Oh, To Be Wanted, To Be Useful

Got a lot to catch up on. Been a busy week or so for music. I'm pretty sure it was just last weekend I went to see Ross And The Hellpets. Not an auspicious name, by any means. And it was in the smoky basement of an Ethiopian restaurant. But I know who Ross is, and my showgoing companion is friends with the guy. And it was free. So why the Bert not? The bassist was some chick in tights wearing little satin horns. Oh dear. But not only didn't they suck, but it was actually a pretty good show. They launched into the first song, and I said, "wow, they sound like Neutral Milk Hotel circa 1999!" I got one of those blank looks that says there's something I'm not getting. "You know he used to play with NMH, right?" Holy shit, well, that's cool. (Wiki says that was in 1994. How do you ask someone, "Tell me about Jeff Mangum!" yet not sound like everyone else who's ever asked that?) Except for that one song that somehow spanned some heretofore unknown The Knack-Doors axis, the rest was all the best parts of indie radio, 1999. Along with NMH, there was Sleater-Kinney (one of the ones she sang), several Minneapolis bands, and things I've since forgotten but I'd sound cool name-checking.

The same weekend, I went to Nick Jaina's CD release party at the Doug Fir. The show started with Israel Nebbeker of Blind Pilot. He had some interesting recorded bits he mixed in with himself, like harmonica, or an old guy talking about something that sounded like it was part of some sort of project for the Smithsonian or for PBS. He had a voice I liked, and reminded me of a few musicians I like, but wasn't distinctive enough to hint to me who I thought he reminded me of. Earnest, and often a little too singer-songwritery for me. I'd love to hear Blind Pilot, though. I think I might have seen them at PDX Pop Now!, but I sorta remember not remembering them. Tu Fawning was next. They were remarkably orchestral for four people on stage, just all sorts of sound and swells and tremolo. The musicians switched places and instruments nearly every song. They were weirdly stylized (not just musically, but visually...and terribly mismatched on that front, each presenting a unique, stylized look from a different era), but possibly worthwhile. I heard some Stevie Nicks and some Portishead in there, and there was a harmonium, which is like a calling card for awesome. Nick was up last. He did mostly new stuff, which I really enjoyed because I've been listening to the new disc a ton, and I've developed a bond with those songs (though he's been playing some of them for quite a while, so I knew them anyway). But he played Maybe Cocaine and maybe one or two others, and that was it for old stuff. Too bad. But I really loved the show, as always. What I wanna know is, who wears a fedora out to the DF? Weird enough if it's on a guy's head, but on this chick, it looked like it should come with a cane, and a leotard that looks like a tuxedo, and tap shoes. The audition for A Chorus Line is somewhere else. Somewhere far, far away. Ah, schadenfreude. At least when I'm being ridiculous, I'm having fun. The dour and costumed out there just amuse me.

And then there was this benefit for cancer...wait no. Against cancer? That makes more sense. Benefit against cancer. At least I hope so. It was at the Doug Fir, and was headlined by frickin' Menomena. The last time they played the DF, two years ago, they had to make it a secret show (it was a rehearsal for their actual CD release show at the Crystal), and it was still sold out early and packed to the gills. And there was cake, but that's another matter entirely. Mmmm....cake.... Anyhow, there were no advance ticket sales for this show. I wanted to take someone to this show for his birthday. I cleared my whole damn schedule for the day (okay, full disclosure, it was a Sunday, my schedule involved figuring out how my breakfast could combine eggs, cheese, and smoked meat of some sort, then maybe throwing in some laundry) so I could troll by the DF obsessively every 30 minutes or so, watching to see if a line developed. Thank you, Portlanders, for considering eagerness to be crass and gauche, a trait best left to those cities where people wear hairspray and don't consider jeans appropriate for the symphony. (Have I mentioned I love this place?) Anyhow, I ran some errands that conveniently took me up and down Burnside...and up and down Burnside, and up and down...until finally, about 5:30, I decided to take up residence in the DF bar. Hooray for Sunday happy hours! A leisurely pint and a bowl of salmon chowder later, people finally started lining up at the box office, and I joined in. All told, I only spent about half an hour outside.

The show started with Tractor Operator. I'd heard great things, and somehow missed seeing them for probably three years solid. They were pretty good. They kinda suffered from the "everybody in Portland" syndrome, with some buzzy vocals over melodic, major-key punk-lite, but I liked his voice, and he had some pretty clever turns of phrase in the lyrics. It was kind of the omnipresent Portland geek-punk, but with the occasional foray into 3/4 time. Interestingly, there were half a dozen artists drawing the band as they played, and these drawings were auctioned off during the next set, as part of this hopefully anti-cancer benefit. Between sets, I checked out the merch table. The next band up (bandle, really--one guy and a bunch of stuff) was Eluvium (Elysian + Effluvium?), and they had some CDs out. They had those "Hey, reviews! We're cool enough to get reviewed!" stickers on the CDs, and somebody (probably some blogger...hey, wouldn't it be awesome if bands started quoting me? Oh, damn...I'd be all sarcastic, and then they'd have to quote Obscure Music Snob...oh well, I didn't need the pressure anyway) had described him as "ambient indieman" somethingorother stuff. I was filled with cold, clammy dread. Furthermore, the next quote said he would "bring you to tears." I don't want to be in tears! The first song started out looping new sounds every few moments, subtly building complexity...and went on for 9 1/2 hours. If this is going to bring me to tears, it's only because, sorta like the Rorschach, it's so blank and empty of inherent meaning that I have to project my own things onto it, and I must be filled with OVERWHELMING SEARING PAIN, so much hurt, so incredibly...sob...you don't understand...oh, wait. Sorry about that. Obviously channeling that reviewer who was brought to tears. The next track was keyboard-heavy and repetitive, like the department store piano player at Christmas that you tease with a measly dollar bill, watching his eyes get big as you get near the bowl, and then, just to be cruel, you request...Linus and Lucy. And grin broadly as his face crumples. I'm not the only one that does that, right? Uh...right? Anyhow, fourteen days later, this song evolved into basically a variation on Pachybel's Canon in D. Turns out I'm not the only one that hates that piece with every fiber of my being. And then I lost interest. Talked with the Birthday Boy about crushing the hopes and dreams of department-store Christmas piano players, and waited for the next band. The next "set" was split between Laura Gibson and Delorean. Laura Gibson really could bring someone to tears. Not me, I'm made of stone and schadenfreude, but someone. Her voice is just unbelievably beautiful, simple, and effortless, and she sings songs I can only describe as lullabyes for grown-ups. Maybe if I were better medicated I'd love her, but as it is, I appreciate her and respect her like all hell. Delorean has a song on an early PDX Pop Now! comp, and I like it. Hummable and cute. Fuzz-americana-twang with a Portlandy lo-fi broken quality. Years later, on stage, all that's left is the americana-twang, with some cringe-inducing 70s lite-rock elements. Such incredible cheese. Sample lyric: "Can't get my mind off you...there's too much sand in my shoes...beachcomber blues!" You think I made that up to make fun of them, don't you? Joke's on you, 'cause I totally didn't. The vocalist kept trying to be Dylan, and failing beyond belief. To my credit, I did not once shout out loud, "YOU'RE NOT DYLAN!" They did a Willie Nelson cover that reminded me why all country music, even Willie Nelson, sucks ass. They covered the (thank you, google) Dan Fogerty...um...classic?...Leader Of The Band. Shit...I'm a sucker for a stupid cover. I enjoyed that. They referenced the Grateful Dead (sorry, Birthday Boy, but...gag, wretch, convulse), then finished a song (and the set) with a few lines from a Dead song. And it's over, and as the last notes fade out, it's like a chorus of angels replace them, singing, "you never have to go see them again, OMS, you're safe and free..."

And then Menomena. Two notes in, and I realized there isn't a better live band in Portland. I was soaked through with those deep, pulsing, complex beats, wrapped in the twinkling keyboards like a bubble bath, lifted out of my compulsively nurtured shell of sarcasm by that beautiful and ridiculous bari sax, confused to the point of epiphany by the lyrics...utter rapture. And I lost myself, tapping my foot and bobbing my head at the same time, I sang along to myself, oh, to be wanted, to be useful, oh to be a machine...

The Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald

November struck last weekend, and winter has set in in Portland. It's been raining since Halloween, with one break (more to come on that), and it makes me tired, disoriented, grumpy, and frickin' bored. It's like all the color is gone from everything when the skies turn grey, and I never know where the sun is. Today at noon, I looked at my watch and was astounded that it wasn't going on evening. A perfect time to get my sensory stimulation from live music! 'Cause I need to be getting it somewhere, and the outside world just doesn't have much to offer.

Last weekend, I went to see a collection of those Portland bands that have been around and have played shows for years, and I may or may not have been to see, or I may just miss all the time. Matt Sheehy, The Dimes, and Derby at the Doug Fir. Last time Matt Sheehy played at the DF, I missed a bunch of the set thanks to some obnoxious trailer-park bachelorette party Gresham chicks who thought, "gee, this is our one chance to do something hipster-cool. We can tell our grandkids." So they giggled and squealed and made all sorts of noise, then tried to start a bar fight with me, former pacifist turned quiet pragmatist. (No, don't worry, I don't mean I think I'm quiet, just that my pragmatism is...and would never lead to a bar fight.) So this time, I finally got to hear the actual music. Lovely, often whispery, a bit too strum-folk detailed and pretty for my tastes. I would have loved this stuff in 1993. Not that it sounds like '93--more like Sufjan Stevens, or occasionally John Vanderslice on too much lithium. The crowd was still too loud. Sheehy himself was in his stocking feet (and the omnipresent Portland vintage skinny-cowboy shirt with the pearl snaps...where can I get me one?). His bandmate had a (seriously?) Cary Elwes mustache that was utterly ridiculous. The "drums" were provided by Sheehy pounding on his (plastic-backed) acoustic guitar, then looping the sound. The Dimes up next. It was their EP release show, apparently. There was some noticeable twang going on, about which I am generally seriously conflicted. I mean, I hate most americana-twang, but there was lap steel. I can't help it...I love lap-steel guitar. And they tried for Neil Young harmonica, but it was like the elementary-school version. Overall, really, was either too twangy or too poppy (there was what could have been a lost DCFC song, but if live you sound like DCFC does recorded (they rock out live), then recorded, you've gotta sound like that guy who used to teach oil painting on PBS...zzzzzz....). They did a John Lennon cover (Watching The Wheels...something about no longer riding on the merry go round, which sounded nice, I'd love to get off the damn merry go round) that worked out pretty well. Finally, Derby. Some Boomtown Rats, some Blur (especially in the fashion sense department), nothing notably gotta-see-again. I'm looking at my scribbled notes on the back of a Trader Joe's receipt, and all I managed to write was "okay-looking alt-rock." Not exactly a ringing endorsement.

