obscure music snob

Last Days Of Pompeii

2011-06-19T23:20:00.000-07:00

Grant Hart played the East End last night. Grant Hart! I'd never been to the East End, and it seems they cater a lot to hardcore and punk bands. First, I want to describe the venue a bit. It's been a number of things over the years, with a ton of '90s and early 2000s Portland bands having fond memories of the place under various monikers (The Rabbit Hole is the only one I can remember). I expected a grungy, dirty hole along the lines of the (now defunct) most recent incarnation of Satyricon, Rotture, or the bathrooms at Backspace. Instead, it was rather a nice little place. A small upstairs room with really nice wood floors and vintage 1960s touches like Danish wood-framed mirrors and a padded-vinyl black portable bar (that's probably the dj stand). Big open stairs take up a lot of the upstairs room, and go down to another room full of nice vintage furniture and candles on the table, plus a foosball table. Not nearly enough bars have foosball. A hallway heads off to the bathrooms (these are the as-expected incredibly gross and dingy ugliness, the only place that met that expectation), and strangely, passes a little vintage clothes-records-and-stuff shop that is only open 4 pm-midnight Thursday to Sunday (timed to coincide with when people are downstairs in the East End, I guess). I bought a green and yellow polyester dress for a dollar, and if I had a few hundred dollars to spare I could have gone nuts there. Finally, there's a small room downstairs with another bar that's the show venue, with an eight-inch-high platform as the stage. Dark, but not dirty.

Drunk Ladies opened up. From down the hall in the vintage shop (man, they had some great stuff!), it didn't sound like my thing. Heavy and maybe a little proggy. Cheap Meats was next. They were actually a lot of fun, all classic early shouty punk done pretty well (if appropriately sloppy). Then, surprisingly, much of the crowd cleared out. The 20 or so people that were left were there for the same reason I was. Grant Hart is a fucking legend. One of the two songwriters in Husker Du, and later made a little (very little) splash with his band Nova Mob, Grant's been pretty much just covering his Husker Du and Nova Mob songs, alone with a guitar, for twenty years or so. Almost every song was familiar, and I haven't seen him in at least ten years. I'm not sure I can even say he's a great musician or anything anymore, but the songs still make me all warm and happy. He's a weird guy, I didn't understand any of his stage banter, but I sang along with all the songs.

Dancing In The Dark

2011-02-27T00:25:00.000-08:00

Pretty great show tonight at Backspace. Forbidden Friends opened up, their first show ever. It's sorta a Thermals side project, if they all just stood up one day and moved one instrument to their left (except that Maggie Vail sits in, too). Not surprisingly, very much like The Thermals, but slightly lower key, sometimes a little poppier, and with a little less vitriol. I liked it. They played four songs.

Ted Leo (solo, no Pharmacists) headlined this show. One of the Lovely Boyfriend's favorite bands. I started thinking a lot about how I integrate bands into my favorites, and why I have such a hard time embracing other people's favorite bands. Because this is clearly something I should love. Typically, when I come at a band on my own, I hear a song or two. And I like that song or two, sometimes right away and sometimes after many listenings. Then I buy a CD. I listen to it in order. It has a flow, and one song cues the next in my mind. Then I buy another CD, and I integrate that into my mind and my music life. Then another. Sometimes this is at the pace of the artist's creation, like Menomena. I learn their music catalog in their order, at their pace, starting at the beginning. Sometimes it's in my own order, at my pace. I'll reluctantly admit that I came to Spoon really late to the party. I knew a bunch of songs, but didn't realize what they were, and then one day, I just took a leap and bought...oh, where did I start? Gimme Fiction, or Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, whichever came first. And then the other one. Then another, and another, until I had integrated it all. When someone else loves a band, the music comes at me all disorganized. It's like what I hate about poorly-done college radio. You don't know what it is, you don't hear it very often, and you may never hear it again.

All this is a long, meandering way of saying that I think I really like Ted Leo. As often as the punk moniker gets attached to him (as often by himself as by anyone else, from what I can tell), my impression all along was that it wasn't the right primary descriptor. The solo show made it confirmed for me this impression I've never been able to fully articulate...he's a singer-songwriter at heart (but not in a bad way!), but with a higher average BPM. Charming lyrics of moderate-to-high complexity, filled with clever turns of phrase, mostly major key...heck, my mom would have loved this stuff. The closest punk comparison is mid- to late Replacements without so many ballads (no Here Comes A Regular), but he's way smarter. He fires off lyrics like Elvis Costello, so many words fit into a line that there's no reason to put the rhyming words on the downbeats. Oh...and he was really nice about bumping into me and almost, but not quite, making me spill my beer. A couple of fun covers, The Waterboys' Fisherman's Blues and Springsteen's Dancing In The Dark, and references all over the place. I heard The Jam, Neil Young, the aforementioned Elvis Costello, and things probably too obscure to call a reference but made sense in my head, like John Vanderslice. It was a pretty good show.

What Have I Been Doing Lately?

2011-01-31T21:50:00.000-08:00

This time of year, just when I most need some excitement, it gets hard to drag my ass out to shows. By the time I would leave the house, it's been dark for four hours already, and getting off the couch seems like work. I've been to a couple of things over the last month or so. A friend's party with some good music. New Year's Eve at Mississippi Studios with Dirty Mittens (great!), Ramona Falls (one of my favorites), and Heliosequence (good).

A recent theme that is not making this project any easier is shows starting totally late. A couple of weeks ago, I went to see Wild Flag at Bunk Bar. We got there way early, figuring the place would be packed, and knowing that Bunk Bar sandwiches are better than anything we could have concocted at home for dinner. I'm a pretty good cook, but damn. Those are good sandwiches. I got a grilled cheese, because I had eaten something and wasn't very hungry. The grilled cheese was pretty ordinary, but the lovely boyfriend got a squash sandwich with bacon, and it was amazing. I actually went back the next day for a sandwich because I was so disappointed that I hadn't been hungry enough for one of their real, serious creations. We got there at 7:30, figuring people would be lined up, or at least start pouring in shortly thereafter. No, it was pretty sparse there. Glad we misestimated that way, rather than the other way, I guess. The first band didn't start until after 10:00! Late. Drew Grow and the Pastors' Wives were supposed to open, but Drew Grow had apparently been in a pretty bad car accident (everyone who mentioned it said he'd be fine but had broken a bone or two), so Ramona Falls had stepped in to replace them. Their NYE show was a bit more dynamic, but Brent Knopf is always awesome. I loved that the stage was lit only by a utility light (you know, a bare bulb at the end of an extension cord, with a plastic cage and a hook) that was just laid on the floor of the stage. This was Ramona Falls' first show since Brent announced he was leaving Menomena, or in other words, their first show as Brent's main project. Wild Flag spent a lot of time setting up, and hung the utility light from the rafters. So damn bright! I guess they had someone filming. I have to admit, my first thought about WF was, "Gee, another band that wants to sound like Sleater-Kinney....oh, wait..." As the set went on, they became tighter and just looked like they were all having lots of fun. Even Janet Weiss had this big, genuine grin on her face. By the end, I was really enjoying it.

A couple of nights ago, I went to see a show at Branx. Not normally a venue I would go to, but it was to see The Thermals. I don't get that opportunity nearly enough! The show had been changed from the 20th to the 28th, and the door time on the website had been changed from 8 to 7. We got there at 7, and there was a line. Doors weren't open. We waited a few minutes, got bored and cold, and went to Produce Row for a beer. We went back to Branx about 8, and the line had gotten really really long. But about 8:20, it was clear that doors weren't at 8, either. I'm a huge proponent of all-ages music in theory, but I have to say, I'm not always a fan of hanging out with high school kids, especially as they stand in line, showing off for each other and practicing smoking cigarettes (they weren't very good at it). So we went off to La Merde for another drink and some Trivial Pursuit questions. We were back at 9, and they were just starting to let people in. We got in line, and slowly moved inside. Guidance Counselor was just starting to set up. I love Guidance Counselor. As much fun as they were when they were messy nerd-punk wildness, as the band gets tighter, it's just as fun and maybe even more so. Ian's got this total art-school-rock Devo/early Talking Heads thing going on now, which is just amazing. They finish up, and I start listening to some of the chatter around us. "Did you see Wampire?" "No, did they play already?" "I heard they played at 9, were you in yet?" What the fucking fuck? The first band played before the audience was in the venue?

I understand why all-ages music isn't doing well in this town, if that's how shit gets run.

I was terribly disappointed I missed Wampire! I've only seen them once, and it was a super-short set at PDX Pop Now! this past summer. Not that this set was much longer (and on the same stage, actually).

Last up, The Thermals. They've got marvelous energy, and it seems to emanate from Kathy Foster's hair. Sorry, Paul Alcott, but your hair is maybe only #2 in town for most amazing to watch during a set. They may not have been as into their set as I've seen them, but they don't put on a bad show. They've got really good and great, and this show was really, really good.

On a side note, the place has been cleaned up a bit. a few new "walls" (framing and drywall that goes partway to the ceiling), a small bar area for the 21-and-up crowd, a nicer stage with an enclosed backstage area. Oh, and some spray-insulation on the ceiling, perhaps to minimize noise from Rotture upstairs. The bathrooms looked kinda clean, too, at least upstairs in Rotture, with some of the graffiti covered up and real locks on the (still handmade plywood) stall doors. Things that still need to be fixed: Doors at 7 should not mean doors at 9. Doors at 9 should not mean first band starts the second the doors open. The ventilation system is still all closed off, and I'm not sure if that really means there is genuinely no ventilation in the place...how could that be legal? Yet the ventilation system has cool air running through it, even though the vents have metal plates bolted over them, because after an hour of sweaty kids dancing, water starts to condense on them and drip onto the crowd below.

I'm not sure it's the best this town can do for all-ages music. I could rant and rave all day about the closure of Berbati's (occasionally all-ages), The Artistery, and Satyricon all within a month or so, but cripes, is this the kind of place we want carrying the torch? Long live Backspace, and I'll even give some props to the split-floor arrangements at the Crystal Ballroom and the Wonder Ballroom. I just wish there was another way. More ways. More places. I was a sixteen-year-old kid hopping in my (thanks, dad!) 1975 Volkswagen Beetle as soon as I was old enough and driving into Minneapolis to go to all-ages shows at First Avenue, but that place is on the same circuit as the Crystal. It's not like other towns have it that much better, those all-ages venues on a smaller scale in other places don't survive either. Is it because I want a beer with my show? Is it because kids are ghettoized in this country and adults don't want to hang out with them?

What is this better way?

But Wait! There's More!

2010-08-17T00:00:00.000-07:00

Look at me, blogging before I forget what I've seen and heard! [edit: clearly I started this post quite a while ago, and I'll cover most of August.] I'm the queen of the blogosphere! (Yep, I'm picturing me standing on the prow of the internet, all Titanic-style, bits and bytes and letters spraying in my face in the wind...). I've had plenty in the past couple of weeks to describe in weird and wonderful and nonsensical post-literary flourishes. Was that a bit grandiose? Or maybe a bit dismissive and self-ridiculing? Whatever; as long as it's some of both I'm good with it.

A couple of weeks ago, I saw the all-B show. This show was at Mississippi Studios, and it appears that the cool goes where Alicia Rose books. There's almost nothing I want to see anymore at Doug Fir since she left, and I go to MS all the damn time. Breakfast Mountain opened, and I got there partway through their set. It was excruciatingly loud power-synth-and-drums electro-something. The Beauty, whom I've described before, haven't changed a bit except that there were three of them instead of two. This time, it was a big ol' bear, a tattooed skinny punk, and a gangly, kind of dorky guy doing Prince-influenced ipod-driven dancepop. Then Brainstorm, whose PPN Festival description still fits just as accurately. It was awesome watching people try to dance, including this one guy who I wished I could put on Youtube for his dorky, over-the-top hippie-meets-fourth-grade-dance-class (jazz hands!) weirdness.

Last week was four shows in six days. Tuesday, I saw Blue Giant at Mississippi Studios for a free, supposedly secret show for them to tune up and pull shit together before they go out on tour. Delorean (there are two Deloreans, spelled differently, one's from Spain and one's from Portland...my spelling may be wrong but I know I have the right city) opened with some fairly bland mid-tempo folk-pop. Seemed like a good opportunity to hang out in the new BarBar space next door, MS's new resto-bar (oh, shit...I hate that non-word, sorry about that) that's there to subsidize the music. Then Blue Giant rocked the house, explained away the flags (something about how Portland is the best place on earth, so they needed to figure out what they had in common with their fellow Americans before they went out on tour into the midst of them, and what they came up with is that they're all Americans, so they're bringing some flags), amazed and awed. When My Love Is Gone, It's Gone For Good. But I still adore BG.

Thursday: Dragging An Ox Through A Waterfountain...uh...or Dragging an Ox Through Water at the Lovejoy Fountain. No Opener or anything, tiny shoebox-sized amps, big steel pot-lids as windchime-like hanging percussion. Fascinating stuff.

Saturday, I saw The Angry Orts at Doug Fir for their CD Release show. Nucular Aminals opened up, and I thought I liked them, and I might be wrong. I didn't like this set much, nerdy and weird on purpose (and I like nerdy...but I have issues with weird-on-purpose). The Ascetic Junkies followed. Why one of them said hi to me, by name, good-to-see-you-again, baffled me...gotta be work-related. These guys are far too cute, a nearly square-dance-ready froth of gingham and ukelele and sorta-bluegrass. Then the Orts just blew me away. I've seen them a bunch of times and loved them, but this was just the next level. Sara was kind of trashed, but just put on an even better show, all Blondie and Sleater-Kinney...then covering Joan Jett. In a corset. Great band, astounding songs, and then Sara's just such a dynamic and fun performer.

Then Sunday there was just an unbelievable show at Rontoms. I got there for part of Monarques, who do such throwback 1950s and early 1960s stuff...it strikes me as simplistic and boring (and oh how glad I am I didn't have to live through that era of music, for such straight and straightforward stuff to be considered revolutionary and rock-and-roll). But then The Dirty Mittens did their thing. Power-yelping, playful, charming, high-energy, hooky, and so undeniably talented. Ramona Falls up last...Brent of Menomena looking like the most understated but also the one with the true, subtle emotional depth. And then he launches into "I Say Fever," and...wow. Not so understated. You want smoke machines and strobe lights. And yet still emotional depth. There are times when he's my favorite voice in Menomena, and Ramona Falls totally highlights what I love about Brent. (Of course, the other side projects make them all my favorites in turn...)

Huh...I can't even remember when this show was that I'm reading my notes from. Oh! This was a couple of weeks before the festival, at Mississippi Studios. Gregory Miles Harris up first. He's supposed to have been in town for years, playing very rare, unappreciated shows for the privileged few. He did this more-Half-Japanese-than-Half-Japanese high-pitched squeaky weirdness that had some hints of brilliance to it and a lot of silliness. Sometimes charming and sometimes tiresome. Alan Singley and Pants Machine next. I'd seen them a couple of times recently at parties, so the "world premiere" songs weren't really world premieres to me. Good set, moderately together, and always fun. IOA (or ioa) finished up. Damn, Amanda's got an astounding voice and I'll go see anything she does. Warm, chanteuse-y, songwriter-y stories. Papi Fimbres adding some complexity. But it doesn't have the otherworldly, anti-pop qualities I love so much about Point Juncture, WA. I bought an IOA (or ioa?) CD, and I can't get the Boxcar Children song out of my head, but some part of me is just sitting there, crosslegged, defiant, pouting, waiting for the next PJWA disc.

Okay, that will have to cover it for now. I saw a few lovely, short, acoustic sets in someone's backyard and still have the blisters to show for it (it's a long story...and then I got companion blisters the next weekend commercial-amateur-rafting on the Deschutes), and probably some other stuff, but no more looking back! Onward to September!

PDX Pop Then!

2010-08-05T01:04:00.000-07:00

Here's where I put the requisite apologetic groveling for not writing more often. Yes, I've seen lots of shows. No, I haven't blogged about them. No, I don't remember the details or my snarky observations. This is like my scrapbook, so it kills me when I don't have the time to document where I've been and what I've seen...how am I supposed to remember what to tell my grandchildren?

Last weekend was PDX Pop Now! This was my fifth year attending the festival, I think, and my fourth year having something to say on the interwebs about it. My third year as a volunteer. It's kinda become my thing. I know how things work, I know what to eat and what to avoid in the green room (don't eat more than one Voodoo Doughnut per day...it's not good for you; get in on the dried fruit on day one, because it will be gone by Saturday morning), I know the people and some of the bands.

Friday started with Blue Horns. They are a reliable, failsafe power trio that is always on...and never impresses me as something terribly interesting. They started things off with a bang, absolutely, but my rush to get there to see Band One was probably unnecessary. Ylang Ylang was next...a new-ish portlandy hot...well, in any other town they'd be called a supergroup, but around here it's just a really good side project. Power trio plus viola, with Charlie Salas-Humara of Panther on guitar/vox and Jake Morris of The Joggers on drums. They've gotten all sorts of tighter since I last saw them, their debut show at Jackpot Records, though they're still a bit goofy. Some goth-pop references from the early 80s plus plenty of rawk to go around. I'm loving them. Kusikia was next, a lot of noise but some melody too. Bits of prog-math, some dark stuff, and great at what they did without really grabbing me. Ages and Ages next...first of all, I loved their conceit of selling one single t-shirt for $50 instead of lots of t-shirts at eight or twelve bucks apiece, and I wish someone had bought it (it was written in Sharpie). The music, though, was amazing, a big sing-along onstage but with perfect songs and harmonies, a bouncy campfire-y group of many. So very fun, and their track on this year's PDX Pop Now! compilation is one of my favorites. Rollerball followed, and this is a band I find nearly impossible to describe. But, of course, I'll try. Some trio of prog-gothy, occasionally metal-tinged, occasionally charmingly melodic complexity and, at times, conceit. Impressive, if not always successful. AndAndAnd was crazy-shouty and wild with some Americana undertones, a great time if perhaps a bit overrated. Not that I'm knocking them, I just heard a few people say that was the set they were most looking forward to all weekend, and I gotta say, there's no way they trump The Joggers. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Witch Mountain was...well, I hate metal, so it was a beer set. I wandered down the street to La Merde, my typical Festival hangout (Produce Row gets too crowded), and came back in time for the last bit of Jackie O-Motherfucker. They've been in town for ever and ever, and I can't believe I've never seen them. Well, now I can say I've seen them. Based on what I'd listened to before the fest, I expected to be totally bored, and I wasn't, but that's really the best I can say. Tu Fawning does beautiful stuff, and this late at night after working all day, I was itching for more rock. The headliner for the night was AU, playing with some outfit out of Idaho or Colorado or something they had picked up called Dovekins. I think it kinda ruined them. This brilliant, complicated high-energy experimental duo ended up devolving into aimless hippie-ish jams. There was facepaint. And one of Dovekins seemed rather rude to me in the green room before the set.

