kathleen Hanna's second second act. Originally conceived as the back-up band for Julie Ruin, Le Tigre pumped out three loud, rude, and synthy releases beginning in 1999, and is still making music in 2009—with Christina Aguilera. Don't get snooty: A decade after the fact, Le Tigre's "Deceptacon" remains the best part of any dance party where people have the chutzpah to play it.

Brownstein points the finger at music websites as a big culprit. She makes some interesting points. I agree with everything she has to say. It should be noted that the two recently released Touch and Go albums leaked well in advance. You can't stop illegal downloading.

Then why are record stores thriving in the District?

Here's some of what Brownstein wrote:

"I read the news about Touch and Go today. I was sitting in a restaurant and I checked my phone and gasped; my friend actually asked what was wrong. Something is wrong. We are careening toward a paucity of experience and a paucity of means with which to evaluate music. I mean, can we really engage with art on a Web site and in a vacuum, without ever bothering to contextualize it or make it coherent with our lives or form a community around the work? If we never move beyond the ephemeral and facile nature of music Web sites — and let's not lie to ourselves, that's where it ends for a lot of us these days — then that makes us worse than blind consumers; it makes us dabblers. We have become musical tourists. And tourism is the laziest form of experience, because it is spoonfed and sold to us. Tourism cannot and should not replace the physical energy, the critical thinking and the tiresome but ultimately edifying road of adventure, and thus also of life.

As for places like MySpace, they're not the enemy, they're not anathema to art, and they're places I peruse frequently. I mean, MySpace is democratic and ceaselessly available, but it is ugly — and it's a crumb being treated like the whole wedding cake we can't stop gorging on. Are we no longer seekers of the real? Or do we only seek for ourselves without any sense that a tactile discovery is mutually beneficial? Being found is as splendid as the finding. Stumbling upon an MP3 or a blog or a Web site is only half the search. We seem to have forfeited our duties and become half-participants — and at the cost of the creators. But we have to realize, and the Touch and Go announcement is a reminder, that in order for there to be anything left in which to participate, we have to show up. We have to show up with not just our half-selves, our virtual selves, our broke-ass selves, but with our whole selves, and in the spirit of giving. Mock participation is more than just an absence of real engagement; it is a falsehood that has allowed us to justify our apathy. When, exactly, did we stop showing up? And how long until there's not much left worth showing up for?"