This weekend, the sun came out for about three hours. I spent it in the Chinese Garden with someone who also appreciated it, and then we went to the teahouse. Serious renewal from November funk, right there. It was complete, dark night by 5:30, but by then we were cooking a lovely pork-and-apples, mushrooms-and-pasta dinner. I can't say I love winter, but I do love the battle against it, with hearty food and good drink and the celebration of the few good outdoor moments. All we needed was a raging fire.

Which brings me to tonight's show. A raging fire in the fireplace at rontoms! I smelled it from the sidewalk. And then I walked in at 9:40 for a show listed as starting at 9:30...and caught the last half of the last song from the opener. Damn you! It's not even my fault I missed the Opening Band this time! Just as I had figured from the myspace-page bits I listened to before the show, Ben Somethingorother (it was like Ben Mycoculture or something...it's been kind of a mushroomy weekend) sounded a lot vocally like Conor Oberst, with the high-tenor buzzy, broken-cracking wail that pulls at me, but I don't know yet if he's got the lyrical interest to support it. Maybe I'll just go out and buy some discs to fill in my far-too-sparse Bright Eyes collection instead. Followed by a band called Nomenclature. That's almost as cool as REM calling that early album Eponymous. They looked totally Portland, with their HUUUUUUGE geek glasses and pasty dorkiness, and I developed stories about both of them. The one on the right is a competitive juggler, and worried that if he went on tour his girlfriend would leave him for someone with more status in World of Warcraft. The one on the left has 3/4 of a degree in statistical theory and is working on actuarial tables for guitar strings. But they were from Georgia. Two guys, one pounding drums and the other crunching bass with buzz and fuzz and other fun effects, and then one of them would flip the switch for the other sounds like washed-out wordless choir and fuzzy, dampened strings. It was interesting, intriguing, bone-shaking, charming, fun, major-key and melodic....it was messy and everything all at once and I loved it. They snuck in some fiddle-twang, recorded for the synth to reproduce, but mostly just fun crazy-indie-rock. Thanks, Georgia! Last up, Jared Mees and the Grown Children. Now that I've described them so succinctly in the past, all I hear is the autistic indie-punk of Half-Japanese melded with the southern-twang of Wilco or the country-punk of the Replacements. Words influencing perception as well as describing it. They were constantly about to derail but never quite did. And suddenly everyone in Portland has one of those xylophones (glockenspiels? I don't know the difference) in the little plastic case that looks like a toy laptop.

On the drive home, the Novemberiness of the week was highlighted beautifully (okay, ridiculously) by finding a radio station playing The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. Maudlin, tacky, chilly, about a ship on Lake Superior (Hi, Duluth!) shipwrecked in a November storm. A hilarious end to a fun November weekend.

Places I've Never Been

I've managed to cram three shows into about a week. Go me!

Sunday of last week, I went to see a show at rontoms. I'd been there once, but never inside and never for a show, so I'm counting it as a Place I've Never Been. And you can't stop me. So there. Alan Singley and Pants Machine started off. I've seen them a few dozen times or so. There's always been some variation in lineup, from solo Alan to the core three (with Gus and Leb) to a lineup of many. But this time was different, for some reason. First off, there was a female backup vocalist, which I've never seen them do. Mostly successful, which is pretty amazing given how difficult it must be to harmonize with Alan's off-key squawk. A few moments when it just didn't mesh well. Also, a viola and a sax, working together in one corner, adding some sort of genuine gravitas (only a little, but still) to the goofball. New directions, new songs, and reportedly a new disc on the way...

(And also new hair: Leb Borgerson used to have a bad feathered haircut, but it made him look like a young Kenneth Branagh. The new hair leans more toward Luke Skywalker circa Empire Strikes Back. Not an improvement.)

They were followed by Blue Cranes. There's a song on the current PDX Pop Now! compilation, but I didn't think to listen to it before I went to the show. To my surprise, they were the good type of modern indie-rock-influenced jazz! (Yes, there is a good version, so shut up.) Ornette-Coleman-sounding bits, a Sufjian Stevens cover, but all genuine jazz. Two super-patinated old saxes, accordion, upright bass, drums, and keyboards. More than anything, they reminded me of Happy Apple. Classic jazz played by people with deep-rooted indie-rock sensibilities that come through like a bay leaf. Not wildly prominent, but just adding a little hard-to-define something underneath. Really gorgeous stuff, and I was pretty mesmerized.

Then last Thursday I saw a four-band lineup at Holocene. A four-band lineup on a weeknight is never a good idea. Showed up at a bar just in time to see the very last out of game two of the World Series (I'll give a belated Go Rays! here, and I wanna say "there's always next year," but I'm pretty sure this was their one and only chance), then had a lovely dinner of beef short ribs and mashed sweet potatoes. I love it when I tell someone, "you've had a hard day, let me take you out to dinner." Because the added bonus there is that I take me out to dinner, too! Confusing arrangement at Holocene--the available info said 8:30, but is that doors, or show? We got there about 10 to find that doors were at 8, show was at 9...huh? We missed Vandeveer, but I hadn't heard of them, and they were, of course, the Opening Band. And I never see the Opening Band. They were followed up by These United States, who vacillated between pretty damn good Replacements-era punk-with-a-country-backbeat and distasteful '70s-throwback hippie-twang-rawk. I was wildly ambivalent. Next up, Nick Jaina. A comparatively small six-person band, some new songs, and the old songs, as always, made new again. You know I'm always amazed by Nick and crew, but being able to sound fresh and different after coming home from a cross-country tour generates another level of amazed. Finally, Chris Robley. And the Fear Of Heights? I can't remember. It was a full band, anyhow. I know he plays solo, plays as CR&tFOH, leads The Sort Ofs, plays (guitar?) in Norfolk & Western...the Portland music scene is like that weird branch of the Mormon church. Everybody's got half a dozen bands, and everyone's related to everyone else and their bands, so that if any bands wanted to get married and have little bands, the little bands would have three heads. Anyhow, I want to like Chris Robley. The music appeals to me, the lyrics are complex and story-like and interesting, it's all pretty great...but there are times when Chris Robley slips into that rawk voice. You know, the metal-ballad voice, all throaty with the vibrato and the words with the excessive syllables, like "one" coming out as "woah-oh-un". I would love this band except for the rawk voice. But I was out with someone who adores the various Chris Robley permutations, and though we were both very tired, his joy was infectious.

Last up, on Saturday I finally made it to the Roseland. The goal was seeing Ted Leo and the Pharmacists. The...uh...bonus (?) was Against Me. I've never been to the Roseland, thanks to its preponderance of hip-hop and kid-punk shows. This was definitely the latter. There was this weird rigamarole where I had to go through a metal detector, but I had my keys in my hand, and no one seemed to want to take them from me. So I'm basically holding my metal out in front of me as I walk through. I show my keys to someone (see, I have metal!), my friend had to empty his pockets. We then head upstairs and discover we're a few songs into Ted Leo's set already. I don't really know the music, but it's high-energy melodic old-skool punk. Clash-like, maybe? They were political and vegan, and it was fun watching the crowd of high school kids confused by things like "this next song's about the CIA!" "Um...whoohoo?" What I wanna know is, where the hell did these kids learn to mosh? Moshing isn't running at people so you can shove them. It's not safe if people each have several feet to run around in, and good moshing shouldn't involve running around like that. I'm pretty sure we've reached the point where moshing needs to be taught in dance studios, like the foxtrot, because it's clearly a lost art. Damn kids...get off my lawn! Anyhow, this was followed up by Against Me (or perhaps Against Me!, I forget). I knew going in that it was punk for kids, silly rabbit. I expected total thrash, and wasn't entirely wrong, but there were some bits that could be hummed later, were one inclined to do so, so it actually wasn't quite as bad as I expected. In good news, the mosh pit tightened enough for some short-lived crowd-surfing, so clearly they were doing something right. But overall, loud as all fuck and dully repetitive, so we took off early to go to a birthday party with lovely cake and good beer, and curried apple-squash something-or-other, and a bonfire. And a crazy guy from down the street, but that's neither here nor there. A pretty good time was had by all, and a few stolen pears mean ongoing enjoyment from the evening! Poached, or pie? That is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of pie-crust tyranny, or to poach, perhaps to dream...

Happy Birthday To Me...

Woke up on my birthday and went to work. Saw my clients, went to my meetings, and on top of that, put together all the information I'd need to be grilled in court the next day by six lawyers and a court-appointed advocate. Sometimes my job is...(redacted). I mean, awesome!

Went home, changed clothes, and got taken out to dinner. At Higgins. Holy smoked fish, Batman! We just went and ate in the bar, but I've never even done that. Serious birthday pampering. And then off to Backspace. That was the goal for the evening. Dinner was like, "Where do you wanna go, OMS?" "I dunno." "How about Higgins?" "Uh...hell yeah, that'll do nicely!" But the real plan was to go out to Backspace.

Got there about 15 minutes into Norfolk & Western's set. These guys spent a few years with the same modus operandi. Wildly charming, elaborate artsy-detailed '30s-influenced down-home indie twang-folk. Every show involved a gramaphone and a fedora. And then they went on this crazy-ass evolution binge. Like fruit flies or something. I saw them at PDX Pop Now! in August, and they just tore shit up. There was a fucking mosh pit. For what had been a twang-folk band! Rawk all over the place, with barely a twang to be seen (uh...heard). This show split the difference beautifully. Most songs began with a cute, swingy art-folk start, and a slow build in intensity, until all at once, KABLOOEY! I mean, sure, it wasn't really 'kablooey' (that sounds like a terrible, tragic bubble-gum accident), but there's just no onomotopoeic word that accurately reflects what goes on when the electro-acousto-guitar-drums-bass-everything comes crashing in, sending the whole production spiraling off into raucous country-rawk territory...but not stupid or ugly. Just transcendent. Oh, and JFC, there was a Velvet Underground cover! I mean, for all the zillions of bands that pretentiously claim the VU as an influence, there are far too few VU covers. Lovely.

