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.