Saturday, I was there nice and early. Things started out low-key with Shoeshine Blue doing lovely, folky Americana stuff, nothing overwhelming, but a nice way to ease into the day as I had my first cup of coffee. And that peaceful start was shattered by Tiny Knives, an all-female punk-metal trio of the big-snarly-hair sort. It was...um...a lot. Soup Purse was described to me, repeatedly, as Harsh Noise. And when I described them as Noise, I was repeatedly corrected. Harsh Noise. My attempt to check them out in advance led me to think, if this is harsh noise, how can it be so boring? Lots of clicks and taps with little in the way of notes. It was more interesting live, with some stories and some weird stuff, and yes, some notes. I've gotta at least appreciate a noise band (Harsh noise!) with a horn section. The purses full of soup were a bit much. And more than a bit messy. And got left behind, smelling like split pea. Guantanamo Baywatch was next, and was (appropriately) outside. Tongue-firmly-in-cheek surfpunk, but really well-done. More fun than the song names (Cum Fart Food) would suggest. A total party, but not one where someone barfs on your shoes before the night is over. The Tumblers were up next. They were the closest to a country band the fest had, though in a throwback traditional-country-western sort of way, not a modern pop-stars-with-twang-and-jingoism way. Cute without inviting condescension. O Bruxo, a late addition to the lineup, was another "yawn, we are so used to supergroups in this town we barely bat an eye," supergroup-with-pseudonyms conflagration. Amazing stuff mostly in Spanish, as if world-beat-dance stuff didn't suck and instead overwhelmed with awesome. Led by "Papi Chulo" (David Fimbres, to appear later during the fest playing flute). Grey Anne is always lovely, and since I've seen her a bunch of times, I have to admit, I wandered off to find a snack and sit down for a bit. Fear No Music is a modern/experimental classical collective, made up during this set of a violinist, a keyboardist, a laptop synth player, and a multi-percussionist playing vibraphones and homemade instruments. Dynamic and fascinating, and they seemed to love playing for a baffled rock audience on their feet instead of a baffled classical audience crossing and uncrossing their legs in uncomfortable symphony hall seats. Operative had some of the elements of music, including rhythm and notes. I'm not so sure it was music. It had a driving beat at times, but it got old quick.

Time for an arbitrary new paragraph, I think. Brainstorm was next. I love this band. They're like the train wreck that would result from a DC mathcore band playing folk songs with a tuba. Yes, there's a tuba. Not to get ahead of myself again, but this may be the first two-tuba PPN fest! Moby Dick references, barbershop quartet sounds, vocals like slave-spirituals, 80s electro-casio bleep-pop, and crunching metal guitar all overlap in a way that sounds like it should be awful, but much like a peanut-butter-and-soy-sauce sauce for noodles, ends up kinda transcendent instead. Asss...uh...okay, I have to admit, I couldn't pay attention all the time. I don't totally remember Asss. They played a very, very short set, on the sidewalk instead of the stage, and it was kinda drone-y and I think it was supposed to be experimental. Da'Rel Junior was stellar, brainy, self-conscious (as opposed to conscious?) hip-hop, funny and earnest. He's staff at a local social service agency, working with "troubled" youth, and he told a few stories about his job. He also covered The Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire, which was kick-ass. Wampire up next...a total party in which not every single member of the band took their pants off, but they got close. And the music was pretty fun, too. Bouncy, joyful, utterly lacking in pretension, and probably well-stocked with cassette tapes.

Defect Defect and Eternal Tapestry was the Saturday-evening beer set for me. Uncomplicated thrash-punk (DD) doesn't do much for me. And...well, I saw ET once, and when I described how much I abhorred them, I think I was blunt enough that I made some people uncomfortable. Let's just leave it at that. Okay, fine...I said, "Sitting through that set, I thought I'd rather relive my mother's funeral." I saw them at Mississippi Studios opening for The Joggers last April, and they riffed for 26 minutes straight on one chord. The sax player played the same note in the same rhythm for six solid minutes without alteration. I really began to ponder the possibility of literally dying of boredom. It was physically painful. I was told repeatedly that, while the performance I saw was not necessarily out of character for them, it was not typical, but I just didn't think I could chance it. So I skipped 'em and headed back down to La Merde for some delicious beer. But I rushed back to ensure that I didn't miss Blue Cranes. And they didn't disappoint. They have never failed to exceed my expectations, and my expectations for them these days are pretty sky-high. They not only blew me away, but impressed the 19-year-old boys surrounding me, eagerly awaiting Hockey. The memorable quotes from these kids: "That was so good I almost cried." (And about the boy who said that: "He's a musician, he knows this stuff.") Followed by, "Wow...I've never seen live jazz before!" They set up this amazing, yet frustrating deal at the merch table whereby one could only buy their brand-new, not-yet-released disc if under 21, with ID (they are huge supporters of all-ages music and venues, and their upcoming CD release party, I believe, is at a 21-and-up venue). Diabolically brilliant. Hosannas (formerly Church, whom I believe I've discussed at least once in the past, and maybe more than that) was down to two members from four, with very little notice (they announced their breakup shortly before the festival, actually), and weren't as compelling or dynamic as they've been in the past. i sure hope they get their shit together and re-form as a new band with either some new members or some material built for two. But despite Hosannas not quite being up to par, this closing Saturday set was my favorite of the festival. Joggers were up next...and they knocked that shit right out of the park. They've traded in some of their laid-back 70s influences for more plain-ol' crushing rock. And then, incongruously, there was a digeridoo. And a bear suit (sans head) and a one-piece coverall. Somehow their power-rock and these rhythms you can't really dance to still end up catchy and fun as all hell. Hockey finished up. Suburbanites and little kids with their dads and...oh, hell, I danced too. They took forever to set up, and they were reportedly total divas about the whole thing, and they pulled icky, creepy greshamites up on stage to dance...but they still rocked the house.

Saturday night faded out with this rollicking solo drum set that was sorta a guerrilla set. There were a few guerrilla sets, but I ignored most of them, because even I need ten or fifteen minutes of rest here or there. But this one sounded like it would be unimaginably cool. The drummer from the next day's first band, Why I Must Be Careful, played all. fucking. night. And then played WIMBC the next day, which looks exhausting even if he's gotten a good eight hours of sleep. Of all the things I missed or didn't totally pay attention to, this one kills me the most...I arrived for the day just a few minutes after WIMBC ended. Did I describe them earlier this year? So amazing. Overwhelming, confusing, inexplicable. Probably the two smartest musical minds in this city playing jazz-based freak-outs that sometimes sound like just pounding (on drums and keys), but is really more like the musical equivalent of bio-chemo-neuro-nano-rocket science that is so far beyond your comprehension that all you hear sometimes is noise, with little glimpses here and there of what amazement you'd be privy to if you were 60 IQ points smarter, spent 15 years studying music theory, had an advanced degree in calculus, spent a couple of decades on small Pacific islands with Margaret Mead, then spent years learning extreme kung fu at one of those impossibly isolated mountain Buddhist monasteries devoted to ass-kicking that only exist in kung fu movies. But, having arrived late, I can only imagine such mathematical biochemical primordial jazz ass-kicking as it was at the festival. I did arrive for Michael The Blind, whose folky, floaty yet sturdy, flute- and oboe-like voice mesmerizes me. The only other time I've seen him was at the PDX Pop Now! CD release show in...2006? It was at Berbati's, and it must have been '06 because I remember the poster was the one with the bicycle. Joey Casio, up next, was pure, unadulterated electronic dance thump. Thump, thump, thump...I'll be back later. I missed Cloudy October, Atriarch, and Lewi Longmire due to my responsibilities as a volunteer this year. Cloudy October is supposed to be awesome hip-hop, and I'm sorry I missed him. Atriarch is crunching, earsplitting metal that I don't mind having missed. Lewi Longmire is folk-country-rootsy twang that I probably wouldn't have hated despite my frequent anti-twang bias, and is supposed to be one of the nicest guys around. Krebsic Orkestar was an amazing, awe-inspiring 14(?)-piece gypsy brass band doing this fascinating yet accessible eastern-european stuff that got people bobbing heads and even shaking hips. And they brought the other tuba of the weekend. Autistic Youth was...loud. Punk. Loud. Billygoat (damn, this was an incongruous set) showed 45 minutes of the most amazing stop-motion animation, mostly paper-cut stuff of excruciating and dazzling detail, accompanied by buzzing, swelling, and swirling electronica meant to highlight and showcase the animation. It was the beautiful, awe-inspiring, charming, constantly-changing animation that kept amazing me and making me smile. Please Step Out Of The Vehicle played their supposed last show ever, as Travis Wiggins is moving to Hawaii to accompany his girlfriend who is starting graduate school or something. A bunch of familiar songs, "Papi" Fimbres making his flute hoot and holler in ever-more weird and wonderful ways, I am indescribably glad to have been there for this. I sang along. I sat down behind the stage for I Can Lick Any Sonofabitch In The House, but still heard clearly the actually pretty engaging and enjoyable roadhouse-blues-countrypunkrawk. Like Jackie O-Motherfucker, they've played in town for a decade or something, and I'm glad I've gotten to see them. Unlike JOM, I actually had some fun seeing/hearing them. Ben Darwish was next. I couldn't decide whether he played crowd-pleasing stuff less complex than he's capable of, or whether he defied the crowd by remaining somewhat low-key. Or both. His drummer was amazing, though. I dubbed Get Hustle (prog-funk-metal-psych-party-rawk-experimental-huh?-core) my beer set for the night, and I was off to La Merde again. Is it awful that I can't remember if I came back for part of AAN, whom I remember liking after having heard them online? I do remember I heard Reporter, whose dance-electronica (with fog machine and light bracelets tossed into the audience) was kinda...meh. Whatever. Luck-One hip-hop led off the Sunday headlining outdoor set, but I couldn't hear him well enough to distinguish the lyrics, so I got some Koi Fusion and just tried to hang out and listen. Parenthetical Girls...well, I believe I've described them in the past as Colin Meloy's literary theatricality filtered through Morrissey's personality disorder (I love both Meloy and Morrissey, though I do see the downsides of each), but I forgot to mention that Zac Pennington can't actually sing, which makes things even worse. Typhoon blew a few fuses and led to a long delay, then once they got going seemed to be rollicking...and by then I was tired and wanted to get things taken care of and go home, so I helped with picking up inside and whatever else. Skeletron, at the end, should have been terribly exciting, but I have to admit, I wasn't feeling much of anything at all, even their ("they" being Starfucker as a two-piece, really) super-party-indie-dance-electro-dance-party-indie-andsoforth. It was fun, but it wasn't like Menomena last year or anything.

I think I saw more of the bands this year than ever before. I think I got to the end a bit emotionally exhausted, but my feet were still pretty intact even during the closing set on Sunday. I think I don't know what I'd do without a free three-day festival devoted to the current in local music.

Working backward

2010-03-24T01:58:00.000-07:00

I'm going to start with the most recent show I've seen, then work backward until I tire of typing.

Done!

Just kidding. Last weekend I saw Ted Leo and the Pharmacists with Hungry Ghosts and Golden Bears opening. Hungry Ghosts is a hot mess, as someone I know would say. "Hey, girl!", she'd also say. She'd then put a few dozen words into trying to convince me to do her job, while simultaneously trying to explain away why she wouldn't be there when I got there. Anyhow, this band was tight, yet all over. They were proggy, they were rock-y, they were inexplicable. Honestly, they were a great band I didn't like. You should probably go see them, and decide for yourself.

They were followed by Golden Bears. If you read back a few years, you'll find a post in which I lament the Golden Bears' horrendous, atrocious medieval folk-metal and the uncomfortable situation my attempts to evade that horrendous medieval-ness led me to. Suffice it to say that if you're ever in need, you can call the Portland Mercury something else, but it's really a maaaagaziiine......sadly, neither the Golden Bears nor the Portland Mercury has evolved beyond my poor attempt to do something more complicated than hear the band. Lose-lose.

Ted Leo was a fun pop-punk, or at times punk-pop, band. As has been the case when I've seen TL and the Pharmacists in the past, he's had interesting things to say, he's made some interesting chord changes, and he's done both things at once. Go average punk-pop-punk...whoohoo! Lots of energy, some good melody, some good beats, some unnecessary melody, and some unnecessary beats. And so on.

And some equally scintillating average music criticism to come, I promise. Yay!

Finding the Positive

2010-03-03T00:10:00.000-08:00

Things that feel good this week:

Live music. Starting to garden again for the year. Someone really special to me who wants to improve my mood and yet doesn't get frustrated with me when it doesn't always work.

Two weeks ago, my department was eliminated at work. The economy? No, turns out my department made money that paid for some things that aren't going so well in a mental-health non-profit. Incompetence? No, we've got the most clinically savvy and ethically responsible mental health team in the agency. Personnel problems? Maybe...the administrative team left something to be desired. Government regulations? Also a maybe. Power play by which my agency asserts itself as a major player in influencing child and family mental health in this state? Probably. Anyhow, I'm awesome at what I do, and I'm going to be jobless...in a few weeks? A few months? Maybe I'll find a job? Whatever. I'm too tired to worry about it. Two days after that, I got on a plane to the cold, snowy midwest to pick up a large-ass luxury sedan (leather seats, sunroof, miles to the gallons-and-gallons-and-gallons) I inherited when my mom died of lung cancer at 60. Thank you, Someone Special, for embarking on that kind-of ridiculous errand with me. Five days of airplane, layover, airplane, taxi, visit the relatives, drop the bags at the rented house my dad abandoned last week, discover the heat's out, call for help, get the furnace working again, visit the relatives again, drive through Minnesota, North Dakota, Montana, Washington, and Oregon, sleep in motels, hope for good weather, try to see buffaloes and museums and Native American villages and state parks and whatever, find out everything's closed in the upper Midwest in the winter, have some fun anyway road trip. If you ever find yourself driving I-94, I recommend the large animal, Viking, and Paul Bunyan sculptures. And Riverfront Park in Spokane. And I recommend doing it in the summer so you can see the National Buffalo Museum and the Indian villages and the Lewis and Clark camps and the Pictograph Caves and the good parts of Yellowstone. Ultimately, there's an unbelievable amount of nothing along I-94 and I-90, and along the trip from I-90 to I-84 through Washington. But it was still kind of fun. And I am now the proud owner of an aging Mitsubishi Diamante Old Lady Car With Heated Leather Seats That Seems To Leak Antifreeze. I figure I combine that with the Even More Aged Honda Civic Hatchback Without Power Anything That Leaks Whenever It Rains and maybe I can trade in for half of a New Small, Efficient Car Without Any Problems Yet.

After I got back, there was an unbelievable amount of music I could go see. I went the jazz route. Saturday, I went to see Blue Cranes at The Cleaners at Ace Hotel. Wow. I've seen these guys a couple of times, and I'm still...oh, Wow. Bowled over. Such classic experimental jazz without misstep or dumbing-down, yet it's perfectly understandable and accessible to an indie-rock-listener crowd too. Every note is perfectly placed, yet there are clear improvisational solos. Dynamic, intelligent, hook-y, charming, powerful-as-all-hell stuff. The next night was Lindsey Stormo/Ben Darwish and Why I Must Be Careful at Rontoms, the closing after-party of the Portland Jazz Fest. Lindsey had this light, untrained showtunes-wannabe voice that warbled birdlike in the high ranges or reached desperately for blues standard sounds in her lower ranges, but consistently sounded weak and tentative in any range. Maybe, with a good voice teacher, she'd be right for the chorus of a light operetta out of the Gilbert and Sullivan catalog. Ben Darwish was simply the hired hand that comped along with her, so I didn't get to learn anything about him as a jazz pianist. Why I Must Be Careful absolutely blew me out of the water, though. Shit. I mean...shit. Pounding, experimental keyboards and drums and...holy shit. This stuff was so overwhelming, I couldn't understand it then and I can't describe it now. All I can say is, you have absolutely got to go see this shit for yourself, because it's beyond amazing. Fists flying, drumsticks everywhere, chaos and disorder to the untrained eye (ear), but yet the two of them clearly never lose each other no matter how many times they lose me, and their musical genius outstrips any band I've ever heard. Holy fucking shit. Shit.

Until I next find the stamina to write...

Embarrassment of Riches

2010-01-25T01:11:00.000-08:00

It's been an awesome January for live music. From a personal perspective, it's been a tough year so far. I inherited a car...you do the math. Yep, I started my year giving $487 dollars to Delta Airlines for a one-way bereavement fare. But then, after a much cheaper friend-of-an-airline-employee standby ticket back to Portland that landed me in first class (hot breakfast!), there was all this music to make things better. I'll tell you about the driving-the-car-from-the-midwest-in-snowy-February road trip next month. And a quick public service announcement: If you smoke, quit. Now. Yesterday. Because lung cancer sucks, and there's no such thing as remission, much less a cure.