And then, the reason we were there: Blue Giant. Officially a Viva Voce side project, but aside from Kevin and Anita (on two guitars, or a banjo, harmonica, and dual vox), there were...oh, damn. This is why I take notes! I can remember at least four other people on stage, but that doesn't seem like enough. A (I assume) regular drummer, plus Rachel Blumberg of N&W also playing along (two drummers = kick fucking ass), Chris Funk of The Decemberists on banjo, keyboard, and pedal steel (a-berting-mazing), plus a bassist/keyboardist. And that was plenty, sure. This was southern country-rawk with the kind of playful touch that made me like it. I was a couple of songs into this set when I realized I was seeing a double-bill of bands that could be described as Americana. I hate Americana in any form. Yet, two songs into the BG set, I couldn't maintain the "I'm only enjoying the irony aspect" smirk. This was post-irony. This was meta-irony. This was the musicians seeing the ironic potential, and somehow transmogrifying it into pure joy. The joy may have been fueled by ironic appreciation, but it was transformed in the "shit, we've got two banjos! And pedal steel!" process into gold. They made jokes about being on "tour" of Portland (three venues in three days, and gee, the road sure is hard, anyone got a couch they could crash on?), then said that for every stop on their three-day tour, a local musician would join them for a few songs, all covers. Hi, Sam Coomes of Quasi! Come on up! Holy shit. Suddenly all Americana, all twang, all country-rawk-whatever, all was destroyed in the pure, blue-white fire that ensued. I recognized the first song as classic rock of some sort, plus (again, the perils of blogging a week later) two or three more that were more obscure but found some inexplicable classicrawk-punk-screamingloudindierock nexus that heretofore didn't exist except perhaps in legend or myth. A google search provides me with The Who's Hell Or High Water as one of Mr. Coomes' choices. Blistering, all of them.

And then we all went home, drunk on local fresh-hop-harvest Ninkasi beer out of oversized bottles, tired and happy. Or, at least, I did, and I want everyone in the sparsely attended room (maybe 75 folks in a room that holds 150) to have enjoyed themselves just as much. And in my case, with an astounding birthday-present re-issue to look forward to of the very first Replacements disc, Sorry, Ma, Forgot To Take Out The Trash. And probably another couple of birthday presents before I finally fell asleep.

Thank you to everyone who made my birthday stellar, from whoever smoked the fish to the Ninkasi folks to all the musicians in both bands, and especially to the orchestrator who decided I was going to have such a lovely birthday. I didn't stop grinning until I went through the metal detector at court the next day. Squee!

All Experimental and Punk and Shit

I'm honestly not sure what I saw last night. Except that I know it was the wrong end of the lineup for The Artistery's 7th anniversary party. I did get a burger and some cookies (plus some vegan "German potato salad" that, duh, lacked bacon, which was unfortunate enough, but since when is vinegar an animal product?). I think the lineup started with Why I Must Be Careful, which was almost kind of cool atonal-experimental jazz-fusion....zzzzzzzz. It actually failed at being grating enough to not be boring after about ten minutes. Luckily, they only played for about 20 minutes, which was the running theme for the show. There might have been another band in here...I can't remember for certain. Next up was White Fang, a self-indulgent hardcore-punk band amusingly injected with the unavoidable Portland dork-punk bits. It's in the water here, I swear. Dear White Fang fans: A mosh pit is characterized by vertical, not horizontal, movement. Thanks much, OMS. White Fang was lots of fun for their 20-minute set, but truthfully, I don't think I'd like them as much in intervals any longer than that. I'm pretty sure the other band I saw was Owl Dudes. Weird-ass shit that inhabited the space exactly halfway between horrifying white-boy rap-metal and pretentious (yet horrifying) spoken word experimental performance art. It was actually intriguing for a few moments, but not much longer. There were quite a few more sets before we'd have gotten to see the stuff I was actually interested in (Rob Walmart is supposed to be....well, the best of this bizarro stuff, so that might have been worth seeing; Nick Delffs of Shaky Hands has a pretty fascinating voice; and I love Point Juncture, WA), so it was off to play bar shuffleboard and drink interesting beer instead.

I hope to go to a show I absolutely and for certain want to be at again soon....

And Now, The Exciting Conclusion

Saturday night at MFNW, the night more people than any other night would get their shit together and go out to the shows. Given the difficulties thus far, it was gonna take some planning. Oh dear. I hate planning. Knowing venue-hopping wouldn't really be an option, sadly, I ruled out The Joggers, Matt Sheehy, Loch Lomond, Weinland, Blind Pilot, Copy, and Please Step Out of the Vehicle. Several venues had lineups worth seeing from start to finish, including Holocene (Horsefeathers, Panther, The Shaky Hands, Thao With The Get Down Stay Down), Backspace (We're From Japan, A Weather, Mirah), and Towne Lounge (Atole, Eskimo & Sons (their actual last show ever), and Chicharones). But I decided on the Crystal, again, for Mimicking Birds (the everpresent 'opening band'), Blitzen Trapper, Fleet Foxes, Menomena, and The Helio Sequence.

I figured I could show up about halfway through the opening band, no problem, given how the other nights had looked at the Crystal. So I did. There was a line about halfway up the block, more than I expected but didn't look too bad. A few minutes later, one of the bouncers walked down the line, assuring us we would get in. An hour and a half later, I was in. Christ. Despite the endless wait, I swear, I've seen the place fuller. Missed Blitzen Trapper (I discovered an old post from long before I got involved with Blogger, dated MFNW 2005, in which I missed Blitzen Trapper...apparently MFNW + Blitzen Trapper + OMS = 0). Fleet Foxes have been getting all sorts of attention--nay, buzz--lately. I expected Vampire-Weekend-like cute, likeable overdressed-and-overproduced alt-pop. That's not what I got. At all. They launched into an a capella bit that was more Smithsonian-archives-'30s-backwoods-gospel than '80s-worshipping-'08-tongue-in-cheek. The next song set the tone for the rest of the set by calling up Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. I was four years old, in my footie pajamas, sitting on the speaker, being allowed to stay up late as my dad played records. A la recherche du temps perdu...it was almost like I had a happy childhood or something! The rest of the show was largely a folk-influenced '70s period piece. Certainly, there were some cheesy elements (hey! CSNY is NOT cheesy!), but overall, I enjoyed it. Then, Menomena. "So, are these guys good?" Yeah, they're good, alright. Just watch. They prefaced the show with telling us it may be the last time we see them for a while, so enjoy the songs from the past three years...Nooooooooo! Lalalalalala! I'm not listening! Gasp! Sob! Sigh. So Menomena, it appears, is going on hiatus. They then boiled and smashed and otherwise rocked through favorites from both albums (xylophone solo! Yeah!).

A little convincing got me out to another couple of shows, though I was definitely flagging. I actually failed to take notes, which sucks, because I'm sure they would have been brilliant. I mean, I was utterly clever and hilarious during the shows, right? But that's all lost now. So this will have to do: Off to Berbati's for Polvo. One of those names I knew from the late '90s, but I had no idea what they'd sound like. Very heavy, wall-of-noise melodic indie-art-metal with minimalist vocals, and some DC/math rock elements of that era. Now I know who Polvo is. A short stop at the Doug Fir for Centromatic. I really liked them, kind of a Barsuk-sounding melding of Nada Surf and Wilco. But I was just barely keeping my eyes open at that point. Imagine had I nodded off, slipped off the banister where I was perched, hit my head...what a mess. Bagged that set early to get some sleep.

The end.

Postscript: I was really pretty frustrated with the festival this year. I missed some things while standing in line, and missed some other things because no matter how long I stood in line I would never have gotten in. The individual ticket sales, from what I could tell, took up 75% of some of the venues some nights. Those of us who dedicated ourselves to the whole festival by buying wristbands were treated like second-class citizens, held out of the venues, left sitting on the sidewalk hoping in vain, or sent off to second- or third-choice shows. The music I got to see was often awesome and nearly always interesting, which helped a lot. But perhaps the reason I didn't end up kicking something out of frustration, breaking a toe, and going home early in pain, was the people. And for crying out loud, I hate people. So this was refreshing. People in lines were friendly, with an in-this-together feel. I loved getting texts from venues a few blocks away, with commentary on other shows. When a friend and I walked back to the nook at Berbati's, all we had to do was glance at the bench and folks scooted over for us. I had some great conversations about the bands, and even had fun losing at air hockey at Slabtown. So, MFNW, here's my recommendation for next year: When it comes to the crowds, aim for quality over quantity.

MFNW Continued...By Request!

So it turns out someone actually reads this stuff. And that one person really wants me to finish what I started. I'm terrible at that, so I could probably use a little goading. Other people: Better than Ritalin!

Friday night, I tried to start out with Britt Daniel and Built To Spill (performing, apparently, all of Perfect From Now On straight through) at the Wonder Ballroom. It was the early show, with Britt Daniel starting at 5:30. I got there about an hour later to find a line stretched down the block. Strike two. This show didn't even come with real pre-sale tix, and the only way to get in without a wristband was to go get a free ticket somewhere earlier that day. I heard the first few notes of the title track from PFNO floating out the door of the Wonder as I drove home, starting to seethe. Looking at the schedule, knowing how difficult it had been to get into some shows so far, I ended up watching the end of the ballgame rather than heading across town somewhere then finding myself late and shut out somewhere else. A Twins win, 10-2, eased my frustration somewhat. Then off to the Crystal, where I got there well before any of the music even started, thanks to Vampire Weekend headlining. Sat down in my spot, and spent the interminable wait for music to begin (probably about 20 minutes, but patience and sitting still aren't exactly strong suits for me) mentally cursing MFNW for making me sit there instead of venue-hopping and seeing something unexpected. Had a couple of interesting conversations, including one guy who seemed to be reading my brain (Nada Surf's Let Go is somehow "better than it is" and they've never even gotten close to matching it again; JV is kind of cool recorded, but live is wholly different and amazing; not getting into BtS was the disappointment of the festival).

Then Lackthereof started. The brainchild of Danny from Menomena, it incorporates a lot of Menomena sounds. But then, live, it borrows Dat'r as the rhythm section. Absolutely inspired pairing, right there. Started a bit messy, as if they couldn't quite hear themselves, but then it all clicked. They are the masters of the STOP (beat, beat, beat) CRASH! And there was a toy accordion. And at one point, all four members of the band were playing drums. Awesome to behold. During the break between bands, this other guy started expounding to me on what he thought of Lackthereof. Missing a little something, he couldn't put his finger on it, but they could blow up huge. *Shrug* What the hell does he know...for a one-man side project, signing to Barsuk is blowing up huge. And they're not missing a damn thing. Bastard also failed to save my seat. John Vanderslice followed. I wondered how he would fare in such a huge venue, only having seen him at the Doug Fir. I needn't have worried. He owned that place. The bass and drums filled the space and more. He eschewed any of the cute elements (like the synth horns), the stage banter, and the pretty songs, and just flat out bowled us over. The crowd was really engaged, even though they were all there for the pop-alt band up next. It was like JV was on a mission to balance the bubble-gum to come with some pure, dark, creepy battering. The smoke machine didn't hurt. He did Exodus Damage and Up Above the Sea back to back, ten minutes of pure cleansing fury...yet hummable, too! (How does he still do Exodus Damage? We didn't get the revolution he was hoping for...in fact, quite the opposite.)

