Arkansas’s first environmental education state park interprets the importance of the natural world and our place within it.
7 p.m. Downtown Music Hall. $7.
Every once in a while I'll pick up a copy of Maximumrocknroll, the long-running DIY punk periodical that has never and will never change. And every time I do, I'm amazed that there are still enough people who dig crusty gutter-punk bands that wear bullet belts and butt-flaps and sound exactly like Discharge to support a monthly magazine. And even though I don't care about the music, it makes me happy to know it's there. But in recent years, I'd begun to worry about the life spans of other deeply obscure musical micro-genres. Specifically, I was concerned that a certain style of hardcore had gone extinct, that being the genus that spread from San Diego in the early '90s and employed dissonant guitars and screaming and white polyester belts and Mr. Spock hairdos and had really dramatic, personal lyrics about things like drowning and loneliness and how no one understands and everyone has changed and they all died inside and maybe you're dead inside too. This was once called "emo," a mildly pejorative but generally accepted term. That name was expropriated at some point and is now even more of an insult, though the music sounds different. But hey, looky here, there are some bands keeping the '90s emo flame alive — case in point, Touche Amore. The band cops from The Swing Kids, early Drive Like Jehu and maybe Assfactor 4, and if you're old enough to remember that band, you've probably got kids and a mortgage and you're in bed by 10 p.m. There are five bands on the bill, which would be a pain in the ass for grownups, but is perfect for those youthful, carefree summer evenings when you have nothing more pressing to do than watch five hardcore bands, befriend them, sneak into some swimming pool and then go to Waffle House. RB.
9 p.m., Clear Channel Metroplex. $25-$75.
Last year, Pitchfork described Gucci Mane as "rap's most divisive figure, with the Internet peanut gallery lining up to call him everything from a borderline-retarded grunter to rap's last, best hope." The debate continues. Earlier this year, a judge ordered the prolific Atlanta rapper sent to a psychiatric and chemical dependency facility after his lawyer filed a plea of "mental incompetence" following a probation violation. Sometime between his stay at the mental health facility and a longer stay in jail he got a large tattoo of an ice cream cone with three scoops on top and lightning bolts surrounding it on his face; a spokesman said it was reminder to fans that Gucci is "cool as ice." Despite spending a big chunk of the year in jail, the rapper still managed to put out at least two mixtapes and, on Tuesday, a major release called "Ferrari Boys" (conspicuous consumption gets nostalgic?) with protege Wacka Flocka Flame. What I've heard doesn't live up to perhaps Gucci's best lyric, "I'm a dinosaur, you a herbivore / I use words and verbs you ain't heard before," but it's a big enough release-event as to likely inspire the hordes to descend on the Metroplex. LM.
9 p.m., Stickyz. $10 adv., $15 d.o.s.
A decade ago, the Kentucky rap collective Nappy Roots broke through nationally with "Awnaw" ("aw naw, hell naw, y'all done up and done it"). The infectious, organ-sampling single should be part of anyone's pantheon of Southern rap anthems (along with OutKast's "ATLiens," Goodie Mob's "Soul Food" and Big K.R.I.T.'s "Country Shit"). But despite some modestly successful follow-ups, nothing the five-man group has released has made quite an impact. That could change with "Nappy Dot Org," an album due out in September that, despite its lame title, has strong promise, largely because it's produced entirely by legendary producers Organized Noize. Early in their career Nappy Roots were often pegged as the heir to Goodie Mob and Outkast's particular brand of Southern rap. Teaming with the producers who gave those groups their early sounds could help along that comparison. LM.