Anyhow, back to the music stuff. There are more shows this month than I can possibly see. I thought about going to Blunt Mechanic, Guidance Counselor and Vellella Vellella, Point Juncture WA, Jared Mees, Akron/Family and Au and Wow & Flutter, Liv Warfield, Ben Gibbard and Jay Farrar and John Roderick (of The Long Winters)...so many shows. But there was so much overlap. It's surprising to me how many nights this month haven't had good shows to go see, given the thousands of good shows to see this month. Some nights I've just been tired. I'm always tired this time of year, and then on top of that, it's been a rough month for me, as I mentioned. But I did get out to see a Yes On 66/67 benefit last week at the Full Life Cafe and Center. I missed Quiet Countries, sadly. I wonder what a Quiet Countries acoustic show is like? Got there in the middle of Nick Jaina's set. It was just him and the bassist, totally stripped down, playing mostly tracks from the new one, which won't come out for a few months. I've gotten a sneak peek, and I can tell you it's beautiful, but low-energy. Working toward the adult-alternative end of the indie-folk spectrum, though not anywhere near Borders-Bookstore-Cafe territory. It's not bad, it's just very, very subtle. Nick was followed by St. Frankie Lee. I swear to you, I took notes. I remember crouching down with a pen in hand. But I don't know where those notes went. St. Frankie Lee were messy, lacking in cohesion. They looked young. Perhaps they had some potential. She had kind of a pop voice that didn't hold much appeal for me, and she did most of the singing. His voice was plain and unadorned, in a good way. There were a lot of people onstage, but the only really interesting one was the multi-instrumentalist playing the trumpet, the plastic portland glockenspiel, and the saw. She wasn't great at any of these things, but that could change. I'm looking forward to her next band, or maybe the band after that. Bazillionaire was next. I think Jesse's a great and fun musician, and an ordinary lyricist. I feel bad saying that, since he's one of the nicest and most genuine people I only vaguely and casually know. And he works at the Full Life Center and organized the show, and deserves a ton of credit for that. But I always enjoy seeing Bazillionaire. Last up was Swim Swam Swum. They did their best to liven up a dwindling audience in an alcohol-free venue that was basically set up like a preschool, but for developmentally delayed adults. You could tell they weren't totally feeling it, and seemed to drag a bit, but stuck it out and got everyone bouncing.

By the way, vote yes on 66 and 67. Not only will the Full Life Center, an enrichment and job training program for developmentally disabled adults, survive with a 'yes' result, and it will probably benefit all my clients' other programs, which makes my work life tolerable (I work for medicaid dollars, so I think my job and my program and my agency are pretty safe, but hey, vote yes just in case, okay?), but seriously, don't you think there's something wrong about the corporate tax in Oregon staying at $10 for 79 years? I mean, I suppose I wouldn't complain if I was also paying the same dollar amount in income taxes that Oregonians were paying in 1931, but I'm not. If the measure passes and the corporate minimum (something crazy like 97% of corporations pay the minimum) increases to $150, I'll still be paying more per year in income taxes than ten corporations in Oregon, but at least it will no longer be more than 150 corporations. Can I incorporate? It seems way cheaper. Also, the individuals making four times my salary need to be paying a higher tax rate than I do. If I ever make that kind of money, and I grumble about my taxes, slap me.

Anyhow, the next show I saw was Har Mar Superstar with Dat'r and The Beauty at Mississippi Studios. I had forgotten this, but I've seen The Beauty before. It's hard to forget the image of a chubby, tattooed bear and a skinny, pierced punk with microphones, dancing around to recorded synths. It's a little like The Snuggleups, though not quite that awesome. The Beauty ranged all over in their meta-tongue-in-cheek influences. Disco funk (Earth, Wind, and Fire). '80s pop (George Michael, Michael Jackson). Sexy-funk R&B (Prince). '90s boy band (I don't know this genre well enough to guess at who). All filtered through an electro-dance-homoerotic-mostly kidding lens. Great fun, though I wished throughout the set that they were The Snuggleups instead. Dat'r is just Dat'r, as they always have been and always will be. Wildly creative, hyperkinetic, Atari-joystick-triggered electro-dance with, refreshingly, virtually no R&B elements anywhere. Live drums to spice things up. Paul Alcott's hair. Last up, Har Mar Superstar. All schtick. A paunchy, balding guy looking like a cross between Jon Lovitz and Danny DeVito in his long-haired days, telling us all how awesome and sexy he is. During the course of the set, he stripped down through four or five layers of costume, ending up in gold sequined fingerless elbow-length gloves and Paul Frank leopard-print briefs. He's a pretty amazing performer, and his band is good. The songs are fun, and exceptionally tongue-in-cheek, R&B/white funk-based dance stuff. The crowd was atrocious and ugly and inconsiderate, packed tight and elbows everywhere, trying to play sexy and instead just coming across as clumsy and unaware of their own bodies in space. I had an elbow-to-the-beer experience four different times, and I was being careful. Great performance + good music - ugly, unpleasant crowd lacking in any sense of irony = okay experience.

Tonight, I went to Rontoms. The Angry Orts opened up. I'd never seen them before, and I loved them. Despite the difference in gender ratio (Orts are one woman, three men), they sounded most of the time like an ever-so-slightly toned-down Sleater-Kinney. The guitar and bass were sometimes a bit lusher and fuller than the bulk of the S-K catalogue, and Sara's yelping and warbling is usually a bit softer, warmer, and poppier than that of S-K. It's interesting how such a slight variation from a theme takes one from riot-grrrl to really not riot-grrl. There was also one number, in 6/8 time, that was a kind of rock-y folk twang a la Norfolk and Western. Tempo No Tempo followed. They are apparently from San Francisco. They did kind of a half-Fugazi thing that just wasn't all that interesting. The half that they couldn't fill with Fugazi was some mish-mash of heavy goth, Dick-Dale-type surf-punk, and shouty geek-punk. None of these elements was prominent enough nor good enough, and the crossed styles seemed to confuse them. I didn't stick around long enough through their set to get to World's Greatest Ghosts, whom I saw once and loved.

Back In The Saddle

2010-01-03T01:32:00.000-08:00

Sorry, folks, I got behind. And when I got behind, the idea of getting caught up again was just too daunting. But I've given up now. How does this benefit you, you wonder?

New posts, that's how.

New Year's Eve was the Fir Ball at the Doug Fir. Inside Voices opened up. Some potential, but lacking in variety of tempo. Just slooooooow. And kinda slow. And they varied from mostly twangy to really-really twangy. But all that bass...that's gotta be good for something. Next up was The Shaky Hands. I loved them for the two years they played live after their first album came out. Bouncy, happy, fun, poppy...it was easy to forgive them their hippie tendencies. Then they went into hibernation, and created the second album. Classic rawk with nary a bounce or a pop to be seen (heard). I was crushed. I avoided them. Like that former friend who did that one thing in high school, and you couldn't quite tell him how embarrassing it was, so you just went out of your way to avoid him in the halls and not make eye contact in math class. But they've found a middle ground that rocks (not rawks) and still buzzes and bounces with that weird, infectious voice Nick Delffs has. Last up, Quasi. Covering The Who. With special guests Sean Croghan and Corin Tucker. You know how amazing this sounds? Well, it was about a kazillion times better than that. I sang along. I bobbed my head. I headbanged! It was awesome.

Tonight, there was a free showcase at Backspace. We missed Zoo Girls, and decided (well, I decided, and because I'd had a really hard day, The Boyfriend went along with me) that classic 80s video games at Ground Kontrol around the corner would be more fun than Eat Skull. We came back for Tango Alpha Tango, which ranged from charming blues-folk to over-the-top classic groove metal reminiscent of Led Zeppelin but with more jams and screaming. I wasn't sure what to think, and it seemed to me neither was the band. Y La Bamba came next, and they were beautiful and subtle as always. The capacity all-ages crowd had no subtlety to spare for them, though when I got a chance to listen I enjoyed it. Finally, Typhoon finished up. Seemingly made up of everyone in every band and non-band project of Boy Gorilla Records (and Boy Gorilla Coffee, and Boy Gorilla Whatever Else), they relied heavily on drone-pop with lots of spaghetti western horn flourishes. Does this sound like it would suck? Because it didn't. They did have a number of more up-tempo bits that weren't so droney, but the horns were insistently and persistently spaghetti-ed. Great fun.

'Til next time,
OMS

Okay, so it started with this email.

2009-08-24T01:50:00.000-07:00

Anyhow, it turns out there was a secret Dandy Warhols show at rontoms tonight. For free. In a room that holds, what, 150 people if they're all really, really good friends? And I was there. In the front row, so close that Courtney Taylor-Taylor could have spit on me. The Boyfriend gets these emails from rontoms telling him about the shows, and there was a *SURPRISE SECRET HEADLINER* and a hint. Marvelously, unbelievably, the-best-of 1990s with pedals galore and a bell-sleeved dress and a boy-bob haircut and a practiced sexy pout. It was a great time, and I'll get to tell my grandkids about it.

I know, I'm terribly behind. I'm working on it. Sasquatch, and PDX Pop Now!, and all sorts of little shows (and not-so-little ones) in between. There are posts galore in draft, half-finished, scribbled notes, snippets and partial sentences and fragments and bits, fermenting and bubbling, nearly ready to burst forth into cascades of schadenfreude and fascinated disdain. But today, I saw Jared Mees and the Grown Children, had a nice dinner entirely sourced from my garden and the farmer's market (except for some salt, pepper, butter, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar), then went to see the Dandies. Seriously...the Dandies. I'm still wowed by that.

More to come. As always.

Surmounting the Insurmountable

2009-08-10T02:07:00.001-07:00

I've got two whole music festivals to review. It's like 100 bands. No, I don't mean it's "like 100 bands." If I were exaggerating, I'd tell you it was 124941 bands or something. I really think that between Sasquatch and PDX Pop Now!, I've got 100 bands to cover. I'll see what I can do.

See, I'm crazy far behind because of all these shows to see (and review), but also because of other stuff that isn't music-related. I found out in June that my mom has lung cancer. I only went out to see her for five and a half days, but it's just incredible what that takes out of my summer.

In not totally unrelated news, it's amazing what a sick mom going through chemo turns out to be a great excuse for, from...uh...not blogging, to getting The Boyfriend to take me out to a Pixar movie (perfect call, by the way, and from now on, I demand that Pixar release a new movie whenever I'm sad), to getting The Boss to do some work for me and go easy on me when other stuff isn't done!

I ought to start with Sasquatch. Three stages (plus a comedy/dance stage) for three days solid. To start with, I gotta say, two days was plenty. I mean, I'm glad they got rid of the anomalous, incongruous mismatch that was Friday night, and it's hard to complain that they replaced it with a third full day of top-to-bottom three-stage awesomeness. But I'm complaining. And then, they seem to have sold 150% of the tickets this year than in any past year I've gone (2007, 2006, 2004). There wasn't a spot near the main stage from the moment we got there to the second we left. There wasn't a way to get close to the second or even third stage. Nothing felt obscure or underappreciated. There wasn't anything I would remember for the rest of my life as a one-time-only front-row chance-of-a-lifetime like Decemberists on the third stage in '04. It was uncomfortably crowded from moment one to the second we passed the gate back into the parking lot for the third time. The sun was brutal, like knives on my grey Portland-wintered skin. The good news is that it didn't dip into the bitter, windy 50's in the evenings, and I never left miserable and shivering, wishing I could stay for the next band.

Day 1: Blind Pilot, a Portland band, was nice enough, with some really PDX-y twang-folk, vibraphones, banjo, violin, and upright bass. I would never complain about having to see them. Gotta admit, though, I would never complain about having to miss them. Death Vessel was minor-key folk-rock with violin and female vocals, some serious twang and some 1970s rock. Doves (I hate that they're not The Doves, they're Doves) were average alt-rock. Passion Pit were marvelous, with bouncy falsetto synth-fun. It was full of the kind of vaguely cynical joy that would be the perfect soundtrack to a lost John Hughes film (rest in peace, Breakfast Club!). I thought of the Snuggle-Ups. At this point, I lost The Boyfriend, and there is very nearly NO cell phone reception in The Gorge. I was distracted for the next few sets, wondering what would happen if we never found each other again in the sea of millions that was the Sasquatch crowd. I saw M. Ward, who is just as good live as he is in the studio. In other words, I could have just listened to the CDs. Devotchka was interesting, with accordion and violin, gypsy-influenced indie and straight-out gypsy. I'd like to hear more. The Mount St. Helens' Vietnam Band did some minor-key stuff in their rock. Interesting. Arthur & Yu was (at best) OK. Low key. Animal Collective was not as weird as expected, with some (ugh) world beats, mostly just aimless and repetitive, with some computer-psych and projected visuals. Sun Kil Moon started with a Red House Painters song and then followed with a bunch more that might have been RHP. Just too slow, pretty, and quiet for a weekend like this (or a weekend like those I spend at home doing things, either...). Somewhere in here, I was working my way up the hill by the main stage, when The Boyfriend somehow spotted me in the crowd. Whew! Ra Ra Riot was surprisingly un-riotous. With a name like that, you'd expect pop-rock '80s revival like every other band out there right now, but instead, there was a cello and a violin. Quiet bits and interesting details, with maybe a nod to Vampire Weekend here and there. The Decemberists did Hazards of Love straight through, like an orchestral-rock opera. I've seen them twice before at Sasquatch (and a dozen times or so other places), and this was a disappointment. No banter, no breaks at all between songs even, and certainly no singalongs and giant cardboard whale jaws. Though I have to admit, there's a ton of impressive, crushing rock in The Hazards of Love. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs are retro early-80s girl-rock, wild and shouty with lots of eye makeup. There seems to be an invisible bass player. Bon Iver was pretty, with some complex lyrics and two or three drummers at times, a wailing falsetto like a musical saw, but still, occasionally boring in the midst of all this overstimulation. It would have been a great fit on Barsuk five or six years ago in the Nada Surf/All Time Quarterback/Rocky Votolato heyday.

Sunday, we started with Viva Voce. This was ROCK. We really needed some straight up rock. There were times, though, when they shaded a bit 1970s, and it seemed like they were going to meet their other band, Blue Giant, in some in-between musical middle ground. Viva Voce has become a four-piece with that one girl from that Portland band, you know the one, and that one other guy from that other band or two. Oh, yeah, the added female was Corrina Repp! Now I remember. I don't remember where we know the drummer from, though. Point Juncture, WA has become more beat-driven, with less vibraphone, but Amanda's voice still sounds like a vibraphone. Nice shorty jumpsuit, Amanda! Hockey was one-trick-pony party music, all deliberate throwback with sweatbands and little running shorts with the contrasting trim, but damn, were they a shit-ton of fun. They consistently remind me of Har Mar Superstar, except for the fact that one would never, ever want to see Sean in vintage little-bitty running shorts. Ew. The Walkmen were surprisingly uninteresting for all the attention they've gottten over the past however many years. Kind of a Brit-wannabe guitar-and-warble thing, occasional forays into Irish punk-lite. John Vanderslice, as always, managed to get the audience to give him things (sunglasses this time). A good set from him, but he's just never going to live up ever again to the Crystal Ballroom show from MFNW last year. Calexico was weird Mexishit. I like them less every time I hear them. I did a walk-through of the Fences set, and thought only they had some Barsuk-like potential. St. Vincent gave us a bunch of weird twinkly and boom-y noises that sometimes came together into a song, a bit Bjork-like. The song that sounded like 1930s Disney cartoon-short songs laid over total rawk guitar was probably pretty representative. The Builders And The Butchers continue to do some mashup of party rock, angry rebel folk-rock, 1970s faux-medieval, and actual medieval songs about the plague. Despite that description, they're a hell of a fun time. The Submarines could best be described as pop music for Target commercials, though they weren't quite as bad as Chairlift is (okay, that was an Ipod commercial, but the first nine times I heard it, I was sure it was a Target commercial). The Murder City Devils were certainly a rock band. It was a reunion show. They gave us messy, howling punk-rawk that referenced The Stooges and The Pixies...and yet, I didn't really enjoy it all that much. TV On The Radio was like an alt-rock Earth, Wind & Fire. Does that sound like a compliment? It's a compliment. The Boyfriend had this to say (he loves them): "Like a Prince and Steely Dan collaboration produced by Wayne Coyne." Gotta love that. M83 surprised me with the Kate Bush-like banshee vocals over the very-1980s orchestral ambie-rock. I went into it remembering they did orchy-ambie, but not the Bushy-banshee. At this point, we were just worn out, and skipped Of Montreal to go back to the hotel to sleep (yes, at my insistence we went with the soft life, a cottage with a big bed and ankle-deep sheepskin rugs and a mineral-bath whirlpool tub, rather than a tent plopped down in the middle of a dusty gravel-and-grass parking lot elbow to elbow with a gazillion other showgoers all partying all night).

Monday we caught just the tail end of The Heartless Bastards as we waited in line to have our bags searched. Sorry, Boyfriend, I know how much you wanted to see them. Their sound really filled the whole bowl at the main stage. Deerhoof followed: I would have been utterly gaga for this stuff in 1996. As it is, I still really enjoyed the super-twee tiny Asian female vocalist barking and crooning multilingually over experimental, sometimes-prog, sometimes-metal booming. There were even occasional funk-leaning bits, before they were again subsumed by the noise. The Pica Beats, despite the program's description, utterly failed at being Seattle's Decemberists. They had a Barsuk-y thing going on, major key with lots of ooh-ing, kind of indie-twee (but not twee-twee). I couldn't hear the lyrics well enough to decide if they too, like the Decemberists', were written by a word-drunk English major. Horsefeathers was loveably consistent, sounding like they always do, but there was no saw this time. We found a tiny bit of shade and lounged in this unexpected refuge, and the gentle old-style front-porch folk was the perfect accompaniment. Here, I started to lose track of what was going on. I think it was The Elephants that was all bouncy with xylophone, nearly worthy of pogo-ing up and down in the dust, with some sort of Vampire-Weekend-like Paul Simon references. I liked it well enough, but my mom would love it! The School of Seven Bells was up next--shoegazery, gothy electro-n-guitar wail. Kind of Siouxie and the Banshees-ish, but her voice wasn't really strong enough to carry it. Gogol Bordello was aiming for gypsy-punk, but undershot and ended up with cartoon-pirate cheese and Lord Of The Dance synth awfulness and some Klezmer Metallica (that's even worse than it sounds). Blitzen Trapper has gotten remarkably consistent. I'm not sure I love them, but they're really good at what they do, mostly 1970s twang southern-rock stuff that's almost but not quite tongue-in-cheek. With the mustaches and bellies to match. Monotonix was loud, with nods to The Doors and Hendrix, but with crowd-surfing (and standing on a drum held up by the crowd, and other "X-Treme!!!" variants on this theme). Interesting to watch trumped interesting to listen to. I'm glad I saw the Silversun Pickups so I could finally lay to rest that internal debate. It turns out the vocalist is male. That makes the band already about 72% less interesting. No, I don't usually prefer female-led bands, it's just that otherwise, SSP just sounds like middle-years Smashing Pumpkins in a not-very-interesting way. Beach House got lazily compared to the Beach Boys in the Stranger reviews...shit, not even close, guys. Repetitive, slow-moving pop without the deliberate electro that would save something described as "repetitive and slow-moving". Girl Talk was a sometimes-interesting, sometimes-too-popcultury layering of a bunch of rap (not hip-hop, really, just rap) over a bunch of pop music samples and references from the past 40 years: Jackson 5, Men Without Hats (Pop Goes The World!), Red Hot Chili Peppers, MGMT, and an overwhelming bunch of pop tripe I don't recognize and don't wanna. Erykah Badu was so not my thing. I don't understand why she was on this bill. I wasn't the only one--the crowd at the mainstage was as sparse as it was all weekend, and plenty of the people who were there weren't paying attention. The actual old-skool fingers-on-a-record-on-a-turntable scratching was pretty cool. The rest of it was too-current-sounding soul-r&b-lite-black-oriented-pop-radio crap. Finally, Explosions In The Sky did a lot of stuff in 3, pretty and pounding, all instrumental. I wanna put it on a mixtape...or better yet, receive a song or two on a mixtape, so I don't need to buy any.