Didn't stick around for Vampire Weekend. Didn't have high hopes, but trolled by Roseland to see if there was any possibility of getting into TV On The Radio. Not a chance in hell. A line four-deep all the way down the block and around the corner, and then I lost sight of it. I wonder how many people paid their fifty bucks just to stand in line all weekend? Headed over to Slabtown for the Tender Loving Empire showcase. TLE is some sort of mish-mash label-publishing house-incubator-hopeful monster. There were hidden treats...I found a TLE t-shirt! Slabtown, where I've never been, is nine-tenths creepy, dirty dive bar and one-tenth indie-artsy-cool stuff. Oh--and air hockey. Turns out I'm no good at air hockey. Finn Riggins was up first. Irish drinkin' band? No. An experimental, but mostly successful, layering-on of a bunch of wildly divergent elements, including bits of keyboard-funk, a transient moment or two of ska, some videogame noises, some synth that sounded like a Hammond B-3 set from 'stun' to 'kill', a steel drum, sparkly pretty stuff, and some plain ol' old-skool gothpunk, held together with duct tape and a cool, buzzy female voice. Next up, Jared Mees and the Grown Children. Another dork-punk-type sound. But so familiar...what do all these bands have in common? What element is that that I can't quite put my finger on? The lightbulb went on. 71.8% of Portland bands are influenced by Half Japanese. Do you have any idea how much better I feel having figured that out? So anyhow, JM&theGC was a big slice of Half Japanese, and reminded me a bit also of Please Step Out Of The Vehicle, if the PSOTV marching-band elements were replaced with country-punk.

Ended the night out with late-night french fries and comparing notes.

Musicfest NW's Awkward Adolescence

This was MFNW's eighth year, and I think my...fourth? year of attending (I think there must have been a year I missed it). Every year it gets bigger. Sometimes that's a good thing, and other times that means standing in line. I remember those golden, halcyon days when my only concern was not drinking too much beer, so I could drive myself from venue to venue and see whatever I wanted. This year, they sold lots of guaranteed individual-show tix as well as the wristbands, making it a crapshoot whether I'd get in at any given venue. It required a constant backup plan. I got pretty frustrated with it a few times, while missing a show I really wanted to see, but in the midst of several of the performances, for a few brief moments, all was forgiven. (I'm still writing a stern letter, though. Stern, I tell ya.)

The fest started on Wednesday with a few venues. I decided to save up my energy for the rest of the weekend. Thursday night was also smallish, only eight venues, but some great stuff to see. A sampling of shows I missed: M. Ward, The Whigs, Iommi Stubbs, Starfucker, The Cool Kids, and Battles (which I heard several times was stellar). Saw Eskimo & Sons at the Crystal to kick off my show-seeing. Ten people on stage, the girls all in '90s-era dresses appropriate for a junior-high semiformal dance, instruments everywhere...what am I getting myself into? It was bouncy and fun, little bits of so many things. The keys-plus-horns here sounds like John Vanderslice, his voice sounds like Conor Oberst, hers like Victoria Williams. That song sounds like Rilo Kiley, this one has faux-sultry horns like the theme song to an '80s cop show, that other one is a dead ringer for some mid-'80s lite-rock, but in a fun way...a ton of fans of the band there singing along and cheering. Turns out it was their second-to-last show ever. Caught a little of Calvin Johnson, and the second he opened his mouth, I remembered what I actually like about him, other than his finger-in-every-pie prolific-ness (prolificity?). Halobenders! I also remembered that I haven't liked him since, because he needs Doug Martsch to make him rock. The place was nearly empty, so I thought I'd chance it on coming back for M. Ward later, and impulsively headed across town to see Oxford Collapse having no idea who they were. Dork-punk with a solid grounding in actual old-skool punk, pretty damn good. Headed back to the Crystal to find a big-ass line for M. Ward. Strike one. They sold all sorts of tickets, leaving us wristbanders out of luck. Went to Berbati's instead as plan B. Port O'Brien was essentially just an unfortunate and unnecessary melding of suburban-bar-band country-blues and scream-punk. I liked the last song okay. Pseudosix is a band I knew of, but couldn't remember why. They've got two songs on PDX Pop Now comps, it turns out. Cute and lovely, but shading much more country-twang than I expected. The violin actually saved them. It wasn't at all fiddle. Last up, and the reason I was there: Nada Surf. For a guy who writes very pretty songs and really only put together one good (damn good) album, the live shows are consistently amazing. He rocked Killian's Red (not an ode to the beer, but about drinking in a dive bar under a neon sign, wishing for better) and Fruit Fly (seriously, who'da thunk Fruit Fly could rock?). I still don't like the stuff that isn't on Let Go as much (later in the weekend, I talked to someone who gushed, "That disc is somehow...better than it is," which is weird, because it was while I was seeing John Vanderslice, and a friend of mine recently used those exact words to describe a song of his).

Okay, that's more than enough for now. Friday and Saturday to come.

Ladies line up for Aqueduct. And for geeks with kalimbas.

Let me tell y'all about the lord's messenger, David Terry...he healed my migraine, y'all! Clap your hands! (And the darling guitarist didn't hurt either.)

Extra stressed and/or busy for a couple of weeks. Seems to have tanked the immune system. I'd had a scratchy throat all day, and by the time I got home, I had a rollicking headache as well. And a brewing stomachache. But holy hell, Aqueduct at the tiny, bitty Towne Lounge? I sure as hell wasn't missing that. As long as I hadn't horked up an organ...check that, a vital organ (appendix, you're on notice), I was going.

Graves opened up. I was sure I was way late, but they got started about a quarter after ten. How have I never seen this band? I'm pretty sure I've never seen this band. They open for everybody. Oh...yeah. They're the Opening Band. I never see the Opening Band. Pretty, dark stuff, that initially struck me as late-night desert highway music (with trumpet). Over time, it developed a '70s synth-pop ballad vibe, too (there was one I was absolutely certain would turn into Fleetwood Mac's Dreams (thunder only happens when it's raining...players only love you when they're playing...) but didn't). Lovely and soothing. I wanna see 'em again. But sitting cross-legged on the floor, my headache only got worse.

Boat up after that. Another "statistically inexplicable that I've never seen 'em" band. Remember when I complained about calling bands Pavement-esque? Well, shit. This band was Pavement-esque. Shouty dork-punk vocals. But with a quarter-cup of Barsuk and a generous dash of Elephant Six. I bounced around and had a great time. I wanted to buy a t-shirt even before they played, because they've gone on this baseball-card-themed kick. The t-shirt showed a drawing of a hand about to throw a two-seamed fastball. They had vinyl 7-inches that had the two-seam, the four-seam, and...oh, damn, I should know this one. I think it's a changeup. (ETA: After some research, I'm pretty sure it's a knuckle curve.) They even had baseball cards of themselves. And the sign for their merch was made out of a school-supplies-type folder with Kirby Puckett on it! Aw, Kirby...

Then Aqueduct. Their recorded music is Barsuk-label twee-rawk. Their live shows are just rawk. They just attack everything with a sledgehammer...and synth keys. For what might be the third time in a few weeks, I did something that could actually be called dancing. The cover of Warren G.'s Regulate (which samples Michael McDonald, so it's meta-bizarre...and meta-awesome!), which they've done before, was unbelievable. I was standing right next to the stage, which is six inches tall, so I was, like, nose to nose with these guys. So many favorite songs, rocked so hard...by the time I went home, the migraine was gone.

That was a few days ago. Tonight, totally on someone else's whim, I went to see Eliot Rose at Mississippi Pizza. He had a track on this year's PDX Pop Now compilation. His set was unbelievably adorable! A guy in a shirt and brown vintage-y tie, plus nerd glasses, reading passages that were like instructions to him from a 50s-era educational filmstrip about how he should interact with his audience. So funny! And then he did these incredibly charming songs that were often just him and an electric kalimba. You know, thumb piano. Except electric. He also had these looped synth bits, and three other guys that backed him up on some of the songs. The set was like pure, distilled joy fed through off-key vocals. Elephant Six, please give this man a call! It was his CD release show, and I had to have the CD.

But after a few days feeling fine, figuring I really had just tanked the immune system and a good night's sleep had solved the problem, I was genuinely feeling tonight like I was on my way to a full-blown cold. So I didn't stick around for the second band (made up mostly of the guys backing up Eliot Rose) and their CD release show. Gotta rest up for kickball, going to court (work, not pleasure), and a trip to Seattle for some Twins-Mariners fun. Sadly, Francisco Liriano won't be pitching Livan Hernandez's scheduled start on Monday, because I'd really love to see Franchise pitch. We'll see if I manage to sandwich in Run On Sentence at Towne Lounge on Sunday night.

Day Two! Day Three!

Huh...for once, it looks like, I'm going to finish something I started. As a volunteer for the festival this year, I promised myself I'd try to be a bit less...cutting...than usual in my commentary. So I will do my best not to make fun of the crowd. Except underwear guy. You just can't not make fun of a guy who leaves the last set on Saturday night stripped down to nothing but his navy-blue fruit-of-the-looms.

Saturday, day two, I started very early (I only missed two bands), because I really wanted to see Swim Swam Swum. I just saw them last month, and again, they were a metric shit-ton of fun, all bouncy, shouty dork-punk. I think my two favorite subgenres are dork-punk and goofball electronica. As I always give credit where credit is due, I'll admit that someone else coined the awesome description of them as Gordon Gano of the Violent Femmes fronting an early, pre-label seven-inch by The Police. Y La Bamba was beautiful, a little off-kilter, and had an accordion.

Missed The Tenses, and Andy Combs And The Moth, because I was being a band guide. Turns out I didn't get a beanie. But I helped people load and unload their stuff, and made sure they had towels and water, and got a couple of chuckles out of my line, "...and if you have any questions, I probably can't answer them, but I'll try to figure out who can." I continued to band guide through the next set, but also got to see the music. Sweater! is a two-man collaboration between Paul Alcott of Dat'r (and formerly of the Binary Dolls, a total spastic muppet) and...oh, I've forgottten her name, of Per Se. She's got a lovely, cute, shiny voice. Together, they provided more electro-goofy awesomeness, plus some adorable, too. They were followed by Bodhi, whom I remember liking but can't remember the set well enough to describe them (the peril of a 3-day, 48-band arrangement, I guess). When a friend who had gone home for a nap asked about the next band, A Ghost's Face Two Inches From Your Own Face (worst. name. ever.), I basically just grimaced and said, "Loud." And then I was done band-guiding (oh, I did help load in for the next set, because they were a bit short-handed, and because it involved being inside where AGF2IFYOF was not).

At this point, I went home and changed. I was incredibly sweaty. I was provided some lovely pesto pasta and green beans by the friend to whom I tersely described AGF2IFYOF, and after missing four bands (including, sadly, Reporter, formerly known as Wet Confetti), got my ass back in gear, damnit. Blind Pilot was...oh, damn, pretty good, but forgotten in the midst of all this other music. Living Proof was totally fun Beasties-like (but without the crazy samples) white-boy hip-hop. Turns out the two MCs scrounged up a DJ less than an hour before the show, and he was stellar (and bizarrely stone-faced). Portland Cello Project should have been fascinating, but they were far too quiet, and the folks that joined them onstage (they did a few with Loch Lomond) were therefore too loud. Memo to everyone everywhere (just in case): Never mike a cello with a mike on a mike stand. Get the clip-on one. Having seen, and attempted to describe, Loch Lomond several times now (they played the next set), I think I've got it down. It's a combination of Low-style slow-core with Irish girlfriend-died-in-a-tragic-fishing-accident dirge-ballads. I prefer the former to the latter. Ritchie Young of LL has a fascinating voice that ranges from bird-like to baritone. Atole was next...I can go ahead and describe it as Mexican/Native electro-dance, but it won't help. He was having so damn much fun onstage, and it was utterly infectious. Opening for Starfucker has to be the best slot ever. Think this guy's ever played to 600 people? Dear fire marshal: There were exactly 600 people. Not one more. I helped at the door for a while (probably mostly just distracted the people who were counting), and I can promise that it was an exact science, and that at any given time, the festival organizers were fully aware of exactly how many people were in the venue. It was amazing. (I am...uh...exaggerating isn't the word I'm looking for. Making shit up? Yeah, that's probably the right phrase.) And then, Starfucker. Holy fucking hell. Joy, and rock, and fun, and wildness, and charm, and I danced. Really, I did! Any band that can make me dance...they're something pretty special. This was the pinnacle of the fest.

Today, I started early again, because I was band-guiding for the second set. Missed the first two bands, and caught Meth Teeth, who are infinitely better than their awful name. They only did 15 minutes or so (bands were allotted 30, plus 10 between for changeover...it was amazing that anything was ever on schedule). I band-guided for Podington Bear, Grouper, and Mattress. Three one-man (or woman) experimental bands. Nobody needed a damn thing from me, for the most part. Can I help you carry your laptop? I'll take one end... Podington Bear has been doing wildly popular instrumental down-tempo electronica on the internet, and just got outed as Chad Crouch, who runs Hush Records. He put together a bunch of electro stuff as the backup music for local-Hush-records-illuminati kareoke. Various combinations of Nick Jaina, Adam Shearer, Rachel Blumberg, Ritchie Young, someone else from Loch Lomond, some other chick, Crouch himself (wearing a hood with bear ears)...oh, a few other people, too. REM (Everybody Hurts), Billy Idol (Eyes Without a Face), Elton John (Rocket Man), The Cure (Love Cats), Soft Cell (Tainted Love, of course). And, to cap it off, after much goading, Ross (a festival organizer) got up and did New Order (True Faith). Messy, horrifying, and fun as all hell. Grouper was a girl crosslegged on the floor of the stage, curled over her guitar with a two-foot-tall mike and an array of pedals in front of her. Echoey fuzz-noise stuff that was kind of nice. Mattress was this crazy-ass dude posturing and dancing and gyrating spastically as he melded electronica and classic rock-blues and fey british '80s whine-rock. I loved it.

Caught Cower, unintentionally. I meant to leave. Thrash metal with, apparently, Black Sabbath influences. I described it at the time as "There were probably a few months when I was 15 that I would have appreciated this, but then Nirvana came along, and I realized, 'This is what i was really looking for!'" Missed a band or two on a lunch/dinner run (there is no mid-afternoon equivalent to brunch, and there should be), and came back for some of Bark Hide and Horn. Portlandy indie-rock stuff, I liked them but need to see them in a different context to fully appreciate them, I think. At this point, my head was just full, and the only things getting my attention were over-the-top weirdnesses like Mattress. Oh, yeah, and that one conversation while waiting for lunch/dinner (linner? luncher?)...but that's probably a whole other post. Or a whole other blog. Or...yeah. Moving on. A Weather was slow, whispery, and mesmerizing. Fuzz-atmospheric folk? Finally saw Dragging An Ox Through Water, and he (it's one guy, a bandle) was...well, guy + acoustic guitar, all strummy, = folk, right? But, oh, all those electronic sounds, most homemade by altering other things...and the little keyboard rigged to hold long notes using quarters to hold the keys (I'd need to draw a diagram to explain how it worked, it was fascinating)...experimental noise weirdness. An indescribable, really cool pastiche of things that really shouldn't go together. Like that lime-cucumber-jalapeno popsicle I had at the farmer's market.

Skipped a few bands again. Went home to water my garden, and came back to catch a few minutes of Pure Country Gold (some kind of classic-rock-type rock, I think) before heading off down the road for a beer. Came back in time for The Warfield Experience. Had no idea what it was. Crazy-energy funk-R&B that inspired a mosh pit. I don't like funk or R&B, but it was impossible to resist. I danced like mad. I threw myself in the mosh pit. Caught a bit of Sandpeople, but it's hard to appreciate hip-hop when you can't hear the words. Norfolk and Western has gone nuts, and in a good way. Adam Selzer's become a guitar-rock god, and Rachel Blumberg's playing Janet Weiss, taking their alt-country circus to a new place entirely. A good place. Anyone remember when the Jayhawks released Sound of Lies, and they went from alt-country to some serious, loud, amazing classic-rawk sounds? This didn't sound like Sound of Lies, but the same descriptors apply to the whole process, but add "portlandy" and "2008".

And then I went home. Sorry, New Bloods, but I was wiped, and I have to work in the morning. And I didn't make the afterparty. I still only aspire to be the sort of person who rocks the afterparty.

Today, I would add the exclamation point even if it didn't belong there.

PDX Pop Now!

!

Day 1: I got up very early, in Eugene, OR (no, it wasn't on purpose, it was for a training). Four hours of sitting and listening to something I don't really buy into (after another three days of the same). Two-plus-hour drive, and I should have gone straight home, I really should have. But no...stupid bleeding heart...I went to a meeting. At child welfare. It was endless. It accomplished nothing.

I went home, scraped together some dinner, watched the Twins lose a fifth game in a row (ugh), then off to Rotture! Tu Fawning, Guidance Counselor, Dykeritz, Panther, Nick Jaina, Devin Phillips (funk-jazz, kind of new direction for this fest), and The Builders And The Butchers. Weird fun, crazy-ass goofy loud awesome, meh--weird, electro-wow!, great and energetic, really good but maybe a bit too '70s for my taste, and hyper-intense energy (in that order). Everything ended up running really late, so the show finally ended at 2:15, and TBATB had a stupid-drunk half-mosh-pit-half-jam-dance mess going on that detracted from the show. But overall, a great time was had by all. Or at least by me, and everyone else looked to be having fun, too. Before the evening's festivities, my brain hurt. After the show, my feet hurt. I'll make that trade any day.

To come: Two really full more-than-twelve-hour days of this! 38 more bands! And I'm volunteering tomorrow and Sunday for the festival. I get to be a band guide! I don't really know exactly what that entails, so I'm picturing myself as a Girl Guide (the european version of a Girl Scout), but with a rhythm section. Awesome.

Three Little Words

Turns out that there are three little words that indicate to me that it's going to be a truly ass-kicking show. Low side project.

But I'll start at the beginning. I...you know. Missed the opening band. As always. The Valiant Arms. I'm pretty sure I've missed seeing every band ever that has 'Arms' in the name. There's like a dozen of them.

The Obits followed. I had read the little blurb about the show that gets e-mailed out by the Doug Fir. Something about Pavement-esque garage rock. This show, if nothing else, demonstrated just how lazy it is to call anything with a garage rock element 'Pavement-esque'. Because they were nothing like Pavement. Pavement, god love 'em, rocked the wide-eyed indie-dork punk. The Obits, while probably technically garage rock, were totally late-'70s New York London-influenced (but also, though in that era I'm sure they'd rather die than admit it, also influenced by the Stones and Zeppelin) garage-proto-punk with some west-coast elements. I didn't so much listen to them as just end up infused by them. The rhythm-section barrage was as good as a massage. I wouldn't rush out to buy a CD, but the show itself was killer.

Then Retribution Gospel Choir. A side project of Alan Sparhawk from Low. Where the fuck does this guy get the energy and intensity? I almost felt sorry for Mimi, having to live with that, until he pulled off an astounding guitar solo played with his mouth. Then I was a bit jealous of her. It was...shit, I dunno. It was indescribable. Perhaps the best show I've seen all year. Perhaps the best show I've seen ever. Without question the best show I've seen without knowing a single song when I showed up. Incredibly intense and rocking, ranging from The Cars to some elements of Low (of course) to two songs that seemed totally like Kid Dakota (he's played with Low before) to a U2 guitar bit to...shit. I can't even...there are no words. Seriously, OMS is left without words to describe it. Raise your hand if you've seen me speechless before. Anyone?

But the best lyrics ever: "Everyone loves power, and everyone loves cake..."

I've seen a bunch of other shows I haven't had a chance to review yet, too. I feel like I'm missing several shows before this, but I simply can't remember. So I'll start with The Reverend Horton Heat at Wonder Ballroom. Went mostly because someone said, "hey, wanna go?" And if I don't answer at least 42% of questions with "why the hell not?" I feel like I'm missing a vital nutrient in my diet. Missed Supersuckers opening. A name I've heard, they've been around for years, but I don't know their stuff. Still don't. Followed by Nashville Pussy. Just...ick. Southern-rock/metal with nary a whiff of irony. Damnit, where's my irony? Ugly, loud, and vulgar. The Reverend Horton Heat was a ton of fun, surf-punk-rocka-punkabilly in varying degrees plus a totally unwarranted (and awesome as all hell) Nirvana cover. But...ugh, the crowd. Ugly. Physically ugly, behaviorally ugly...just ugly. And it was a 100-degree day with weak air conditioning.

The Maybe Happening, Candle, and Swim Swam Swum at the Doug Fir. Swim Swam Swum is one of those bands where I know the name, and know the music, and always fail to put the two together. Shining bouncy screamy cute punk-pop. I love it. Except that...oh dear, that's Nice Girl Guy on drums, isn't it? A sparsely attended show in a tiny room with nowhere to hide...I was resigned to being called a nice girl...and he never meets nice girls. But no! Either he's realized I'm not a nice girl (and was never nice to him, for certain), has realized that 'nice girls' aren't all that interesting, or has been shot down enough times he's finally decided not to try again. Did I see Candle? I don't remember. Maybe they were the opening-band-I-never-see. Maybe I just don't remember them (it was about a month ago...). And then The Maybe Happening. I've described them before, but they just keep getting better. And every damn time I see them, I develop a little bit of a crush on Nathan. It's not that he's attractive. I just can't help but look at him and think, "damn, imagine what he could do with all that energy..."