The end.

Followed by a long, leisurely drive back to Portland, skipping the gorge to drive over the mountains and skirt Mount Rainier. Very pretty, and it was interesting to get up into some real elevation and see thick layers of snow still on the ground, many feet deep. We had taken the gorge route the previous weekend when...oh, I didn't tell this story, did I? The boyfriend asked if I'd go to The Gorge Amphitheater the previous weekend to see The Dead (not The Grateful Dead, just what's left of them). After about seven seconds of trying to figure out how to say this tactfully, I just gave up and said, "culturally, I can't make that leap." Because I can't stand hippies, and I can't imagine hanging out with a crowd that has their own language and their competitive insideriness and their defensive hate for anyone who actually makes a pathetic (but nonetheless somehow upper-class, nouveau riche, and gauche?...maybe it's the deodorant, or maybe just the forty-nine-cent comb I can't live without) five figures a year working full-time for genuine justice and equality, because I make them look lazy and ineffective...and oh yeah, I hate The Grateful Dead and any variant thereof just utterly viscerally. The sound makes me just cringe. To me, death sounds like a reasonable alternative. After a day or two of mulling that over, rather than being (probably justifiably) resentful, The Boyfriend charmingly asked, "Well, do you want do go to Washington with me for the weekend anyway?" We stayed in a room in a B&B that was a converted late-mid-century church, I'm pretty sure our room was in the choir loft. Over the two weekends, we tried just about every breakfast joint in the county, explored the little natural foods store, toured a little homestead history center, and tried out a few wineries. And had some of the best food in, of all places, Yakima, WA. Three meals in Yakima, three absolute home runs.

Wow, that was a load off my chest. Glad I could share that with you, and not have to keep it all inside anymore. More jubilant mexican food and uncontrollable hippie hate to come. Or at least more music on the docket.

To all things not hairy and reclusive

2009-06-22T00:45:00.000-07:00

Getting one step closer to being caught up? Shit, it's a long road. It's a good thing I take notes! This post covers all things not Sasquatch (the music festival). The first show on the list was John Vanderslice at Mississippi Studios. I walked into the middle of the Mimicking Birds set. It was whispery folk/non-folk/post-folk minor-key sometimes-arhythmic stuff. I kinda liked it. I could imagine listening to it late at night with a crowd of friends, if I were the sort of person who sat around in a darkened living room late at night with a crowd of friends. It had a bit of the Nick-Drake-Volkswagen-commercial vibe--not that it sounded like that, it just had that feel. Once, as the band got started slowly into a song, someone in the back of the club started clapping far, far off the rhythm, and the lead singer looked out into the audience with an air of fear. There was an oddly Paul Simon bit in there somewhere, and some stuff that sounded like My Morning Jacket but without Jim James. JV was up next. He did some new stuff, including one that was startling in its intensity. I mean, even compared to most of his stuff. And many of his songs have this disturbing, almost dangerous quality to them. One of the things I love about Vanderslice. though, is how quickly his songs become familiar, even though they're odd and complex. I left humming Too Much Time, and bought the new album on my way out. Vanderslice loves his fans, and loves Portland. The stage banter is almost the best part. It's kind of fascinating watching him convince the audience to give him things. This time it was a flashlight, to light the dark part of the stage where his keyboardist was sitting. He tossed it up to someone in the balcony who carefully trained it on the dark corner. He talked, like he does every time he's here, about how much he wants to move to Portland. "I moved to San Francisco to be with a girlfriend. I should have just kept going up I-5." (someone in the audience:) "You can find a Portland girlfriend!" (JV:) "Yeah, I'm sure my wife would love that!" Later on: "Do we have a set list?" (someone in the audience:) "I took it." (JV:) "Oh, okay, can you read me what's next?" Several times, he started a song, then stopped. "I fucked that up...can we start over?" It's like hanging out with the guy. But it's kind of uncomfortable when the audience treats it as such, shouting out between songs faux-personal connections about that one time I talked to you at that show in that one city, do you remember? I don't really want to be associated with those folks, the ones called home by his stories of mental illness and desperation. I just want to revel in the complicated storytelling and the intensity of the guitar, broken up by goofball self-effacement and playful interaction between songs.

Sasquatch came next, sequentially. Three days of three music stages (sometimes four) out in the baking sun of the Eastern Washington high desert. That gets a post all to itself--maybe two.

I've actually lost track of the sequence of all the other non-Sasquatch shows! I will randomly pull notes out of the pile next to me on the couch. And the winner is....Bazillionaire! At Langano Lounge, which is the basement of an Ethiopian restaurant. This is the new-er-ish band of Jesse, who used to be in Point Juncture, WA. Jesse may be one of the nicest people I've ever met. I once gave him someone else's Oreos, because he's just so nice you can't help but do things like that. I was so relieved that the band was really likeable. I'd hate to dislike the music of someone so damn nice. As they launched into their set, I thought, "It's kinda like Nada Surf, but loud, messy, live-sounding, and awesome." Jesse: "That's the one that sounds like Nada Surf." I heard a bunch of other good '90s stuff in Bazillionaire: The Promise Ring, various Apartment Music bands. Great '90s indie echoes seem to be the theme for Langano Lounge (...she pronounces definitively after being there twice). They had a viola player that apparently drove up from Southern Oregon somewhere and rehearsed with them for a night. The bassist is reportedly the new bassist for Swim Swam Swum, which is odd beyond belief. SSS is music for pogo-ing wildly to, bouncy punk-pop joy. The bassist stood statue-like and still, her back to the audience, watching her fingers. In SSS, she will look like she's in slow motion. Maybe she'll run in terror from the stage.

Next drawn out of the hat is the PDX Pop Now! 2009 CD release party! This year, I was prepared for (and resigned to) the uncomfortable setup that is Holocene as an all-ages venue. Nice gesture, poor design. The avid drinkers among us (show of hands? my hand's up...) are kind of ghettoized to what ends up feeling like a little catwalk next to the bar. But the emcee for the night was adorably gorgeous in a tuxedo (hi Seth!). Anyhow, The Taxpayers started out. They had kind of a Jared Mees vibe, with bits of Irish punk, a moment of klezmer, and a good dose of garage rock. And some accordion. Is there such a thing as accordion punk? They apparently told long, rambling stories and jokes, but I couldn't hear any of that. Next up, What's Up? This was all instrumental. I have little patience for all-instrumental stuff. But they managed to hold my interest admirably. Three guys playing their set in the middle of the crowd, with keyboards, bass, and either drums or guitar. It was math-rock-y but fun, not I'm-smarter-than-you mean-spirited. I tried (and mostly failed) to take some cool pictures of the set. Jared Mees and the Grown Children were up next. I found it a bit unfortunate that they were on a bill with The Taxpayers, who sorta stole their shtick. Bouncy twang-craziness that you can't help but love. The boyfriend asked him about the song The Tallest Building In Hell. Is it about a relationship gone painfully and irrevocably sour, or is it about stressful and difficult times ultimately resolved? I was on the side of the lyric, "patience pays off...eventually." I seem to have won that one. Copy was up last. I took a few pictures of the keytar, then crashed, losing all ability to make sense of what was going on. I'm pretty sure I helped with clean up, then...was there Potato Champion? I have a vague memory of The Carts that may or may not have been from that night.

Finally, I went to this show at A Roadside Attraction for one reason and one reason only. I came across info on this band called What Hearts, and there was apparently a band member with the same name as a pretty good friend of mine from high school with whom I had lost contact years ago. What's the chance it could be the same person? Someone highly Nordic from suburban Minneapolis? What Hearts was what could, either uber-charmingly or cliche-dly be called 'old-timey music.' It was whispery, twangy, and ultimately beautifully lacking in novelty. I was entranced. It did end up being that high school friend of mine, and it was both mundane and profound to make such an old connection and have it feel both familiar and unexpected/distant/nostalgic. They were followed by an act led by a female musician with a stellar if a bit decorative and romantic-pop voice, who played some piano and then a bit of...accordion? Wait just a minute. With hair like that, and that nose...it's Ali Ippolito! She continues to be a remarkable musician whose musical tastes I just don't always jibe with. Angry accordion solo (yes!) into sexy-piano-pop-blues like Fiona Apple (no! Go back!).

But wait, there's more! Just not right this second. Sasquatch still to come. Lots and lots of Sasquatch.

Next!

2009-06-08T22:58:00.001-07:00

Still getting caught up. I just realized I saw a show I did not list in the attempt at a list in the last post. A benefit for PDX Pop Now! called Make It Pop!. Ryan Sollee of The Builders And The Butchers started, but I got there just for half of the last song. I had a cupcake and a beer from Captured By Porches brewing. I'd like to drink more of their beers. Loch Lomond played next, and they were the only full band of the night. Richie Young's vocal range never fails to astound me. He ranged from birdlike to baritone, with the band occasionally calling up Fleet Foxes and pointing the occasional finger at an Irish folk dirge. Then there was cake. Marty Marquis of Blitzen Trapper followed. I guess he's not the main songwriter for BT, but certainly worthwhile in his own right. He looks like a math genius heading toward his first psychotic break, with this wild, curly red hair and beard that looks all ready to matt up at any provocation. And the glasses to match. Like BT, he calls largely upon the '70s, but instead of BT's prog rock, he goes more of a Neil Young slant, with some fingerpicking and a nod to Gordon Lightfoot. And some good stage banter about Yakima and ghosts. Brandon Summers of The Helio Sequence was next on the bill. He also called upon Neil Young, lots of strummed guitar and harmonica. There were also moments that recalled Paul Simon. I suddenly felt like everyone in Portland is exactly my age. My musical childhood seems to be reflected everywhere around me. James Mercer of The Shins headlined. A tiny venue holding maybe 100 people (okay, the Ace Hotel site says The Cleaners holds 160, but I bet it's less once you set up a space for the band to play), mostly seated cross-legged on the floor, enthralled. He played some familiar stuff, some unrecorded stuff, and a couple of brand new songs. He twanged things up a little to match with the '70s-folk vibe of much of the rest of the show. He said Weird Divide is his mom's favorite song. My mom really likes The Shins, but everything she likes is mid-tempo and major-key, so Weird Divide is out. It was utterly kick-ass.

Next up was The Shins and The Delta Spirit at the Crystal Ballroom. The Delta Spirit was all references, no referrer. All hat, nothing to hang it on. This one sounds kind of like Joe Cocker, then that one sounds all Dylan-wannabe, with some Springsteen bits...oh, a few moments of Tom Waits before a whole bunch more Joe Cocker. "We're playing rock!" Eh. The Shins always put on a great show. They make these pretty songs that are a bit weird, and then live, they make these weird, pretty songs rock. Garage rock from the late '60s. But pretty. And weird. It was interesting to see the full band at the Crystal just a week or less after seeing James Mercer solo from 11 feet away. Again, a few new songs, which bodes well on the new album front. They did what Spoon did when I saw them at the Crystal a couple of months ago: Take their familiar songs and filter them through a kaleidoscope of a zillion fractured and shifting influences and references and tongue-in-cheek stealing from classic bands. The Shins doing Spoon covering Billy Joel borrowing from early '70s garage punk. The Shins doing Devo doing a calypso arena-rock number. The Shins pretending they're the Doobie Brothers but with Andy Summers playing guitar. Sadly, New Slang was just kind of the perfunctory "we have to play this, but let's just get through it" cover of themselves that the most pop single always seems to get from innovative bands like this. I'd love it if interesting bands reconstructed their singles in live shows the way they do other songs. Then, on top of all the references and playing at being other bands, The Shins actually covered a Beach Boys song. It was pretty great. To come full circle for my week, they started the encore with a cover of Neil Young's Helpless. See? Everyone in Portland is my age, and grew up sitting on the speaker in their footie pajamas while their dads played their favorite records over and over again. It was a marvelous show, and I left happy.

Side note: My parents are moving and semi-retiring, and getting rid of most of their stuff. My dad's set aside a bunch of records for me. At first, when he told me there were 22 of them, I was sure I'd veto most of them, but no, it was just a few. I'm getting Simon and Garfunkel, The Doobie Brothers, and (blush...I shouldn't admit this) James Taylor. Earth, Wind & Fire. Neil Young. Crosby, Stills & Nash's first record. Carly Simon, and Joni Mitchell (Court & Spark!). Sergio Mendez & Brazil '66. Though I was crushed to find out that the stellar, high-end Technics record player from the early 1980s, this perfect-condition piece of machinery that would be the envy of any DJ, got sold in the estate sale. You win some, you lose some. At least I get the cookie jar.

Has it really been two months?

2009-06-05T23:37:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I've been busy. But that's no excuse for ignoring you, the blogoverse, is it? NO, it is not. Bad OMS. I'm not sure I can even count how many bands I've seen in that time. A quick review gives me 56, but I figure I must be forgetting some. There was some good (and great), some bad, and definitely some ugly.

The Heartless Bastards, with Gaslight Anthem and A Death In The Family. Andrew Oliver Kora Band and Krebsic Orkestar (real Balkan gypsies, not jam-band hippies). The Shins and Delta Spirit. Bazillionaire. What Hearts and...oh, some band that was led by Ali Ippolito (it may be called When The Broken Bow). The 2009 PDX Pop Now! CD release show with Copy, Jared Mees and the Grown Children, What's Up (ETA: I have been corrected. They are, it turns out, What's Up?.), and The Taxpayers. John Vanderslice and Mimicking Birds. And Sasquatch, which has bloated to three full days, where I saw: Blind Pilot, Death Vessel, Doves, Passion Pit, M. Ward, Devotchka, Mt. St. Helens Vietnam Band, Arthur & Yu, Animal Collective, Sun Kil Moon, Ra Ra Riot, The Decemberists, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Bon Iver, Viva Voce, Point Juncture WA, Hockey, The Walkmen, John Vanderslice (again), Calexico, Fences, St. Vincent, The Builders and the Butchers, The Submarines, Murder City Devils, TV On The Radio, M83, The Heartless Bastards (again), Deerhoof, The Pica Beats, Horsefeathers, Bishop Allen, School of Seven Bells, Gogol Bordello, Blitzen Trapper, The Duchess and the Duke, Monotonix, Silversun Pickups, Beach House, Girl Talk, Erykah Badu (not by choice, I swear), and Explosions In The Sky.

Am I forgetting anything?

I'll start at the very beginning. A very good place to....erm...sorry. I thought i had exorcised Mary Poppins. Anyhow, moving on. I hadn't been to Berbati's in a long time, but one of The Boyfriend's favorite bands was playing, so there we were. Thanks to confusion about how Berbati's labels tickets (I've also shown up an hour before the music starts over this, leading to total awkwardness), we missed Cage The Elephant, which is too bad, because the New Music Hour song is pretty good. We walked in early in the Death In The Family Set. Teenage-boy-working-at-a-gas-station-with-the-little-undergrown-mustache-hoping-he's-more-emotional-and-deep-than-his-high-school-dropout-peers aggro-lite. Music for guys with an IQ of 90. The Boyfriend: "At least they're not from Portland." OMS: "Nah, they'd be from Gresham." Then, the reason we were there, The Heartless Bastards. A particular favorite of The Boyfriend. I'd call them the best possible version of caucasian bar-blues-rock. Because caucasian girl-fronted twang-leaning blues-rock is such a narrow genre, it overlapped with things I hate, like Tina & The B-Sides and early KD Lang, but the absolute lack of self-conscious schtick saved it every time it wandered into those territories. The drums were absolutely ass-kicking. The venue has seen better crowds. Once, a bouncer suddenly perked up, ears forward. A second or less later, he leapt into action, diving into the crowd to grab a guy by the throat and shove him backward out the door. He apparently deserved it, though once The Boyfriend pulls me deep into the front-of-the-stage crowd, I can't see anything except the headstock of the bass and the weird hair of that one guy ten inches in front of me, who isn't really even very tall, but moves two inches every time I do, without fail. The crowd did get difficult a couple of times, once at this loud, chatty couple who, once they decided (under duress) to leave, got shoved in the back so I ended up with her beer all over me. Thanks, I hadn't noticed a problem before that. Last up, Gaslight Anthem. Really lite aggro-lite. Almost emo-core. One guy (bass?) looked a bit like Henry Rollins' wussy momma's boy little brother. The guy who was at the show in his Black Flag safety-pinned jacket should hang his head in shame. Bad, bad stuff. We left early.