On the 4th of July, at the Doug Fir, I saw...well, there was an Opening Band (so you know how that went), then Fernando. Described as up-and-coming, someone who's garnered some important attention...seriously? They sounded like (and mostly looked like) a crappy suburban bar-band playing the far-flung "jazz-blues" club filled with baby boomers, who are really a cover band. Does someone like them because the lead singer sings in Spanish, which is exotic? I don't get it. At least they didn't cover Mustang Sally. And then Nick Jaina. He started with a bunch of newer stuff that isn't on released discs, and it was mostly low-key. It felt like Fernando had robbed them of their energy, or perhaps their relevance. But then things began to pick up. Nathan got down into the small crowd and talked individual people into singing along. They played Burning House. They played Fruit On The Vine. They got playful, fun, and a bit wild. It ended well. But Nick claimed they had to get up the next day to record live, so no encore. Sad.

I'm sure there are several shows I've forgotten to mention, and I can only hope that in forgetting, my joy (or my cynicism, or whatever) has left me, only to become a part of the ether, the collective unconscious. So if I no longer remember, you can tell me about it later.

I'm (Sorta) With The People Who Know The Band!

Which is kinda like knowing the band, which is kinda like being with the band, which is kinda like being in the band, which is kinda like being famous. Isn't it?

Got in FREEEEEE tonight to the PDX Pop Now! 2008 compilation CD release party! As a volunteer this year with PDX Pop Now, I got to be on the guest list. Entry to the show came with a free CD (actually, it's a two-disc set...it only retails for seven bucks, so go buy one, they're consistently awesome). Long-ass line, because Holocene is trying out the new mixed-all-ages OLCC rules. It took a while at the door for folks to show ID, get stamped and wristbanded, pay ten bucks (or talk to Seth if you were on the guest list...did I mention I was on the guest list? 'Cause, you know, I was. I saw the guest list. It was short. I was on it.), get a ticket for a compilation, then get directed to the right through the curtain if they didn't get a wristband, or up the ramp to the bar if they did. This is the first show under the new rules that I've been to (not all the venues are jumping on the bandwagon, and those that are are trying it out a little bit at a time, and I don't expect it to lead to any full-time all-ages venues). Holocene's got some pluses--it's divided into three areas already, and it's not necessary to go by the bar to get to the stage--and some minuses--the bar area is tiny, and has no attached bathrooms. There's also no way to divide the space so that it's possible to take a beer into the room with the stage. But I gotta applaud them for making it work, even if it isn't perfect.

I got to hang out with one of the PPN movers-and-shakers for a bunch of the evening, which was fun. I love walking in, being on the guest list, and just having my name checked off without having to tell them who I am (or spell my name...'Obscure' is easy enough, but the last name, 'Pfmusic-Snob', for some reason gives people all sorts of trouble). I also love hearing about how cool it's going to be to be a volunteer when the whole PPN festival rolls around!

So, yeah, besides the feeling-all-insidery stuff, there were bands, too. I got there for about 26 seconds of Fist Fite. I heard some from the sidewalk, too, as I was waiting for my turn through the rigamarole (doesn't it sound like a ride? It wasn't much like one). I can't actually describe them based on that (which doesn't sound like me, does it?). But worth hearing more. Some interesting sounds.

They were followed by Southern Belle. A bunch of kids who couldn't even get wristbands, but were tight, confident, and fun as all hell. A screamy keyboard player whose voice, at its best, sounded like early-Modest-Mouse Isaac Brock. A guitar player with a Rickenbacher I can only describe as cherry-vanilla sunburst, and a voice that, at its best (and its most uninterrupted by the screamy keyboardist) sounded like Lou Reed. Drummer hidden behind the two of them, and a female bass player in a ridiculous, fun strapless tiered periwinkle chiffon minidress. With all the energy onstage, she looked as if she were in slow motion, Still Life With Foofy Bass Player. But she was competent, so I'll forgive her for spending most of the time looking at her fingers.

After kind of a long wait, White Fang followed. With a name like that, I was afraid it'd be screech-metal, but no. Screamo punk with the occasional melodic interjection, with everyone running all over the stage smashing into each other. Actually not terrible, though their 20-minute set probably was just about enough for me.

I had a hellishly long day, preceded by a hellishly long yesterday. By 11:30, when White Fang ended, I just felt cooked and ready to go home. But I figured I'd at least check out the merch table, and got sucked in again by Seth from PPN. After chatting for a bit, I was going to go, but "Oh, come on, YACHT starts in ten minutes! Just stay for a few songs!" But YACHT is so damn fun! Toneless '80s-wannabe (and '80s-mocking) electro-dance-goofiness that I couldn't resist. I headbopped like mad. I finally tore myself away after six or seven songs. And sure, I haven't gone to bed yet, but I've gotten a lot closer. It's only 20 feet to my bed now, instead of three miles, and I'm in my pajamas.

Shhhhh! Or the Band That Almost Was.

First of all, this wasn't even my first-choice show. I intended to go out to Holocene for their 5th Anniversary show, free, with a ton of awesomeness including The Shaky Hands, Starfucker (the real reason I wanted to go, having seen them only-sorta once), Horsefeathers, and two DJs. Show at 9, I got there at 9:20, even the DJs hadn't started yet, and it was over capacity. The bouncers told us to give up hope and go elsewhere. Damnit.

I headed six blocks north to the "I totally would have planned to go to this show, but it conflicted with the other one" Matt Sheehy show. Pwrful Power opened, and I got there near the end of his set. A squeaky Japanese-by-way-of-Seattle deliberately-broken-english hilarious folk crooner with lyrics like "You're not really all that attractive, but I have a feeling we're meant to be together". The crowd was laughing awkwardly, like they knew they weren't supposed to be laughing out loud at an indie-folk-rock show at the Doug Fir, but they couldn't help themselves. Good stuff. Perfect opening band, fun and interesting but not something you would spend money to ensconce in your itunes lineup.

They were followed by The Brothers Young (or maybe The Young Brothers). Seven guys onstage without anyone leading the charge. The lyrics were pointless cliches. The hats made me think they'd been taking their fashion advice from Justin Timberlake. But the music had its moments, especially those moments it sounded like The Jam from early-'80's London. The throwback-to-proto-shoegazer bits were pretty stellar. But overall, they just didn't have a creative driving force. This band just needs to trade three or four mediocre middle infielders for a toolsy power hitter. (ETA: Turns out they're all related to someone-else Young, who heads Loch Lomond, and has played with them in the past. I guess they lost their toolsy guy to free agency.)

Matt Sheehy was pretty great. He had the dark-folk creepy-leaning vibe of John Vanderslice, but he sounded live like Vanderslice sounds recorded, so I imagine that Sheehy recorded is more polished and folky than what we heard. He had his rhythm-section-laden bits, but he did a set of three or four songs where the whole band sat on the stage floor in a circle with the lights off, too. During the midst of this set, I finally got off my perch and asked the bachelorette party behind me if, since they paid the cover to show up at a folk musician's show, they could respectfully keep it down. I was at my absolute most tactful and convincing, and for fuck's sake, convincing people of stuff is what I do for a living. The answer was that they each paid their seven bucks cover, and they could do what they wanted, fuck you. One of them walked by me a few minutes later and stopped to make grabbing motions with her fingers in my face while bitching (seriously, you need to come confront me after I've long since dropped the issue?), until finally I grabbed her wrist. ("Oh, oh, don't touch me!" Then keep your fingers out of the couple of inches in front of my eyes.) For crying out fucking loud, take your bachelorette party back to the nasty suburb you came from. I got a sympathetic look from the sound guy, but sadly, that's all the backup I got (I had three other patrons of the club on my side, but not any authority other than the "sorry it sucks" look when I mouthed "can you do anything about these people" to the sound guy).

How much does it suck that this is what I remember as much as or more than the music? I mean, holy hell, I'm 33 years old, and I have never in my life been in a bar fight. I really don't think this is my fault, and I want my seven dollars back.

Loooooove! Or antidepressants.

I had a tough but rewarding week. Or the sun coming out for a day or two really made the drugs kick in. Whatever. Anyhow, I left work on Friday evening full of love and joy and optimism. I was so optimistic, in fact, that based on the headliner, I went out to the White Eagle.

The White Eagle is a beautiful space with an amazing history. It's a well-restored-and-well-modernized/hippie-ized spot that used to have Shanghai Tunnels in the basement and a brothel on the second floor. When I first came to Portland and stayed for a week to look for a place to live, I stayed in a room upstairs at the White Eagle, carefully balancing in my mind the astoundingly cheap and beautifully decorated tiny room (and the charming ghost stories) with the constant music noise bleeding up from the bar until 2 am. I will always love the place. But I haven't been there since. Of all the McMs' hippie ventures, it may be the one most devoted to hippie-country-folk-rock stuff that makes me want to shove sharp things in my ears. But tonight, it was headlined by Jared Mees and the (whatever follows Jared Mees this time), all indie-awesome-reputation folk-rock-indie-awesomeness-whatever. For five bucks. Sign me up.

I got there, and with the 30-minute set-break-tuning-sound-check, I figured I must be there for the first band. It was like 9:45, and if the first band was just getting their sound-check shit started right now, I wasn't happy about it. But no, I missed Old Money. Given the quality of the rest of the set, I'm not sure whether I should be disappointed that I didn't get a 4th band in this stellar lineup or happy that nothing brought it down.

First band I saw was called Saw Holly Fam'ly. There are almost zero bands I've ever enjoyed called anything family, and none before now called fill-in-the-blank Fam'ly. They were two bands getting together for the first or second time, Saw something and something Fam'ly (didn't catch which had the Holly bit). Messy, tentative, and mismatched. But wow. It started with an a capella duet between the two girls (who seemed to comprise the something-fam'ly band) whose voices were totally mismatched, but both interesting. The alto was much more suited to a low mike and a small venue, and was also better dressed. She was in a little black dress that I might also own (it looks like one I snagged at Ross for 14 bucks before an event that unquestionably required a little black dress, and I love it), and looked all laid-back-cool in the haircut I should have and the Mona-Lisa half-smile. The mezzo combined a horrible dyed-red bangs-and-layered-waves country-1997 look with a black-and-white polka-dot dress and bright-fuchsia footless lace-edged tights and high heels in a this-isn't-a-flute-it's-a-baton-in-a-small-town-marching-band disaster look. And an odd mouth that was turning down at the corners just waiting for her to lose some teeth. But the thing is, her voice, too, was awesome in a dark-twang sorta don't-know-my-place way. Her higher-pitched, stronger-toned voice was miked too hot, and she knew it, so she kind of stepped back and kind of whispered. The alto was warm and soft, and mostly fit well, either balancing her or melding nicely with the male vocal from Saw-whatever. His voice was like a kazoo through a mute, like singing trumpet in a whisper, unique and marvelous. But too quiet next to the strong, piercing mezzo. Just a mixing/practicing/voice effects issue.

This first band had not only the nasal kazoo/mute voice and the overdressed girls and the a capella duet, but also flute, cello, a tiny leather-briefcase glockenspiel, and a tiny ukelele/guitar/12-string-mandolin-thingy called a turango. Messy, in need of some direction and some sound management and some practice and...probably lots of other things, but no complaints at all. Dark country-funk-indie-folk-whatever joy.

(Where does the music come from on a flute? She had her mouth next to the mic, but that didn't seem right at all...is it the holes controlled by the fingers? The very end?)

The second band, Church, I initially judged when they were warming up. And there was the one uber-skinny guy in a purply-maroon velvet jacket with the drug-addled hair...seriously? And then the three guys and two moogs were warmed up, and the jacket was discarded. He was really funny using all the X and S sibilant words he could think of to sound check (Michael J. Fox, Sexual safari, Flux capacitor!). And then the music. Messy, ambient, all Radiohead meets Thom-Yorke-With-A-Lobotomy (by which I mean Coldplay) meets early goth-like Joy Division and The Jam meets beep-boop-space-alien-electronica. Plus occasional harmonium and lap-steel guitar. Again, they seemed uncomfortable with their mikes. I bought a 3-dollar CD-R (they have a third "CD" coming out! They've been together six months!) which is jaw-dropping given the source.

Finally, Jared Mees and the Grown Children (the moniker they've been using recently), who had been renamed Jared Mees and...shit, I got drunk and I lost my notes. But they were as joyful as the other two bands, loud I-was-here-for-grunge guitar (and clothes) with a folk-blues beat and playful vocals. And I went home even happier than I started. Damn, it was a good start to the weekend, and I went home bubbling over with all sorts of love and marvelousness and joy in everything. And I promise more about Jared Mees if I can find my notes (and read my drunken writing...).

This is hard.

So, after much political manoeuvering and social finagling (okay, I e-mailed the volunteer coordinator), I get to be a listener for the PDX Pop Now! compilation this year. Please do not send bombs to my blog. I will, however accept pastry or savory baked goods. Any combination of baked goods with bacon will get extra consideration.

This is much harder than it seems. First of all, all the tracks have been sanitized of all identifying information except...damn, do I know that voice? Second, it turns out that liking a song takes a few listens, while hating it can be done in...well, most of the time I get all the way through the song, but sometimes I can't quite manage that. And third, though this makes me sound a bit incompetent, I've got a long list of track/vote/track/vote/track/vote. After I've skipped a few votes (see problem the second), it's easy to get confused. There's no notable visual marker to indicate whether the vote goes with the song above it, or below it. Though to my knowledge, I've only screwed that up once.

The current track only took about 20 seconds before it merited a no. The nos are easy. Next!

I've got about 85 tracks to listen to. I've voted no a bunch of times, yes a few times, and skipped a ton of songs for a second listen. And I need to get it all decided by this weekend (when my votes will be compiled with a bunch of other people's...so again, don't bother with the bombs, but I'm happy to accept pastry). Wish me luck.

Eye Contact Shows, with Morrissey

This week I've been to two small, very intimate shows in which the artist could have made eye contact with nearly everyone in the audience. It doesn't get better than that.

Last sunday was Nick Jaina at Towne Lounge (I was at TL the previous night, so I don't need to repeat my rants about the place, but I'll note that this night was significantly less smoky than the previous night) with...oh, crap, this is why I shouldn't wait to write about these things. Oh! I remember! Michael the Blind was first. He does gorgeous, usually quiet pretty-folk with a bit of an edge to it. It was a Willie-Week-interviews-the-artists! deal (oh dear, did I just use the word 'deal' to mean 'thingy'? I skipped turning into my mother and went straight for turning into grandma, I guess), but I didn't get there early enough to see the interview with Mr. The Blind. That was followed by two guys from Shoeshine Blue (acoustic guitar and upright bass). I didn't like Shoeshine Blue the first time I saw them (I believe I described them as Borders-Bookstore folk), but this combo was grittier and bluesier, and it was fine. Nothing like "gotta rush out and see 'em again" but at least I won't cringe next time I see the band's name or anyone from the band appearing between two acts I really want to see.

I felt just a little bit bad for the kind of clueless chick from the WWeek who interviewed Nick. She did okay with the other two guys, but she just seemed unprepared to talk to Nick, and he didn't make it easy on her. Sometimes she just rambled ("Is there a question in there?") and sometimes she asked yes-or-no questions, which Nick answered with yes or no. It was pretty funny, and I have to admit, it's a joy to watch someone take their own mild social awkwardness and use it to make someone else look silly. I've mentioned the pleasure I take in schadenfreude, I'm sure. Nick didn't do his typical "solo" show, he actually played solo. A bunch of it was at the piano. I'm probably the only person who really, truly loves the sound of an off-key bar piano, but there's just something lo-fi and personal about it. (Maybe it's because I had an old, beat-up upright piano when I was a kid (I think it was made of plywood and spray-painted the greyish-pinkish-beige of a three-day-old corpse), and it never got tuned after it was moved from my grandma's house to my house. Three of the keys didn't work, they just made a dull thud.) It was a marvelous show. The highlights: There was a new song, about a woman named Helen Hill in New Orleans after the hurricane (some political significance, people marched on the mayor's office, but I didn't quite follow the story). And Nick somehow managed to merge from The Mercy Of His Arms into The Smiths' (Morrissey's?) Panic On The Streets Of London (hang the DJ hang the DJ hang the DJ), all slow and serious and acoustic. Kick. Fucking. Ass.

Nick gave me a hard time about not showing up for the CD release shows at Mississippi Studios a couple of days before, and I know after getting an advance copy of the CD from him, the least I could do was pay the cover for a show, but I'm utterly and indescribably broke right now, so I went to the free show at the Towne Lounge instead. Guilt aside, I'm glad that's the show I saw. He's heading off on a really impressively extensive kinda-nationwide tour, and I made sure he had some info about Minneapolis/St. Paul and a musician-friend of mine's name/number/e-mail for when he goes through the Twin Cities. I've also insisted that two people go to his shows there, and for several other people it's (technically) optional but highly encouraged. If you know anyone who lives...well, pretty much anywhere except the southeast, check Nick's itinerary. Make people go to his shows, and better yet, help him find a laundromat/coffee shop/bar/place to eat/some radio promotion while he's in their town.

This afternoon, I went to Jackpot Records' new space on Hawthorne for a free, tiny solo show by Colin Meloy. I got there pretty early, and managed to make my way to a front corner of the room. I staked out my spot...and immediately had to pee. Crap, I can't go anywhere now! So I admit, I was a bit impatient and antsy through the show, marvelous though it was. He seemed to be having fun, pulling out random requests and songs he didn't actually remember how to play, bumbling his way through them and joking and laughing throughout, sometimes stopping his rhythm guitar part to try to pick out the solo, sometimes just singing it. He told some stories, when he could fit them in before audience members shouted out requests (Shut up! You can hear the songs at a Decemberists show, but Colin telling stories is something you only get here). He played a Morrissey/Smiths cover that's not on his recorded EP, Ask (Ask me ask me ask me...) which was incredibly fun despite his one chord/one note guitar part (it's actually more fun when he points that out and explains how that happens, then apologizes to Johnny Mars). There was an acoustic version of A Perfect Crime that he described as "the Steely Dan version from before we got all New-Wave on it," different chords and rhythms, that was a brilliant, fascinating and messy take on my favorite track from The Crane Wife. He (barely) managed to get all the way through the three-song cycle from The Crane Wife that starts with Come And See (that might not even be the name of part one of that song), and the lack of grace, style, or even accuracy somehow added to the experience. He'd point out his mistakes and verbally correct himself in mid-song ("I figured it out--it's a D7!" the third time through that particular verse). It was like hanging out in the guy's living room watching him practice.

These are my kind of shows. There are some of you out there who want a polished, practiced, and perfected stage show, and you're frustrated when artists don't seem on top of what they're doing. You folks can shell out for your stadium shows by your major label bands. But those kinds of shows leave me broke...I mean, leave me cold. Two free eye-contact shows in a week, both with banter and mistakes, sounding nothing like the album tracks, is the best thing I can imagine.

The Guys-Who-Lead-Other-Bands Show

Tonight I went out to a show featuring three guys-with-acoustic-guitars-who-normally-lead-other-bands, and some fourth guy-with-an-acoustic-guitar (-bass hybrid). The show was at Towne Lounge, an interesting little place. It's got this air of a prohibition-era speakeasy, invisible from the street, only marked by a signboard on the sidewalk when they have a show (and by a backlit plastic sign over the door that simply says LOUNGE, which initially convinced me it was another of Portland's many strip clubs when it first opened near my old apartment). This speakeasy vibe is enhanced by the ornate, heavy wooden door with a swing-open little window in it. With the window closed, it looks just like a very elaborate door. With the window open, you expect furtive eyes to look out, and ask you for the password. (Cheese it, it's the cops!) Luckily, since I didn't have a password, I only had to give the guy at the table inside six bucks instead. Inside, it's got some interesting elements, including the funky coved ceiling and the hand-carved-looking piano that reminds me of the piano in the made-for-tv version of The Piano Lesson (that sentence, in retrospect, amuses me greatly). Sadly, though, for the most part, it's a smoky shithole. I don't know what it is that the smoking-allowed music venues in town all seem to be covered in crappy sharpie graffiti (though here it's primarily confined to the dingy bathroom). For christ's sake, it's a tiny acoustic music venue, what's with the graffiti? And in this tiny room, I'm pretty sure I was the sole non-smoker in the whole place. I was all excited, because I'm broke right now, and I remembered that Towne Lounge used to have the stubbie bottles of Session for two bucks...but no longer. Their cheap beer is Miller High Life in a can. Uh, no, thanks. Really.

I got there just as one of the musicians took the stage. I had, most likely, missed the first guy, then. Lucky for me, they didn't play in the order they had been listed. I missed the one guy that isn't associated with another band. I was reading the WillieWeek on and off during the show, and they actually previewed this show, pointing out that the one I missed, Justin Power, played some sort of homemade guitar-bass hybrid. I was disappointed I missed him just because I would have liked an image in my head to go with that phrase. The guy who played when I got there was Nicholas Delffs, who heads The Shaky Hands. His voice is unmistakable. Interestingly, once you take the pop and rock elements out of the equation, and it's just him and an acoustic guitar, he almost sounds less like a hippie than he does with the band. I really enjoyed the set. It was all folk-rock...well, ah, no, that's not quite it...rock-folk...shit. Have you ever tried to describe Neil Young before? Turns out you can't do it without making him sound wimpy and annoying. Apparently words don't do him justice. So I'll describe Delffs by saying he sounded a hell of a lot like Neil Young throughout the set. But like Neil Young's prettier, more wistful sounds, not his angry-young-man (become angry-old-man, but not of the "get off my lawn!" variety) stuff.