Next was the Andrew Oliver Kora Band and Krebsic Orkestar at Mississippi Studios. The Boyfriend snagged free tix by being on the Mississippi Studios mailing list (I sometimes do the same with the Doug Fir list), so I had no idea what we were getting into. The who what-now? And an Orkestar? Shit, don't make me go see an Orkestar! It's gonna be a jam band, isn't it, but with mandolin and flute or something. I just know it. But I'll try anything once. At least I'll get to complain about it in my blog. How wrong I was! The Andrew Oliver Kora Band was traditional jazz (keys, trumpet played by an old man in Converse, drums, bass, occasional guitar) wrapped up with some West African kora music. The world-beat elements were so subtle I didn't gag as it went down. Turns out a kora sounds a lot like the bastard child from an illicit harp-banjo tryst. I ended up really enjoying some of it, when the west-African sounds were more '30s Paris jazz club exotic and less world beat boring. Krebsic Orkestar turned out not to be a jam band! That revelation was like finding out you don't have to have that root canal after all. It was big band x eastern European gypsy stuff, which could have gone either of two ways, but was marvelously dark and smoky rather than silly cheese. Had they covered Caravan, it would have fit perfectly. They had three trombones, a souzaphone, three trumpets, a...what's the sideways bent-up trumpet? Oh! Flugelhorn! I adore the flugelhorn. Where was I? Oh...yeah, a saxophone, and three percussionists. Their utterly unplanned, unrehearsed encore occurred in the middle of the floor in a circle. The people doing the probably traditional-folk line-dancing in the audience seemed like snooty nerds, but I didn't let them ruin my enjoyment of the show except when I had to move out of their way or get stepped on. Some people...give me one good reason I should go out of my way to accommodate you? Why should I move so you can enjoy yourself, rather than you staying the hell out of my way so I can enjoy myself? But anyhow, much fun, and a pleasant surprise.

Much, much more to come. Much.

Church on Sunday

2009-04-13T00:39:00.000-07:00

It's a crazy busy few weeks for shows. Marvelousness everywhere. A little over a week ago, it was Alan Singley & Pants Machine, World's Greatest Ghosts, and Point Juncture, WA at the brand-spankin'-new Mississippi Studios. First, the venue: They've salvaged a lot of wood out of the old place. The big ceiling beams might be salvaged, the door frames and the stairs certainly are. They did some of their shopping down the street at The Rebuilding Center (love) and some at Rejuvenation (repro for suburbanites). There's a marvelous garage door that was closed at the beginning of the evening, then opened to allow access to the bar. And they're doing nearly-weekly movie nights that I totally wanna be there for.

Singley's gotten all orchestral. They were a five-piece tonight, with Alan on keys and/or guitar and vox, Gus Elg, Leb Borgerson (these have always been the core three), plus sax-and-porkpie-hat, and violin. Amanda Spring joined them for a song or two. They're always a sprawling mess, though with five or six it seems to get more out of hand. Though maybe it's that Alan isn't writing such tight, adorable gems. The older, cuter songs I knew well seemed on par. As always, they split the difference between rocking out and goofing off. There were late-nite talk-show band bits, and some post-prime-time soft-core cop show theme song bits, but overall, it was total punk showtunes.

I don't think I've seen World's Greatest Ghosts before. I either missed them at PDX Pop Now! 2008, or I saw them in the midst of total overwhelm, and I'm too lazy to look back and figure out which. I loved 'em. Exuberant, with some punk and some geek and some melodic pop. A five-piece with keys, two guitars, bass, and drums (and at least four people who sang at various times). Some rhythmic oddities that were fun, and a good amount of squealing distortion. For the geek-punk-pop axis in town, the Jad Fair quotient was a surprisingly modest 22.1%.

PJWA started out with some complex rhythmic songs that were almost un-head-bobbable. Though I did my best. As they get more rock without losing their chamber/choral/fuzz (and totally anti-portland) sound, I hear a good bit of Low in what they do. The Boyfriend, who doesn't know Low, heard Radiohead. I know where he's coming from, but that didn't seem like quite as good a fit to me.

Next, I went to Explode Into Colors, Parenthetical Girls, and The Thermals at Wonder Ballroom. First up, The Boyfriend embarassed me by telling someone who knows stuff about music that I write about music. Shit, this isn't writing! Writing involves editing. I rant, or occasionally rave, about music. I go on for pages at a time. And the crucial piece here, what makes writing writing, is that others read it. If people read this shit, I'd stop doing it. I figure the internet is the perfect place to hide. It's safer than a diary under my bed. Anyhow, Explode Into Colors was like a very young, early Sleater-Kinney doing super-weird beats. A drummer, a percussionist (drummer and multi-instrumentalist, including harmonium and lots and lots of cowbell), and a vocalist/six-string-bassist. All female. I walked in to drums and vocal yips. That was probably the most minimalist, though there were plenty of bits that were just percussion and wordless vox. There were a few songs with words, but most involved two-part harmony wordlessness. "This one's about my friend Amy, who moved to Jamaica." The words? Aaaaah...ooooohhhh. Aaaaahhh. I just don't know how I feel about the conceit that that song was about something. The Boyfriend: "It's like a Rothko being about something." No, he'd say the paintings were about color. Maybe emotion. But he wouldn't say, "this is a picture of my dog." Overall, primal and tribal, booming, interesting and engaging. I'm not sure I love 'em, but the worst I can offer (except when they're making that vocal yipping noise) is the occasional raised eyebrow.

Parenthetical Girls: The Boyfriend said about 296034671 times, "I want to know what you think about this band." But I already knew he hated them, which changed my lens a bit. 30 seconds in, my interpretation was, "I see why you hate them, but I think I might really like this." But five minutes in, it had shot over the top without any indication it would ever come back down. Imagine Morrissey's personality disorder filtered through Colin Meloy's theatricality. Maybe a shot of Alan Singley's joyful exuberance. And then some nods to light operetta. I kept expecting the lead singer to break out into a cockney accent. It was occasionally funny, but so stagey. The one chick was in a Dorothy in Oz dress, and may have been wearing red shoes. The keyboardist looked like a zombie, as if he were playing from beyond the grave. And the vocalist postured and danced and gestured. Far too much.

The Thermals are just The Thermals. Perfect punk-rock. Kathy is gorgeous, which doesn't hurt matters, and her hair was described as "mesmerizing". I'd call them an amazing live band, but their recorded stuff sounds just like this. The one complaint I'd have is how alike their songs sound. I think at the beginning of every song, "Do I know this one?" I'm never sure. They had a couple of more down-tempo ones that must be from the new disc. The Nirvana cover (Sappy...I had to google the lyrics..."you're in a laundry room...") was spot-on yet still sounded exactly, exactly like The Thermals. Are they a closet grunge band?

Tonight was Blitzen Trapper and Fleet Foxes at the Crystal. It was the ultimate bill for those of us who grew up in the 1970s. Blitzen Trapper took the schtick to the extreme, with the shoulder-length hair, bellies, and beards. I found them amusing, though not necessarily awesome. The Boyfriend wondered why I like them if I hate the Grateful Dead. Shudder. The only answer is that this is deliberate schtick. It was total prog-folk weirdness. There was a "this is going to be a Billy Joel song...oh, nope, twangy Eagles ballad!" bit that probably explained everything perfectly.

Then Fleet Foxes. Perfect for Easter: Medieval (pagan?) folk-madrigal without the fat chicks with tattoos who call themselves "wench". I don't get why my indie-alt people like this stuff. I know it calls to that last hidden, un-cynical bit of me. It's there, it really is, but it's tiny. The folk-with-no-twang just warms me and makes me happy. Nick Jaina once described some stuff of his as "sleepytime music," and that descriptor totally fits here. The Boyfriend and I argued over whether it was more like Carole King or Joni Mitchell (okay, it's not Court and Spark, but neither is most of Joni Mitchell's stuff, so there!). Plus some Cat Stevens, and Bridge- and Bookends-era Simon and Garfunkel--I so wanted them to cover Save The Life Of My Child! Oh, yeah, and House-at-Pooh-Corner-like Loggins and Messina, but that was the charming stuff, right? Again, it makes me want to be a preschooler sitting on the speaker while my dad spins records trying to get me to sleep. I went home happy.

More to come, I've got tix stacked to the ceiling. It's apparently music season!

A Month Or So In Review.

2009-03-22T22:21:00.000-07:00

Still playing catch-up. Some time late last month, I went to see a three-band show at the DF. First up, Juan Prophet Organization. I was there with someone who likes to be at shows right on time, damnit! So we were there for this opening band, and regretted it. Damn, I hate bands in costumes. One guy dressed like Orville Redenbacher, another in a tux, a Tim-Burton-claymation-esque wench (who probably calls herself a wench...*shudder*) except not wraithlike and thin, and a genuine unitard-and-mask fucking superhero costume. Seriously? The music was like a vampire-metal stage musical as staged by a...ugh...troupe of Renaissance Festival minstrels in their off-season. After the set was over, all I could say was, "Let us never speak of this again." Oops...here I go speaking of it. Well, this will be the last time, I swear. Next, and the reason we were there (a favorite of the showgoing companion): Chris Robley and the Fear of Heights. I really want to like this guy, I swear I do. I'm thisclose. The vaguely orchestral bits are lovely. The traditional/americana nods are perfectly done. Interesting chords and rhythms. And then Robley's voice slips into a White Lion-esque hard-rock-ballad warble, and I'm jarred out of my enjoyment. Briefly, sure, but repeatedly. The word 'gone' does NOT have a 'w' in the middle! One syllable! ONE, damnit! Sigh. Thisclose. Finally, Heroes and Villains. I saw them once a few years ago, and hoped they had changed. Not much, sadly. It's kind of fun, but ultimately gimmicky. A cool collection of instruments put together mostly just to be a cool collection of instruments--celeste, a tiny organ-grinder's-monkey bass, tiny glockenspiel (of course), mandolin (I've come to hate the mandolin), and a bowler hat. They seemed to be playing dress-up, which just always seems amateurish to me. At some point, as a musician, don't you stop carefully selecting your costume-y outfit for every show? I still love Ali Ippolito and her accordion. The other chick's voice, though, was just grating and Lillith-Faire-y. We left early.

Next up...Spoooooon! (...said The Tick.) Some band called Everest opened. They were more-or-less adequate, not interesting, not awful. Spoon did their typical '60s garage-rock attack, but then threw in all this unexpected stuff, too. Is this a cover of some lost Pat Benetar B-side? Is there some Elvis Costello ballad I don't know about that they're channeling here? Though both times they tried to ballad (there really aren't Spoon ballads), they gave it up halfway through and decided to all-out rock. That's what they're good at, and damn, are they good at it! Some early-'80s Genesis, a helicopter noise, an underwater nature special...and every moment overwhelming and kick-fucking-ass. This was a one-off show rather than part of a tour and it showed, in a good way (though when they toured for Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, they totally tore shit up, too). I think Britt Daniel had gotten a new echo pedal, and called up the rest of the band in Austin, and said, "Come on up to Portland! The new pedal's coming FedEx!" It was like the new toy he couldn't put down.

Last up, a Show Someone Else Wanted To See (SSEWtS). I'd never been to Satyricon before (either the old Satyricon, which was defunct by just months after I'd moved here, or the new Satyricon, where this show was). It seemed pretty friendly for a punk club. The graffiti in the bathroom was, on the whole, kinda upbeat, and the band stickers were actually lined up, so they must be there on purpose. Dingy, as it ought to be, but some kind of interesting elements, like the distressed composite-stone bar, some sparkly vinyl booths, cute repro starburst formica tables, and galvanized-steel details. Maldroid was up first. Dressed in thrift-store suit jackets with band logos appliqued like country-club crests, an ascot, and a pair of white plastic sunglasses, they were goofy robot-electro-punk. The Devo cover fit in seamlessly, which should pretty much explain everything you need to know. They were pretty fun, and had their shit together. The Punk Group followed, and they were also uber-electro and Devo-influenced, with the occasional bizarro Mojo Nixon bit (once, I wanted to shout, "Elvis is everywhere!", but then the Devo kicked back in). Two guys and a lot of synth-looped and recorded sounds. And dancing. I would have liked this a lot more had misogyny not substituted for cleverness. This one's about a fat chick...this one's about an ugly chick...hey, another one about a fat chick. What could have been fun ended up vaguely irritating. They seem to have gone sunglasses shopping with Maldroid. And then, the SSEWtS we were there for, The Phenomenauts. Sci-fi rocka-punkabilly-surfpunk without exception. One punkabilly song = fun. A whole show of punkabilly songs = repetitive. And then there were the costumes...both onstage and in the audience (gag...wretch...ew). Rehearsed stage banter (to which the audience had its rehearsed responses...I'm not sure whether I disdain that sort of thing more when I don't know what the response is supposed to be, or when I do...) that was about their outer-space origins. So here's what I figured out: Surfpunk is punkabilly at half tempo. There was a cover...The Ramones? Good stuff, whatever it was. The band was fun, and danceable, but in the end, the spectacle and theatrics overshadowed the music, which was just too narrow-genre to really grab me. I remember the fog machine and the balloon and the toilet paper gun and the lasers, not the songs. I feel bad saying this about a band, because I really didn't dislike them, but...I would have loved this band when I was nineteen. I've just become a total snot about spectacle (oh, yeah, and the whole tightly-convention-bound genre of punkabilly) as I grow older. All in all, it was best described as a decent way to spend an evening, with the occasional pointy nudge of discomfort that comes from being forced to face my background as a total nerd. I'm not going to become a fan, but I'm not going to complain that I'll never get those hours back, either.

Sheesh, now that I'm caught up, it's time to go out and see some damn shows!

A long, long time ago in a place far, far away

2009-03-22T21:05:00.000-07:00

I should have made a new year's resolution or something. Post things right away, instead of waiting until you've forgottten all the details. Except that the only new year's resolution I've ever kept was the time I resolved not to make any more new year's resolutions, because not only do I not keep them, but it's a stupid tradition anyway. Why engage in failed self-reflection and self-improvement once a year, when you can do it all the time? Wait, that didn't come out right...

I had this lovely idea that I'd tell you about my vacation. Sure, it's not music, but it was fun. But now, it's so long ago and seems so far away. Of course, I just went to the coast. It's not that far away. I stayed in this little attached-cottage thing with a fireplace and an oblique view of the ocean, with huge rocks sending up great sprays of salt water as the tide came in on the sorta-private beach. Technically, there are no private beaches in Oregon, but there are plenty of beaches that are impossible to reach because they're surrounded by cliffs. This hotel, The Surfrider, just north of Depoe Bay, built stairs down the cliff to the otherwise impossible beach, so you can only reach it from the hotel. Or by kayak, or helicopter or something. The cottage was charmingly dated, probably built in the 1950s and last redecorated in the 1970s, and I loved it (the rest of the place seems condo-ish and...well, nice, if you like that sort of thing). I ate a massive amount of local and/or regional seafood (if I couldn't drive there the next day on a whim, I wouldn't eat fish that came from there). Some was astounding, like the fish and chips at Luna Sea fishery/fishmonger/tiny lunch spot in Yachats. I picked up a can of smoked tuna there that made a beautiful sauce for pasta. Some was only so-so, like the Huge-Ass Mound Of Seafood platter (or something like that) at Gracie's Sea Hag. Anyone who tells you it's one of the better places to eat on the coast hasn't been there in 20 years. I had good clam chowder (Rogue Public House in Newport, where I went primarily for the beer), and dull clam chowder (a little diner in Depoe Bay). As you can tell, vacation for me is all about the food.

And drink. I visited several wineries, including a very fun if somewhat ill-advised (by the time I had a beer at bowling that night, I was flat-out drunk) tour through the wine country of Dundee on my way home. On the coast: Flying Dutchman, calling themselves the only winery on the Oregon coast, had a couple of interesting wines. The Wine Cave or whatever it's called in Depoe Bay had mostly fruit wines from Nehalem Bay winery--fun, silly, and lacking complexity. The real grape wines (I don't remember who they were from, but probably just as well) were dull and watery tasting, and also lacking in complexity. They had a marechal foch, but even that wasn't any good. In the valley: Archery Summit, all pinot noirs, was pretty fascinating stuff, but crazy expensive. I had a long talk with a former Multnomah County commissioner who was also there tasting, about mental health funding. De Ponte Cellars also had some worthwhile stuff, and an incredible view! And by the time I got to Argyle, I was beginning to get a bit loopy. But I do remember that many of their wines are better and more interesting than the few of theirs you can get in the grocery store, and perhaps more worth the money. I also visited Rogue Public House in Newport (the home base of the Rogue empire). I got a sampler at the public house. Juniper Ale: Eh. A mild, sweet-ish pale ale that was not strongly junipery nor hoppy. Santa's Private Reserve: Hoppy and malty, maybe a bit too malty-sweet-sour for me. But the hop aroma was lovely and perfumey, just like I like it. Sesquicentennial Ale is made with lots of local ingredients for the state's 150th birthday. It's supposed to feature local hops, but what I noticed first was the spice flavors--almost rootbeery (but in a good way, I swear!). It was a dark honey color, and eventually settled down into a nice IPA style, though again, maltier than I like. Mocha Porter: Very toasty and roasty! Definitely accurately named, with clear bittersweet chocolate and coffee flavors. The texture was a bit flat, like a nitro but not. This was my favorite of the bunch. I brought home a Smoke Beer, which is a traditional German rauchbier. This one knocked me on my ass with its unbelievable awesomeness. It was like a deep honey-colored pale ale, and smoking the malt totally killed the sweetness and sour notes. Very smoke-flavored, and it was perfect to drink in front of the Petroleum-Based Wood Replacement Product fire, because the smoke aroma made up for the lack of wood fire smell! Lighter in color and malt flavor than other rauches I've had. Amazing. I also brought home a Yellow Snow IPA, which was damn good, and didn't suffer from the imbalance in malty sweetness that the other IPA-like beers did.

Aside from the eating, and drinking, and eating, and drinking some more, I did actually spend quite a bit of time both taking pictures of the ocean, and then putting the camera away and staring meditatively at it as it crashed and sprayed and lit up from behind. This is why I go to the coast in the winter. The vastness of the ocean, and the unhuman scale of its power, makes me feel very small, and it's the closest I get to a spiritual experience.

While driving up and down the coast between tiny towns, I was listening to lots of new stuff I've just acquired, but the one that spent the most time in heavy rotation was the new Point Juncture, WA disc, Heart To Elk. The week before, I'd seen their CD release in-store at Music Millenium. That show had a comparatively stripped-down, rock-esque sound with more guitar (and more guitar that sounded like guitar, rather than sounds from beyond the grave or a frightened animal, or a frightened animal from beyond the grave...) and no vibraphone. No vibraphone? It's like someone slipped a little Portland into their drinks while they weren't looking...but just a little. The disc is still refreshingly un-Portlandy. Un-punk, un-geek, un-americana. The class beauty (the quiet one who might also have been valedictorian), not the class clown. Amanda Spring's voice is like a muted bell, and the recording enhances that; Victor Paul Nash's voice is recorded to match. Orchestral and layered, with vibraphone (whew!), rich and lush yet also simple, built around unadorned vocals. The best way for me to describe this band is if a band of aliens encountered rock effects pedals and had no idea how they were used, so they made up their own uses for things like squealing guitar distortion, using it more like a violin than like a wailing assault of noise.

And all this was more than a month ago, so more to come! I'd offer previews, but it's probably just more efficient to start the next damn post. 'Til soon, imaginary readers!

This is a song. It's a singalong.

2009-02-09T23:21:00.000-08:00

Here we go again. I've gone to see shows. I took some notes, I swear I did. But only a few scraps of paper are drifting across my coffee table waiting to be read, interpreted, and turned into a description. I should always come straight home to post! Anyhow, the theme for the first night seems to be "places I've never been."

A couple of weeks ago, a new place called Oz Cafe had a grand opening party. They're in the same little arty-incubator-squatter complex as Tender Loving Empire, and some TLE bands played the party. I got there in time for Jared Mees and the Grown Children, whom I've seen close to 422 billion times recently. They have the plastic-carrying-case glockenspiel that is more Portlandy than having a Keep Portland Weird! sticker on your car that you never drive because oh my god how gauche, everyone would know you own a car, so you just ride that bicycle and wish it had a heater and a roof, because damn is it cold and wet out. The party was basically the alleyway, some pop-up tent-things, some patio heaters, and a garage door open into the space where the band was set up. It was raining, and almost snowing, and here was this crowd all bundled up and bouncing around. The tentmoshing looked a little worrisome, but otherwise it was great fun. As usual, JM&tGC was all broken-geek-squawk vocals over a meta-tongue-in-cheek (we're not really kidding...but we might be kidding about that?) raucus banjo-violin twang. Interestingly, I'm not sure if I missed this before or if it's a new element, but The Boyfriend noticed occasional prominent bits of The Hold Steady bubbling up like crude oil or sewage or something dark and ripe and maybe a bit dangerous. Nice!

So then the debate started. Do we stick around for Boy Eats Drum Machine, whom we've never seen, or do we go to The Coop, where we've never been, for half a dozen bands? There were actually about nine other shows on the list of possibilities, but by the time we got out into it, it was down to a Clash song's worth of options. It was a tough call, with both of us on the fence, but we decided to head to The Coop. It's a house in NoPo, and I haven't been to a house party like that since I was underage and in college. Surprisingly, there wasn't a keg of Old Milwaukee Light with plastic cups, nor did anyone puke on my shoes (now that I'm far removed from college, confidential to I've totally forgotten your name in Minneapolis: puking on my shoes was never, ever going to get you a date...once was awkward, but twice was just off-putting). This place is a beautiful arts-and-crafts old house with low, beamed ceilings and the original, unpainted dark wood. I wanted to steal the house and take it home with me. There was a pretty remarkable lineup for a two-dollar show in someone's house--Rainy States, Reporter, Bodhi, Paper Cup Band (I'm just listing them in order...PCB wasn't so remarkable), and Southern Belle. Sadly, we missed Rainy States and Reporter. I haven't seen Reporter since they were Wet Confetti, and I keep hearing they're remarkably different now. Oh well. Can't win 'em all, especially in a multivenue night. Got there during Bodhi's set. They had fun playfully mimicking everyone in your CD collection (including that stuff you keep in a shoebox so no one will know). The Doors, Bowie, Modest Mouse, the Velvet Underground, Southern Culture On the Skids, surfpunk, Meatloaf, britpunk, the Rocky Horror Picture Show, mid-century senior-prom swing-lite, and cheesy organ-heavy monster-music novelty rock, blended together but left all chunky, like it was set to "chop," not "puree." Echoey, loud, weird, dramatic, and fun. This was followed up by Paper Cup Band, from Minneapolis. Despite their foreign-land status, a bunch of people there sang along. What was the underwater basketball bit? Everyone seemed to know it, even though the words never appeared in the song. Google was, for once, no help. Anyhow, a few moments of very early Replacements (and at least as drunk), but no one can keep up that reckless genius for long. Songs that referenced Paul McCartney and lice. A screamed cover of Yellow Submarine. A little more surfpunk, Dick Dale-style. And a healthy dose of The Dead Milkmen. They were awful, and really just sucked, yet I kind of enjoyed it. And if one of them goes on to be Paul Westerberg, I can say I knew 'em when. I asked one of them about his t-shirt, and he tried to convince me I should move back to Minneapolis. Oh, and that I could die tomorrow. Thanks for that reminder of my own fragility and mortality, really. Finally, Southern Belle. I heard a hell of a lot of early-early careening-crazy Modest Mouse in this one (I've said this about them before). One of them even sounds a lot like Isaac Brock. They don't have his gift for messy poetry, but who does? What they have instead is a keyboard set to Hammond B-3.

Last show on the list: The Crystal Ballroom's birthday party. I've been before (and reviewed it before). This year, I missed the tour, heard a bit of Rock and Roll Camp For Girls' All-Star show (good, if not my style...too fluttery and flourished, vocally), missed tween-rocksters Still Pending (does one of their parents work for the McMenamins empire?), missed lots of other stuff, saw Greensky Bluegrass (twangy '70s hippie cliched shit...seemed like a good time to get some dinner). Tasted some wines. The Boyfriend liked the sparkling wine, but I had just brushed my teeth and thought it tasted atrocious. The White Rabbit blend and the Merlot seemed unremarkable to me. The Pinot Noir, however, I loved. It was earthy and dry-leaf-y and interesting. Tasted some liquors, and had a long, interesting conversation with the head distiller. Hogshead Whiskey, Pear Brandy, Edgefield Brandy, and Coffee Liqueur (lovely, not-too-sweet, dangerous as hell). Tasted some beers. The nut-brown was kind of boring, and the IPA was pretty nice, and smelled gorgeous, like hop perfume. Last up, Blue Giant! Second time I've seen 'em, and they just rock my socks off. Seriously, I end up barefoot and astounded. It's totally my nemesis, Americana Rock, but damn. Nearly all their songs sound like lost covers of Loretta Lynn or The Carpenters (but rocked out like mad) or...shit, I don't even know this Americana stuff well enough to list the rest of those things I heard. I've fallen in love with and half-memorized a bunch of these songs I've heard once before. You keep shooting at my target heart... Once my love is gone, it's gone for good... Sometimes there was a pedal steel. Sometimes there were two banjos. Sometimes there was an upright bass. One question, though: Why is Chris Funk always dressed like one of the Blues Brothers? Regardless, I went home happy, and not just because of all the free alcohol.

Last Grasp

2009-01-12T01:17:00.000-08:00

I saw two shows a long, long time ago, before all that holiday shit got in the way. Picture my hand reaching out and grasping at the last wisps of memories of these shows, before they're entirely forgotten. I think both were in early December. First, I went to the Doug Fir for a six-buck show just to see (wait for it...) the opening band! Seriously, I got my butt there by 9:05, and atypically for DF, they hadn't even started yet. It was to see Swim Swam Swum, so clearly a worthy opening band to actually make it to the show for. I always forget that Nice Girl Guy is in Swim Swam Swum, which is totally awkward. There are, like, 14 people milling around the DF (including the members of the band), and if I want to avoid a conversation, I've gotta go sit in the little hidden alley behind the bar. Clearly, I'm not the only one in town that regularly misses the opening band. Now that I've determined that a pretty significant percentage of Portland bands (55%? 70%? More?) have gotta be influenced by Half Japanese, I'm just listening for it when I go out and hear that bouncy geek-punk sound. Swim Swam Swum's vocalist must hit 97% on the Half-Jap meter. I dare you to find someone in Portland that sounds more like Jad Fair. Hell, if you can find anyone in any city that sounds more like him, I'll buy you a cup of coffee. They were great, as always, and made me want to pogo around the room, but true to form, I sat on my stool and flipped through the Merc instead. They were followed by Carcrashlander. The name did not inspire confidence. They weren't bad, per se, they just weren't my thing. There's probably someone I'd totally recommend them to, because they were great at what they did. It's just that what they did was this mostly dark, minor, downtempo, proggy, keyboard-heavy, vox-light stuff that was primarily psychedelic and occasionally reminiscent of Pink Floyd. No, really, thanks...but no. As I was only there for the opener anyway, I didn't stick it out through Carcrashlander to hear Wow & Flutter. They've been around for a while now, and play a lot, and I really ought to hear them. Just not this night.

The other show I went to in December was (leave me alone, even Obscure Music Snob has to do things like this sometimes) Vampire Weekend. I knew the three radio singles, fun jangly-bouncy stuck-in-your-head-for-days gems, and The Boyfriend wanted to go, and I thought it would just be joyful and likeable. It was a radio-station show, so it started early, one opener, then the headliner. We got there about 8:30, what should have been the midst of the opening band, and as we were walking up the stairs, I wondered why they were playing the song from the ipod commercial. No, not a cool-esque silhouettes-dancing ipod commercial, but the one for the ipod in colors. It wasn't the sound system. It was the opening band. They're called Chairlift. They seem to be one-hit-wonder-ready major-key electro, sounding a bit like The Postal Service with a girl vocalist and a lobotomy. The vocalist with her straight-bangs straight hair looked like a nine-year-old girl. And danced like a nine-year-old girl well before that adolescent self-conscious stage, spinning in circles so her hair twirled out whenever she wasn't singing. Anyhow, the saccharine-sweet commercial song probably faded out into a song about how cute and magic rainbow unicorn ponies are. The remaining 15 minutes of this band were interminable. Then Vampire Weekend started. Three minutes in, I turned to The Boyfriend and said, astounded and baffled, "It's Graceland-era Paul Simon?!? With the Ladysmith Black Mambazo sounds and everything?!" His response: "Of course, totally, didn't I play this for you?" It was fun, and bouncy, and everything I expected, except that I didn't expect the Paul Simon, which was really distracting. I mean, how can last week's alternadarlings sound like aging-boomer lite-pop circa 1987? But I tried to forget about that conundrum, and occasionally succeeded, and they were fun to dance to (uh...bob my head to).

I did some very fun non-music things in late November. There was a tour of Clear Creek Distillery that was a terrible idea, considering how bad I am at drinking liquor, but that I remember remarkably clearly, in retrospect. Comparative grappa tasting, pear brandy, eaux de vie galore, a good time was had by all. The very next day, we went out wine tasting (Thanksgiving weekend, all the wineries and vineyards are always open, often with expensive events, but sometimes just for a few bucks and the hopes we'll buy a bottle) in the northern Willamette Valley. Four wineries, some lovely wines, some beautiful views of the sun over low fog in the hills and valleys, a great time.

It's now January, and depressingly, I'm on call. I haven't been out to a show yet this month, thanks to being on call, The Boyfriend being sick, and not a lot of interest going on. I'm looking forward to expanding my horizons, though, thanks to the brand-spanking-new, January 1 smoking ban in every. single. bar in Oregon. Sadly, Towne Lounge went out of business in October, because they were #1 with a bullet on my list of places I'd like to hang out after the smoking ban. But as always, I'll keep you updated on what I accomplish (and probably keep quiet about what I don't).

Oh, To Be Wanted, To Be Useful

2008-11-24T01:04:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-09T23:57:00.000-08:00

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

2008-10-30T23:55:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-10-14T23:10:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-05T00:32:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-10T21:48:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-09-10T20:49:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-07T21:50:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-07-31T02:05:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-07-28T01:17:00.001-07:00

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.

2008-07-26T02:46:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-11T01:06:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-06-13T01:17:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-06-08T01:05:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-05-26T02:31:00.001-07:00

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.

2008-03-25T23:40:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-02T23:57:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-24T00:44:00.001-08:00

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.

2008-02-03T01:34:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-02-03T01:26:00.000-08:00

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.

I'll think about you.

2008-01-28T00:38:00.000-08:00

I had some fun today. It was the Crystal Ballroom's annual "birthday party" (94, for anyone who's keeping score). I know that sounds weird for a venue that's comparable to First Avenue in size, shows, and scope (the Crystal has more hippie shows, but when the big-name indie bands come through town, they play there). But I got the hour-plus tour the McMenamins Staff Historian puts on (how the hell do you get a job like that???), and it makes some sense.

The ballroom apparently opened (owned and run by a man named Ringler) in 1914, and for 20 years or something like that, it had jazz dances and ballroom dances. Ringler himself was a longtime athlete and the athletic director of the local YMCA, and he thought these dances were harmless, wholesome ways for the young folks to get physical exercise and learn social comportment. However, the Portland Police Department had just hired Lola Baldwin, the first female police officer in the nation, to head the "female protection" division. She was in charge of protecting young women from things like alcohol and prostitution (it was kind of a wild-west town at the time), but spent much of her time focused on dance halls, regulating things like how close dancing couples could stand and whether she should put her hand on his shoulder or his arm. Ringler's operation was targeted repeatedly, and he was eventually run out of business and out of town. The pub downstairs from the Crystal is Ringler's Pub (and Ringler's Annex is down the block, though he never had any involvement in that particular property), and (she'd love this, don't you think?) the little second-room venue at the Crystal is called Lola's room. Her portrait is also painted on one of the big vessels in the Crystal's brewery.

Okay, so I learned all that on today's tour. I heard most of this story while also listening to Nick Jaina and his band sound-check in Lola's Room, but I was hooked on the history and followed the tour instead of sticking around for the show. He's got a couple more shows in town before he heads out on tour, and I'll go see one or both of those. But the tour ended in Ringler's Annex, where they were tasting three McM's-roast coffees, four McM's wines, and two of their liquors. I remembered last year, when I was seriously buzzed by 6:00, so I was selective in what I sampled and didn't finish most of them. But I learned that the McM Syrah tastes ridiculously like licorice, and in my opinion could stand a year or two in a cellar. The McM Longshot Brandy is a clear brandy that is sort of like a grappa, and though the guy doing the tasting pointed out strong notes of black pepper, what I noticed (and several other people did as well) was that it tasted amazingly of pears. Particularly the sharp flavors of Bosc pear skins. The McM IPA brewed at the Crystal is spicy/floral and yummy, and it isn't that good everywhere (I learned that last year too) and the Oatmeal Stout is better on regular tap than it is on nitro (really, only Guinness is any good on nitro). And french press coffee is impossible to compare to drip coffee, so I can't tell you much about the coffee. This all sounds dry and boring. It wasn't. At least, it's the sort of thing I find incredibly fun (architectural and social history, comparative liquorology, discussions of where grapes and beans come from) but can't describe that way, and really, I have more fun doing it by myself because other people don't get why I'm having so much fun, and they think it's kind of dry and boring. Oh--and this fascinated me, and you probably don't care at all: The chandeliers in the Crystal, two amazing, colorful, hand-blown huge cascades of organically-shaped shine and sparkle, aren't made by the McM staff glass folks (yes, they have a staff of artists, including a woodcut-print artist, a ceramicist/mosaicist, several painters, and a glass blower--and yes, this is a chain of bars). They were made in Italy in the '20's or '30's, and were used in a bank in Seattle starting in the '40's. The bank was renovated and the things were put in storage for 10 years or so until Mike McMenamin found them as he was renovating the Crystal. There's apparently a third one incongruously gracing a strip-mall McM joint in Gresham. I don't quite get how a strip-mall space would have the room for one without it brushing the floor.

So after all that, I remained relatively sober (go me! because that took some work) and hooked up with my bowling team. I didn't bowl particularly well tonight, but I did discover that the Widmer '08 is out already, and this year, unlike the past two, it isn't a variety of IPA. It's a wheat, but with a rich, dark color and a name that describes it well (it wasn't russet wheat or ruby wheat or red wheat, but it was an r-word that indicated a rich, dark-red color). Pretty good, but not helped by the fact that all the bowling-alley glasses (and we were so excited to get glass instead of plastic with our pitcher!) smelled like feet. [Name redacted] Lanes out in [suburb redacted] also doesn't require any ID or other deposit to rent a pair of shoes....hmmmm. Do I need new bowling shoes? What do I think of the red-olive-black leather scheme? For now, one pair of stolen bowling shoes should be plenty, but I'm still tempted.

May the record reflect that I blame my bad games tonight on getting knocked off my bike a couple days ago. Okay, not actually knocked off my bike, but I was on my bike for the first time in six months, and really only the second time in five years, and I was almost smooshed by a car that wasn't paying any attention, but I swerved out of the way. Apparently my defensive biking skills leave something to be desired. I hit the curb completely flat-on, both tires at the same time, and went over like a sack of potatoes. I bruised both palms (seriously black and blue, ugly as all hell), bruised my left knee and right elbow, scraped up my right hip, have a giant, deep-black bruise and a major scrape on my tailbone (how I managed this without any damage to the jeans I was wearing, I couldn't tell you), and my neck is sore from whatever instinctive maneuver kept me from hitting my head. That's probably bugging me the most, the sore neck (okay, the tailbone makes comfy-couch-reclining nearly impossible too). But I guess I'm glad the collision was me-sidewalk, not car-me. It could have been tons worse, but that won't stop me from whining until I'm not sore anymore and the ugly black-and-blue marks go away. I didn't notice while I was bowling, but my wrist (my left hand sustained the most serious bruising) is a bit sore now.