The next guy, by process of elimination, must have been Ryan Sollee of The Builders And The Butchers. See review of them below. Of the three guys I saw, he was the only one who didn't sound so distinct that I could immediately associate him with his band. Of course, I've only seen TBATB once, but their "swamp-blues" (WillieWeek's words) stomp-along dark wildness had little in common with this straightforward 70's-ish white-boy blues/blues-rock. It was okay, mostly just kind of cliched. The guy would have an interesting, unique voice, except that it sounds just. exactly. like some other voice in 70's white-boy blues/blues-rock, but I could never quite put my finger on who. Eh. It was okay.

Last up, Justin Ringle of Horsefeathers. I didn't recognize any of the songs, but I only own the very early HF demo, so I don't know if he was playing HF songs or not (Delffs did not seem to play any Shaky Hands songs, and I don't know about Sollee, but he did play a couple of requests for songs he hadn't played in years). But he sounded just exactly like he does in Horsefeathers, with that incredibly unique warm-fuzz voice and perfect pretty-folk, but even more spare without violin, saw, and another voice. Beautiful, and soothing (which was great, since the smoke and the smokers were making me irritable). And what the hell was the WillieWeek talking about, his voice sounding like....oh, damn you, WillieWeek. I might never have heard that if it weren't for you. Tracy Chapman. I didn't hear it until a handful of songs in, and then I could never quite shake it. Thanks a lot, WillieWeek. Crap. I preferred it when all I heard to compare it to was Sam Beam's voice (of Iron and Wine). But still, it was lovely and a nice note to end on. He also noted that they're just finishing up a new HF disc, which is definitely something to look forward to.

With four sets, I expected the show to go quite late, but there was little changeover time (how long could it take to get your acoustic guitar offstage and get the next acoustic guitar set up?) and they were all fairly short sets, so I was pleasantly surprised to be home by about 12:30. And I'm ready to do it again tomorrow, same time, same place, for Nick Jaina!

Nice Egg Hat.

Rotture. I hate this venue. It has so much damn potential. The second floor of an old industrial/warehouse site, with amazing brick walls and steel I-beams. A lovely deck overlooking the river and downtown. It could be so fucking great. But instead, it's one of the few music venues in town that still allows smoking. I was impressed at first with how many smokers were trained well, and went out to the deck to smoke though they didn't have to, but after a while they all got lazy. It's stuffed full of weird-ass ugly creepy people. And every surface is covered with sharpie graffiti tags. Not graffiti art, not something the venue has invited or commissioned, just the pissing-on-a-fire-hydrant territory-marking shit. The atmosphere just seems so ugly, reeking of cloves and permanent marker, like shitty-ass places I could have hung out when I was seventeen but chose not to, for the most part. The crowd was so utterly strange, all sorts of sundresses, furs, and boots (I get the furs and boots, though if I owned an interesting fur, I wouldn't wear it to a stinky shithole like that...but sundresses? I counted 15 before I lost count, and damn, it's cold for Portland tonight, 30 degrees and the threat of snow), but also snaggle-toothed dingy people in ill-fitting, grimy hoodies drinking Hamm's (did you know Hamm's still existed? I sure didn't.). And if you wear your bluetooth headset to a bar? You're an absolute tool. And then if you make me move from my seat so you can play pinball, then take over my seat when you're done...what's a few steps beyond absolute tool?

And the worst part, "Show at 9" meant doors, not show. Most of the other venues in town have finally gotten a system down, where they'll either say "doors at...show at" or "show at" and that's when the first band takes the stage. Rotture hasn't gotten the memo. So I sat there for a good 45 minutes before the music started, listening to (well, feeling as much as hearing) the incredibly loud vibrating dance music bass coming from downstairs. Luckily, it didn't bleed to the front of the room by the stage. This was at least interesting...while I was sitting and waiting, an already-drunk couple addressed me, she in a sundress and he in a black-and-white checkerboard boot-length fake fur (Prince? Or a '90's club kid? Who knows...) and she told me I was gorgeous, and he said something that sounded like "I like your egg hat!" I wasn't wearing a hat, or eggs of any kind, much less an egg hat. It wasn't 'til an hour later that I realized that he must have said "I like your necklace." I so rarely wear extra jewelry that this just didn't occur to me. (I was wearing a cheap plastic cameo that I bought at Target for $3.94...never ever has $3.94 bought me as many compliments as this little crappy piece of plastic and beads--someone even once pretentiously asked me if it was Wedgewood.)

So it's pretty impressive, in such a dismal venue, that tonight's show made me so crazy happy. Portland incest of the highest degree--Nick Jaina (with Nathan Langston in his band, as well as six other people from eight or ten other bands), followed by Dat'r (the two other people in the Binary Dolls with Nick), then The Maybe Happening (Nathan Langston's band, playing their CD release party for a CD Nick produced, and Nick and three or four other people who were in his band supported them onstage). Was Nathan trying to reunite Nick and the Dat'r boys, get Binary Dolls working together again? Will it work? Please, please, please?

Nick Jaina first. Lately, every time I've seen him, he's had eight people on stage. I've said it before, but...this is his solo project? Nick on vox and guitar, Ali on backup vox/clarinet/accordion, Nathan on violin and shouting (and conducting the audience into shouting along), plus guitar, upright bass, vibes/percussion, trumpet/bass clarinet, and drums. Great show, high energy from beginning to end, but not a single song from the new disc. Marvelously dark and dynamic, though, truly awesome. I say this over and over, but every time, the songs are different. One intro had me thinking they were about to launch into a U2 cover (where the streets have no name, maybe?) before it became something familiar (Red Queen, I think, though it may have been a different one). Just imagine having so many songs in you that you can lead two bands, play songs from one of them, play nothing off your new album, and still have new songs to play.

Dat'r...well, there are about three bands out there that can induce me to do something approximating dancing. They're one of them. You can still see the hipstergeek head-bob-foot-tap underneath, but superficially, it's almost like dancing! There was one guy who really did know how to dance, almost b-boy-like, but he stayed on his feet, no handstands or backspins. So I don't know what to call him. But he was fun to watch. Nick Jaina even waggled his skinny hips for three or four seconds...who knew he had it in him?

And then The Maybe Happening. They're usually three guys, but tonight they had as many as eight people on stage. Nick joined them and played bass (like rawk-god bass, no less), random percussion, and keyboard, and he actually grinned and looked like he was having a shit-ton of fun. He's usually so damn serious, so it was really awesome to watch him grin and laugh, not just once or a little, but like crazy. Nathan, as always, was buoyantly wild and nuts, and played his violin like a rock guitar, like I always got in trouble for in the high-school orchestra (no, I wasn't pogo-ing up and down and screaming darling lyrics, but whenever Ms. Director was talking, and I was going over the hard parts pizzicato with the instrument tucked under my arm, I got yelled at). This band has so ridiculously much going on. The couple in front of me managed to combine pogo-moshing and the twist at one point...and that was the perfect set of moves for this band. I heard math metal, doo-wop, ska (this usually isn't there, but they had a horn section tonight), early Pavement with maybe a little very early Weezer thrown in, early punk-ass Modest Mouse (especially in the screamy vocals over orchestral-instruments-gone-wild), and a billion other things. I even had a little almost-dancing left in me after Dat'r.

And then I snagged a poster and went home. Where the reality of the Johan trade crashed down on me once again, but at least I had pretty-blond-bowler to chat with about the show, and of course, you all, my imagined audience, to talk to.

Gotta rant a moment here.

Johan Santana got traded yesterday. It was made official today. I don't know if we got a handful of magic beans...or a hill of beans. Four prospects. No major-league-ready pitcher. No major-league-ready center-fielder. I don't think much of anything would have made me happy to lose El Presidente, Mr. Cy, the best player in baseball. So I don't know if I'm just grousing or if I'm genuinely upset that we didn't get enough.

Some folks I know started talking about this deal, and discussing how player loyalty has fallen by the wayside. Someone started talking about fan loyalty...do we even deserve Johan's love?

"We sometimes talk about how players should have loyalty to the team but we don't seem to have problems saying things like, "the Twins need an upgrade at this position," or to use an example we all remember, "When are the Twins going to just dump Ponson's sorry ass?" We all invest something looking for something in return."

I read this as saying that we, as fans, demand loyalty, but somehow aren't loyal in return. That wanting "something in return" (for our team to try to be the best it can be) is somehow different than, and less than, loyalty. In return, I want my team to try to do their best. I want the front office to recognize genuine weaknesses and try to remedy them. I want the coaching staff to realize that some things aren't working and try to change them. I want to be able to get excited about successes, and to be able to worry about difficulties and mourn failures. It's easy to be "loyal" to a team that wins every year and has a damn good shot at the playoffs. But what happens if they have a bad year? Real loyalty is still loving a team that isn't perfect, and knowing they aren't perfect, being utterly clear-headed about their weaknesses, but loving them anyway. I love the Twins, but I know they have weaknesses. I admire Kansas City fans, but if they don't sit around every offseason saying, "I have hope that this massive change will happen, and it will fix what we all know is seriously wrong with this team," then it's not loyalty, it's blind belief in the impossible.

In exchange, even when the Twins have a losing year, or a losing decade (okay, almost decade, between 1991 and 2001), I will find every upside and every bright side. I won't pretend I have no idea something's wrong. But I'll find those young Toriis and Jacques and get excited about their potential. I'll read the box scores, listen to the games on the radio, listen online, watch online...wherever technology takes me, I'll be there, cheering. When I sit down at a coffee shop in small-town virginia (sure, it won't likely happen again, but I don't know where I'll be next time the Twins are starting from the very bottom) and someone tries to take my sports section away and I tell him, "hey, I'm reading that!" and he quizzes me...'where's Cuddyer from?' 'Virginia.' 'Where's Hunter from?' 'Pine Bluff, Arkansas.' I'll know the answers. I'll be at that debut game where Torii hit the wall in center field, fell down, got up, threw to home, and got the guy out (I'm pretty sure that was opening day in 1997, at least I have the baseball from that game, and I remember the play, and I put the two together), and I'll be overjoyed, but it won't stop me from saying that the team has no pitching. (ETA: A little research suggests to me that the game I'm thinking of was opening day of 1999, as Torii only played seven games before that, none of them on opening day.) I'll be there, every step of the way, up and down, and I won't pretend it's all up. To me, that's loyalty. Not to pretend the team has no weaknesses, but to know the weaknesses, recognize them, point them out, but to still be there every day anyway. Fan loyalty isn't to pretend Ponson's a hero, but to say, "Dump Ponson. He sucks. But I love the team every day anyway. I'll be a fan every day Ponson's on the team, but please dump him because he will never be any good for the team I love."

Goodbye, Johan. I want to wish you all the best, but it's hard, when I also want baseball to right itself, and come back down to earth. You're amazing, and one of the best things to happen to baseball this decade. But your contract with the Mets may be one of the worst things to happen to baseball. I wish you loved us enough to stay for four years, $21 million a year. I wish Pohlad had offered you close to what you're worth. But I'll still love my team, knowing all the while they'd be better with you on it.