After bowling, we headed down the street to a brewpub called the Raccoon Lodge. I pictured something like an Elks Lodge or American Legion, with shitty, fleur-de-lis-patterned puke-scented carpet, fake-wood-paneled walls, and skunky taps. But no, it was a decent-though-suburban brewpub with overpriced food (and American-Legion-borrowed tables and chairs, a step above folding tables and chairs, you can't picture it now but if I pointed them out to you, you'd say "oh, totally, it's like a crappy '70's wedding!" even if you'd never set foot in an American Legion), in a big wood faux-mountain-lodge room with big glass windows overlooking the little brewery operations. To get to the bathroom, you had to walk through keg storage, though I couldn't figure out a way to secret one out with me. Luckily, they had a great 9-til-close happy hour, and the smoked german sausage was awesome even if the bartender did keep making fun of me for ordering the german sausage without the sauerkraut or the mustard. The pale ale was iffy at best. Next time, if there is a next time, I'll get the belgian Trippel, but knowing it was still early, I'd been drinking in at least small quantities since mid-afternoon, and I had a show to go to, I figured 8.6% was out of my range (and it also wasn't on happy-hour special).

Finally, I headed over to the Crystal Ballroom again, for The Long Winters (free!). I caught the last song from Bobby Bare Jr. and band, and while I sure wouldn't have wanted to hear the whole set (described as "unique rock"...ugh...influenced by the '60's and '70's and country-rock) the one song I heard was a terrifically fun cover of...well, it was mostly The Cars' My Best Friend's Girl, but I was rather surprised how well that song weaves seamlessly into The Who's (?) Teenage Wasteland. Though I'm sure I would have hated the band, I've explained here before how I feel about covers. So that was fun. Then The Long Winters. The crowd cleared out quite a bit after BBJ, which surprised me. There were so few people that I did what I never do at the Crystal, and got right down by the barrier between the 21+ area and the stage, which left me about 30 feet from John Roderick and Co. It filled in again a bit by the time TLW started, so I didn't feel bad that they didn't have a crowd at all. In fact, they had enough of a crowd that Roderick didn't seem to feel comfortable heckling us. He wasn't as funny as usual. The only guy he heckled was a drunk easy mark that the Crystal security immediately escorted out (I wondered whether to tell them that a guy that shouts at Roderick is playing into his hands, but declined to, because the drunk guy was kind of annoying). Once, as Roderick announced that the next song was from When I Pretend To Fall, I shouted, questioningly, "Nora?" knowing it wouldn't be. He responded, though. "No, it's not Nora. I don't play that one anymore. At least, not until the next tour! I need a Steinway here next to me. It's because of the writer's strike. Or...well, no, it's not." Roderick is usually funnier! Though he did ask, "I've let myself go. I haven't cut my hair. All you Portland hippies out there, how the hell do you keep it out of your face? It's driving me nuts!" He listened to people shout. "Cut my hair? Oh, that's the Marines recruiter who follows me around everywhere." "Oh, let it get dirty? A little patchouli oil and it'll stay out of my face. Gotcha." Just not up to par, banter-wise. The songs were stellar, if kinda long-winters-play-the-mainstage-ish. They did all the...what, hits? All the favorites, anyhow, Honest and Fire Island and Cinnamon (the WIPTF one after I'd asked if it'd be Nora) and Blue Diamonds and Stupid. The one that really grabbed me was Hindsight. The rest kind of merged into their album versions, though louder, messier, and more visceral. That one really struck me, though, and I can't quite describe how it was different.

He did what all Barsuk bands seem to do these days, and stopped a couple of songs before the end, and told us he doesn't do encores. Just imagine they'd left the stage, and they were coming back onstage, and they'd do a couple more songs. I appreciate that a ton, except that it means that once they're done I can't hope for more. What he did that most headliners don't do (and none at the Crystal ever do) was promise to be at the merch table after the show. And there he was. I was shy. I bought a sticker and let all the other girls thank him for the show first. (Sheesh, he's pudgy, with terrible teeth, awful hair, and the ugliest glasses ever. Don't girl over him. Honest. It's alright to be a singer. But don't you love a singer. At least not this one.) Anyhow, I waited until all that was over, then blushed like a little girl (okay, fine...it's damn hard not to girl a little, but I kept it toned down, so there) and told him I'm the one that always shouts for Nora. I thanked him for playing it at the Doug Fir when he did the solo show a few months ago. He pointed out that he screwed it up at first (at that show, he said he never plays it, but he'd give it a try, and though he did have to start a second time, he pulled it off beautifully after that), then told me they'd practiced it as a band, but hadn't played together live for a while (they're busy recording a new album!), so he didn't think they could pull it off. But he told me, "I'll think about you, and remember that one for next time."

"Don't you love a singer, whatever you do, whatever you do." I won't, I promise. He's kinda icky-looking. But can I love that he at least pretended to take me seriously about Nora? Next time, I'll shout, "you promised!" and I bet he'll remember.

I can't remember if I've told you my funny John Roderick stories, and I'm too lazy to go look. He's always bantering with the audience, and often heckling them (us). Once, everyone was shouting, "Stupid! Stupid!" He answered, "Are you asking me to play Stupid? Or are you...I end up with all these people shouting "stupid" at me! I should have named that song something else. Like 'scintillating'. That would have been better." Someone totally quick in the audience responded, "You could call it that!" ("Stupid, you could call it that, stupid, but you have no idea how stupid I would feel, if fifteen years from now I see her and she says, 'why didn't it happen between us...") Another time, he had just finished Honest ("it's alright to be a singer, but don't you love a singer, whatever you do...") and joked, "That song is about Ben Gibbard." The audience cracked up. "No, I was kidding. Seriously, that song's about...Colin Meloy." The crowd laughed even harder. "No, seriously...that song's about...Colin Meloy." Even funnier, that he joked as if he meant it that time. But funny, intentional on Roderick's part, or just weird...Colin Meloy was standing three feet to my right at that very moment (the only time I've ever seen him in public in Portland, too). He ducked his head as if trying to hide under his baseball cap. I spent a half-hour working up the guts to go playfully ask him, "is that song about you?" knowing it wasn't but it'd be a conversation-starter....but then once I thought I had the guts to do it, I looked over, and he was gone.

There were a very few tiny snowflakes that didn't stick, falling in front of my headlights as I headed home from bowling, but it's been snowing for real since just after I got home about two hours ago. It's a novelty to most locals, but for me it's just a charming, comforting end to a fun, playful day. It makes me wish I had a sled here, though it looks like an inch so far, and I bet there won't be anything left by 10 am tomorrow. Happy dregs of winter, all.

George Bush is a Facist.

2007-12-21T01:20:00.000-08:00

I love bathroom graffiti. It's even more fun if it's badly spelled. Is a facist someone who judges others on their face? I hate Georgie as much as anyone...but it made me laugh.

I got to the Doug Fir nice and early. Finally, for fuck's sake, I was going to see an opening band. I got to the Df at 9:04 pm. Early enough for ya?!? The Golden Bears were up first. They opened for someone else a while ago, and I missed them, and they were reviewed well, and I was greatly disappointed. So I made damn sure I was there to see them tonight. And...oh, god they suck. Suck of the suckity-suck-suck variety of suck. I mean, they're probably fine musicians. It was a tight-sounding combo, though of the tentative, "we just started doing this together" variety. But it was the worst crappy math-prog '70's-era hippie-fantasy-jam-metal I've ever heard. Their album (which would be on vinyl, of course...not that that's a bad thing) should have "death" in the title and fairies (faeries?...ugh) on the cover. Death Faerie Death Destruction, by The Golden Bears. That sounds about right.

Please don't judge me by that comment. I love vinyl to death. In fact, the next band has a split vinyl 12-inch with another band that seems like the most awesome project. Split vinyl 12-inches should never be allowed to die out. So cool. So great. So indie.

I really did try. Honestly, I did. For a good two long, agonizing, endless metal jam-prog tracks. It felt like 45 minutes, but it was probably more like 12. Then I got the fuck out of there. I went upstairs to sit next to the fireplace and read the Mercury. I happily read at a bar pretty often. I like to be left alone, really, but I don't mind being approached. But this was just damn weird. I'm reading, and someone purposefully walks over to me and sits down right next to me. I look up, expecting someone I know, with that kind of intention (Boring Engineer Guy is supposed to be at the show...though he needs a new name. Mustache Guy? He grew this long, luxurious, creepy '70's mustache and suddenly tried to be interesting, though in my opinion it mostly just makes his head look too small. But that seems wrong--when I met him he wasn't Mustache Guy. Guy Who Wants a Ride Home? I figure that's why he texts me before every show he thinks I might be at--he doesn't own a car). Anyhow, it's some guy who must be in his mid-fifties, with an Eastern-European accent. "Are you enjoying your...maaagazine?" "Uh, yeah." It's the Mercury. Sure, it's not McSweeney's, but it's not like I'm reading porn, or Lucky, or Rachel Ray or something. It's the frickin' news weekly, not a maaaaaaagazine. "Come to the bar with me. I weeel buy you a dreeenk. We weeeel have a nice conversations." "No thanks...I'm just waiting for the opening band to finish, because they suck, and then I'm going back downstairs." "Conversation with me, it weeeel not 'suck'. I weeeel buy you a dreeenk." "I have a dreee....I have a drink, thanks, and I'm going downstairs in a minute." Thanks, Golden Bears. Thanks a lot. Had you not been so unbelievably retro-awful, you could have spared me this conversation. Ew.

I finished what I was reading, and went downstairs again. Although they weren't supposed to take the stage until ten, and it was 9:58, The Builders And The Butchers were in full swing. Crazy-ass blues-folk country-punk with a (thankfully rare) occasional medieval renaissance-fest influence (probably solely due to the mandolin). A six-piece with your basic guitar-lead-vox guy, and....uh....oh. The rest is pretty nuts. TWO guys on the sprawling drum kit (one of whom also occasionally played trumpet and mouth organ). That was internal-organ-shakingly-awesome. Violin. Mandolin. It may be only the second or third time I've seen an acoustic bass guitar used live, and it added a totally guttural undertone. Why more bands don't use this, I have no idea. It just has this amazing rough-edged feel, and it just seems to me like this astoundingly unexplored territory between the clean, detailed electric bass of a rock band and the warm but fuzzy-soft classical upright bass used in jazz or some blues bands.

Quick story about the first time I saw an acoustic bass guitar. I haven't told this story, have I? A dozen or so years ago, when I was still in my teens, I "recorded" an "album" with my "band." I went out to this studio in the horrific suburban wilds of my hometown, and rang the doorbell of the home owned by brothers I knew only by reputation, years older than me, who had gone to my high school. Someone unfamiliar, not one of the T brothers, answered the door. Confusedly, shakily, "Hi...I'm (OMS). I'm...the vocalist?" "I know who you are." The door should have creaked shut behind me after a statement like that. I follow this bizarrely prescient stranger to the basement studio. There, sitting on the couch, between the "manager" of our band and one of the T brothers who owned and ran the studio, was my high school crush, Q. I'd turned him down flat when we were 14 and he was a dorky, pudgy class clown. The next fall, he was nine inches taller, 250% buffer, and Oh. So. Hot. in his obscure rock band t-shirts and condescending attitude toward the girl who'd said no. He'd kept it up through high school, though injecting the appropriate "I'm too cool and barely remember who you are because I'm so busy with the indierock scene" attitude when called upon to do so. By that time, of course, I had a raging crush on him. And there he is, sitting on the couch eating popcorn like a spectator at the recording studio. Jesus Fucking Christ, now what the fuck am I supposed to do? Even my "boyfriend" the "guitarist" has no idea I even know this guy. I pull our "manager" aside and explain my dilemma. I can't possibly sing in front of this guy who's made it his crusade to make fun of me since that one fateful day in junior high. Do something? Please? He doesn't say anything. A couple of hours later, one of the T boys, sitting at the board, says, "OMS, let's get started recording your vocals." I blanch. The other T boy stands up and says, "Q, let's go get some pizza." And he's gone. And I record my vocal tracks. I'm terribly embarrassed by that brief, awful, early-'90's musical history, but Q, and both the T boys, have gone on to pretty decent careers. And the guy who answered the door? Turns out a few months earlier, some friends and I had gone out to First Ave for Sunday Night Dance Party. I avoided SNDP as a rule, but damn, we were all pissed at the boys in our lives, 19 years old, and feeling crazy. We met Mike Brady and his friends, and when we told them we weren't single girls, they asked us to grade them on their pick-up lines to other girls. The one that emerged, despite our advice: "We're starting a ska band called Clog, and we need a female drummer." Well, he's pretty well known as a solo act in the Minneapolis area these days.

Among the tapes on the shelf of the studio in the T boys' basement: Clog. Turns out they were a ska band. With a female drummer. The friend of a friend of a friend we were out with that night at SNDP.

That night, after the other T boy and Q came back, we sat around in the living room and played and sang spontaneously. Add some pot and we would have been real musicians! Add a campfire and we would have been any ordinary high school students. But one of the T boys played an acoustic bass guitar.

Anyhow, that was an exceptionally long aside. I kept listening to The Builders And The Butchers thinking their blues-folk-goofiness was kind of cheesy, except that it so wasn't. I didn't just bob my head. I didn't just bob my head enough to get my hair flying. I didn't just tap that one heel like a hipster-geek. I pounded that foot on the floor. They launched into several tunes that sounded like lost Zeppelin tunes. Okay, they didn't have to be lost Zeppelin tunes. They could have been extremely obvious Zeppelin tunes--how the hell would I know?--but there were so many of them. So they couldn't have been. There was also a lovely, if too obvious, Dylan reference ("there was blood on the tracks..."). But the best was when the vocalist's off-key buzzing, over the bluesy-chord-strumming, sounded for just a moment like they were about to launch into Two-Headed Boy by Neutral Milk Hotel. That was about four minutes in, and I was won over right that very second. Sure, TBATB's lyrics didn't come close to the creepy-dark complexity of NMH, but I don't need that in a live show. Just the sounds to pull me there. They were loud, they were bluesy-folk, they were rockin' and raucous, and they made the crowd crazy. Many people there obviously knew the lyrics (like I did for Nick's band, who followed), and shouted along, but they sucked everyone in.

Then Nick Jaina. I'm sorry, Nick. I'm soooooo so sorry. I don't really wish this upon you. I wish for you all the success in the world, all the success you deserve. As my friend frightwig said, "It sounds like you've got the whole world at your feet." I want that for you, I really do. But...I kinda wanted people to start leaving after TB&TB. And they did. In the middle of TB&TB's set, I got up to get a beer, and suddenly my spot was gone. And it was spot #3 in my list of DF places to sit and stand. And nothing was left, from spots 1-5 and even the "if I have to" standing-at-the-top-of-the-steps spots. I'm so sorry. I wished for people to leave. And they did. Nick had a good crowd, though not the huge, raucous crowd TB&TB had. But I loved what playing after a folk-blues-based band with that unbelievable energy did for Nick and cohorts. It's like he said to the band, "Okay, after that, we should reverse the set. We'll start out with the super-high-energy sing-along ones, then take it down after that." And Nathan responded, "Oh, yeah! Let's start out with super-high-energy and then...oh, hey, look, there's a disco ball. It's sparkly. I like it. Where were we?" So Nick started out with Maybe Cocaine and Dirty Heart. And didn't go downhill from there. Even songs that started out lovely and whispery ended up with Nathan and the drummer and the Shoeshine Blue guitarist guy and Ali singing loudly. I loved it. I pictured the one night, after a Binary Dolls set, when I saw what could only be Nick's vocal coach talking to him. "Dynamics," she said. "Dynamics," he repeated. And dynamic it was.

There was a new, unexpected, uber-twangy but spectacular lap-steel guitar part in...oh, crap. Red Queen? There were new shouted vocals in several songs, though there was one I thought didn't need it, didn't help it, even though it was Ali's voice. It wasn't shouted accompaniment, it was harmony, and it just didn't fit in the song. There were two or so new songs I didn't actually know, and a few I barely knew. There was also a promise to send the new disc as soon as this weekend! I've been waiting forever, but getting it ahead of everyone else is worth any wait. I mean, how cool am I? Elliott Smith's fucking piano. Fuck.

And then the encore. I was heartened by the response, the pounding (Nick's fans obviously have better rhythm than anyone else's, as the clapping and pounding didn't accelerate for a minute or more), the hooting. And we saw various musicians moving around on stage--whoohoo! And then there was a quiet melody going on...jeez, DF, they're coming out for an encore, shut the house music the hell off...and people started to quiet, and the lights hit the middle of the main floor...oh. It's not the house music. It's Nathan's violin! Shhhh....oh, be quiet, crowd, please? That's Nick's unamplified voice! There they were on the floor. Four songs, including If I Were To Make Things Right With Jesus. Three other voices taking over the Oooooh...Oooooh parts mostly drowned out Nick. But it was like being at that cozy night sitting on the living room floor at the house/studio in the outer ring suburbs, but so much better because, though surrounded by strangers, I was listening to something transcendent, not Clog The Ska Band Formed Mostly To Hit On Some Girl Who Played Drums.

Before the fourth song, the drummer went up to the stage where the mics were still. "This is the quietest song," he told us. Chatter continued on loudly around the little circle on the floor. A little strumming started. A remarkable, heartening chorus of "shhhhhh!" went up across the DF. People quieted. The song was heard. It was astounding--not just this amazing, unamplified version of a great song, but being inside this web of rapt attention and closing my eyes and mouthing the words.

Okay, yeah, you get my attention now, Guy Who Wants A Ride Home Because He Doesn't Have A Car, I'll offer you a ride home. But the show was transcendent, elucidating, elevating. And your mustache? It's just a mustache. I'm relieved, in the end, that we both know that, and there's nothing awkward.

Why? Why?!?! Why are there always hippies?

2007-12-17T01:30:00.000-08:00

It's a Spoon show. There is no reason for there to be hippies. I've been to sold out shows at the Crystal before, and I've never seen a crowd like this. Even the balcony's stuffed full. People are sitting in my spot. People are sitting in my plan B spot. Plan C is busy---but not 120% full, like everywhere else, so I'll find myself a corner there. And from where I am, I have a pretty good view of the floor. It's packed full. You're an indie hipster? You just want a footprint-sized spot to bob your head? You might be able to find one, if you're lucky and small (and tall enough to see from the back of the floor)..

And then there's the hippie. Dancing like she's in the parking lot waiting for a Dead show. Honey, put the arms down before someone gets hurt. Peace, love, and this-12-foot-radius-belongs-to-me? You're at the wrong damn show, and I don't understand how you accidentally paid this much money to end up here. You may think you're a collectivist, but like every other modern hippie, you think the whole fucking world belongs to you. And your crazy waving arms.

So before I left home, I double-checked the ticket. 8 doors, 9 show. Perfect. I'm busy--making peanut noodles, experimenting with felting, finishing some Christmas ornaments, playing with Diamond Glaze and scissors and a glue stick and the power drill--you know, the typical pre-christmas DIY manic phase. And doing laundry. 'Cause you can't be creative all the time. I'll get there by 9:30, right? Catch a bit of the first opening band (with some dumb name like Blood Arm or Lavender Diamond or...well, Blood Diamond might be an okay name, but wouldn't Lavender Arm be an even stupider opening band name?) and then there should be an okay band and then, about 11:30, Spooooooooon! (Imagine The Tick shouting it. Now isn't it the best band name ever? Let's say it all together, in the voice of The Tick. Spoooooooooon!)

As always, I show up just in time to have missed the opening band by ten minutes. Every. Single. Time. I show up late because I know my time is flexible, so I plan twice as many things as I can manage in the time I have. I show up at ten minutes to ten...and Spoon takes the stage. Jaysus-frickin'-Christ, I totally forgot the show was sponsored by the radio station. For as much money as I spent to be here, the radio station doesn't need to be involved. But they are--and what does that mean? One opening band and an early headliner. Well, the opener probably sucked as usual...oh, fuck. No, the "opener" was The Shaky Hands. Don't let me forget to tell you about seeing The Shaky Hands a few weeks ago--so it's not a tragedy, just somewhat unfortunate that I've missed them. Though this does explain the presence of the lone hippie.

Spoon puts on an incredible show. But I'm torn. I feel like a hypocrite. Here's this band with 10+ years of indie history, and they play maybe 4 songs that aren't from the 2006 and 2007 discs. If I knew their entire history, I probably would have been pissed. But I love it, because those are the two discs I own and know well. Damn it, I hate those people, and here I am, one of them.

But what they do beautifully is take these familiar songs and make them new with fun effects and changes in tempo and other playful reworkings. No matter how well or poorly I know a band's catalogue, if they faithfully replicate the studio recordings and then go home, I feel gypped. Damn it, if I wanted to hear the CD, I can do that without your help. Spoon made every song sound and feel truly live. They took a deeper track from one of those discs and made it sound like a lost Pet Shop Boys track. A-fucking-mazing. You Got Yr Cherry Bomb, which I put on a CD for my mom (you'd love her...do you know any other 58-year-old women who enthuse, "I love Modest Mouse!"), I joked, "Play this for Dad, and then ask, 'Don't you remember this from the late '60's?'" rocked way harder than any garage band from that era. Sadly, though Underdog sounded different from the CD, it was because they upped the tempo and replaced the horns with synths, so it just sounded perfunctory. "Damn, we've got to play this, I suppose." But other than that one song, they really sounded like they were having fun playing. That's a bonus of living in Portland--so many bands have local connections so they start or end their tours here, and go all out in a way they don't manage in Pittsburgh or Milwaukee. Britt Daniels calls Portland home, and you could hear it in the show. He wasn't looking at the note taped to the back of his guitar, like in the Simpsons episode. "Hellloooooo....(uh...)...Springfield!"

My big complaint is how short the show was. Doors at 8, show at 9, headliner takes the stage by 10, everyone out the door by 11:30. With what I spent on this show, you really ought to plan the rest of my night for me. The pretty boy went home early, so I didn't even see him (though he called to review the show---squeee!), so I was off to play pool at the nearby college bar (it's pretty quiet after finals end). And damn, did I play well until the bartender started buying my drinks...

I've been to a few shows I haven't reviewed. First, there was The Shaky Hands and Menomena at the Crystal. You know I have issues with The Shaky Hands. They rock my socks off...and then knit me new ones, chunky wool-and-hemp with stripes when they get all hippie. Apparently having to fill a venue the size of the Crystal with sound challenged them, and they kicked. Fucking. Ass. There wasn't a second when you thought to yourself, "I bet this guy's barefoot," even if you'd already read my previous TSH post.

And then, between TSH and the headliners, Menomena, the Ex sat down next to me. And to make small talk, he talked about the Band of Horses show I missed at the Crystal because I went to see my family for thanksgiving instead (it was a really, really tough call, and the deciding factor was that my dad offered to pay for my plane ticket, and no one offered to pay for my ticket to BoH). "Gee, OMS, that show made me think of you! Wasn't that a great night, when we saw BoH?" "Uh...you mean the night I thought, "what a nice day we've had! I bet things are going to be okay!" and then you broke up with me that night, and told me to stay away from the house the next day so you could pack up all your stuff? That night?" So I spent the rest of the night angry, and pretty much missed the Menomena show. Which sucks, because their shows are so much better than anything my ex has ever managed. It was my own fault for giving a shit, but still...I blame him.

Seriously, who reminisces about how awesome it was the night he broke up with you?

And that brings me back a couple of weeks to seeing Alan Singley at Pix Patisserie on Hawthorne. And I'm still pained by the fact that there's a Pix on Hawthorne. It used to be...oh, hell, it really did have a name...I remember! I do! It was called Bar Pastiche. It was a joint venture between a tapas place and Pix, the dessert place. The food was astounding, and I could order six plates plus a beer, spend ten bucks, and have an amazing dinner. It's not like that anymore, and I miss the Tapas Boys almost as much as I miss the food (okay...almost as much as I miss the pimento cheese, but not nearly as much as I miss the rabbit salad or the olives...). But now that Pix has taken over, they've just very recently developed a policy that they'll bring a little dish of the "fancy corn nuts" to anyone who sits down and orders just a beer. Mmmmm...the "corn nuts" are marvelous, and involve pistachios. There isn't another place in town that gives me complimentary pistachios, so as angry as I still am that Bar Pastiche is no more, and I can't have a lovely dinner plus beer that involves 5 or 6 different dishes plus beer for ten bucks, oh shit. Complimentary pistachios.

Fuck the pistachios. Alan Singley was playing, and he wasn't even drunk, and he was amazing. "If you'd kept me around, the sound of this heart breaking would be impossible. I guess I just can't deal with things not going my way." "I'm glad I've got a phone so I can call you tomorrow...I know that I won't, and I'll be all alone." Alan has recently been through a breakup, and you can hear it. But still, "I will protect you when you sleep." Drunk punk piano lounge making me tear up. I can envision it--hypervigilant though I am--I want to be protected while I sleep. I want to find it, Iwant it to be out there, and more than anything, I want to have the hope to believe it's out there. I don't, but songs like that make me want to try to believe.

Any questions?

2007-11-06T20:25:00.000-08:00

Last Saturday I saw Aqueduct at Holocene. It reminded me that a) they put on a kick-ass show I can enjoy even when stressed by other circumstances, and b) that Holocene's a pretty small room. Not much place to hide. I got there a bit after 9, but the "music" started with a DJ. DJs should only play between sets. They should not get their own set. The Online Romance followed. I've seen them once before, and my opinion hasn't changed--damn cute, poppy, a few interesting lyrics, but I'm afraid they wouldn't stand up to much scrutiny. '60's and '70's-influenced boy-girl-boy-girl vox are cute, and make for a good opening band, but would you really want to listen to it over and over? The other opener was Saturday Looks Good to Me. I'd heard of them, but knew nothing about them. They started with a song that sounded like it belonged in the background of a bad movie, being played by the band in a remote country roadhouse, while the hick protagonists slow-dance and fall in love. I wasn't sure how I was going to make it through the set. But by a few songs in, it had morphed into some really awesome twang-punk reminiscent of early Minneapolis sound. Think Soul Asylum with a little Replacements thrown in. And then, of course, Aqueduct, who just tear it up and pull out all the stops for every show. They sound darling on CD. They kick ass live.

Then last night I saw Art Brut and The Hold Steady at the Crystal Ballroom. Finally, in a room with maybe 700 people in it, the joy of solitude. I got there to see a band setting up--oh, crap, is the first band just getting their shit together now? But no, the first band played a really short set and had already finished. I really didn't need to see The Blood Arm. Art Brut is a bit schlocky, fey Brit-punk, kind of Iggy Pop but a bit gayer. The lead singer twirled his mike and even jumped rope with it. The drummer threw his sticks in the air and caught them. But it wasn't just some novelty act--they really did rock. And it was fun to watch the singer jump into the mosh pit and mosh. This band even managed to get the out-of-place-looking aging businessman to jump up and down, moshing all by himself! The guy took stage banter to a crazy extreme, and most of the time he was just shouting, but the first time he said anything between songs, just a couple of songs into the set, he just paused, looked at the audience, and asked, "Any questions?" Classic.

It was kind of an odd crowd overall. Where'd the guy in the cowboy hat and tie-die come from? And where'd he get the dance that managed to combine that all-arms-and-legs jam-band hippie dance, some sort of square dance rhythm, and the elbows of the chicken dance? And--I didn't even think of this--tons of people were in Twins gear. I totally didn't consider the fact that Craig Finn is a huge Twins fan. I should have worn my Twins stuff!

The Hold Steady set was awesome. They only played a couple of songs I know, and stuck mostly to the new disc, and I still loved it. But this is why I don't own all their stuff and know it all by heart. Craig Finn's got this warm, raspy voice. What The Hold Steady have that Lifter Puller didn't is piano (okay, keyboard, but set to "piano"). Every so often, those two things combine to sound like Rod Stewart's Downtown Train. And that kind of kills it for a moment, until it un-meshes and there's good old loud-punk Hold Steady again.

Good Day/Bad Day

2007-11-02T01:07:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, I went to see John Vanderslice at the Doug Fir. I was pretty excited about it for a few reasons. Great show. Terrrrrrible night. Indescribably terrible. Probably enough said. And if anyone reading this had serious car trouble the next day, it may just be that karma's a bitch.

Tonight, I went to see Loch Lomond, Nick Jaina, and Kele Goodwin. It was at a tiny place, I hesitate to even call it a venue, called the Funky Church. They do have a website, but basically I walked into someone's living room. It's an old, tiny former Catholic church where the church itself might have held sixty people if there were pews, but most of it had been turned into a big kitchen, a living room, and a third room that walls had been built around, kind of in the middle. The music performances happened in the balcony, which was open on both sides, more like a loft. Before I realized that people really did seem to actually live there, I sat in the balcony thinking, "I want to live here! And this would be my living room." Near the arched ceiling, with incredibly old hardwood floors, and a perfect view of the stained glass. OLCC clearly isn't involved--it was mostly BYOB, with some bottles of Two-Buck Chuck next to a vase that said "wine $1 suggested".

Kele Goodwin started out. Super-quiet guy and guitar, singing melancholy songs I could kind of relate to. I'm still cynical enough that a lot of the lyrics made me cringe, but it was beautiful stuff for the less-cynical, and a few of his songs really struck a chord with me, too.

Nick Jaina was quieter than usual, but it was perfect for the venue. I could only sing along with a few songs, because he played a ton of new stuff. But so pretty! Weirdly, no Ali, but Nathan was amazing, and even almost adequately subdued for the quieter set! And the bell plates were just perfect in a church.

Followed by Loch Lomond. Lovely details with varying sources. Pretty, celtic-influenced, but less so than last time I saw them a couple of years ago. He's got a really interesting voice. I was in the right mood for the band, but they're maybe a little fancy and pretty for me.

MusicFest NW Thursday

2007-09-07T03:00:00.000-07:00

Tonight started this year's MFNW. Thursday is the light day for shows, so there were really only five venues to choose from. Based on the published schedule, I had a nice, comparatively low-key night planned with four great bands. I headed out to the Crystal Ballroom at about ten minutes past nine, and wasn't all that surprised to find out that they were just letting the last few people in. After all, Viva Voce opening for Spoon should sell out the Crystal. Based on the schedule I had, Viva Voce should be about ten minutes into their set...uh...except for the horn section. And the straightforward, eight-bar or twelve-bar standard R&B riffs. And that voice. What's with this opening-band-at-the-state-fair sound? As I was standing in line at the bar, trying to figure it out, I saw set times posted. I looked at the set times. I looked at the schedule I'd stashed in my back pocket. I looked again. And again. The...uh...oh, hell, it was such a generic name I've forgotten it...Joe Brown Experience? Something like that. That's what was on the posted set time list. That's what I was listening to. (Apparently schedules published later than the one I had matched the schedule on the set lists...but wait, it turns out this error benefited me a bit in the end.) It sucked so bad. Even a good band in this genre would have been a mild improvement, a band where the horn section sounded like they'd met each other before, and had some idea they were on the same stage. Every moment it sounded like they were about to launch into Mustang Sally. Like watching The Commitments without the hard-luck stories or the accents. I was seriously discouraged. I was ready to go home. But I started down the stairs, detoured through Lola's room, and went back up to the balcony and bought a beer. The way the schedule was set up now, Spoon overlapped with Aqueduct at the Doug Fir, rather than there being a nice hour cushion in between. But if I didn't stick around to see Viva Voce, then I didn't have anything to do until midnight, and I've gotten old enough that trying to start something at midnight (this blog excepted, of course) is rather unlikely to happen. So I stayed. Things didn't improve until the band stopped. Yay!

Next up, finally, Viva Voce. I was excited to see them, but also worried...this is the biggest venue by at least a factor of five. Would this capacity crowd, and people getting turned away, happen all over town, making my $40 wristband essentially worthless? I sat through the first few songs of the set mostly worried and ruminating. But they had this fuzz-guitar, pretty-vocals, pounding drums combo that is most likely to drag me out of my funk, and I got really into it. They played a couple songs I know, which also helped. They covered some early-'80's solo-girl-rawk song (probably not Pat Benetar, but that was my best guess), and it was awesome. This was the third time I'd seen them, and each time was different. The first time was balls-to-the-wall rock, and it was great (except that there's a bass there that isn't there...Anita plays guitar, Kevin plays drums...no one plays bass). The second time was mid-day outdoor playful acoustic-rock. And the this time started out all marvelous down-tempo fuzz-rock, and got better from there. Except that they didn't finish with their cover of Alan Parsons Project's Eye In The Sky.

Over to the Doug Fir. Walking up to the ID-taking door guy, and there are a few people milling around. I clearly haven't arrived too late to a full venue--whew!--but there's a short line. I look up toward the ID guy, and there's a familiar t-shirt between me and him. Huh...that's unusual. Someone else has that shirt that...oh...yeah, that was a pretty one-of-a-kind buy...so that means... This happens in a few milliseconds, and my stomach plummets to my feet. I have to walk around my ex-boyfriend, my rather recent ex-boyfriend, the one I've been arguing with recently, just to get to the ID guy. After a minute or two of awkwardness and chit-chat-while-staring-at-my-feet, I turn around with relief, hand over my ID, and get a wrist stamp. I knew he'd be there, but I didn't think he'd be guarding the damn door. May the record reflect that the spot at the end of the bar isn't adequately hidden, and if you try to hide there, the person you're hiding from will sit in the little seating well right next to it. I recommend talking to the guy next to you. It will help.

I was there way too early. After worrying that it would be packed, it turns out there was almost no one there. The band that started up, The New Trust, was described in the fest guide as "Dark Rock." Uh...that'll do, I guess. They had a few moments, mostly hidden, of indie-pop brilliance before the rawk guitars and metal drums crashed back in. But those moments were few and far between, and got less and less prominent as the set went on. Twice, I was jarred out of my reading of the Mercury and/or conversation with the guy next to me when the song broke into a melodic La La La La La. But I was relieved when they ended. They sounded like one of those nu-rock-slash-emo-punk bands that I won't listen to long enough to have enough knowledge to compare this band to.

After suffering through that, and wondering what would become of my night, Aqueduct took the stage. The place is starting to look packed, and despite the dismal previous band, it might have been worth it to show up early. Finally, something that works out to be worth it! So, how is it that a band that cute and sappy (even though they still seriously rock out on stage), a band that I last saw with the ex, a band that writes almost exclusively love songs and lost-love songs, could make me feel so good right now? Even the ex glaring at me from across the bar when he went for a beer couldn't dampen it. Oh, thank god. If that's all I got out of the $40 for the wristband, it would be way too expensive, but I'd consider that I might have gotten enough out of it to justify the expense.

The Shaky Hands followed. This is a band that constantly pulls me both ways. They play such bouncy, folky punk songs, with the punk all Modest-Mouse-influenced, but the punk is so diluted, and the folk makes you think of hippies, and then there are bongos...and you worry you're at a hippie show. But then every song is so tight, and the tight pop puts me in mind of The Talking Heads. Whew...I've fixed it. It's not hippie music. And then I start to wonder again...but the guitar becomes increasingly strident, and suddenly he's channeling Lou Reed in the Velvet Underground days, and all is right with the world...until that other riff starts. So pretty, so poppy...so hippie. But never once did this band, whose debut disc I really enjoy despite the potential hippie-ness, devolve into an extended jam, or some sort of Devendra Banhardt freak-out (despite the shaky, more-than-vibratoed buzz of the lead singer). They were just pop songs, even if the lead singer was barefoot. Aware of the multiple impressions, he joked that he wasn't a hippie despite the dirtiness, need for a haircut (obviously he hadn't seen Aqueduct), and bare feet. "I'm a new-wave hippie. I enjoy mashups of the Grateful Dead and Devo." Probably close to the truth.

And then I was worn out and went home. Tonight was a light night, and I only saw 3 of 4 bands. How will I manage the heavy schedules of Friday and Saturday? Will I manage six shows between 8 pm and 2 am each night? Stay tuned for As The Festival Turns....

Day two!

2007-08-06T00:26:00.000-07:00

Started the day with Blue Skies for Black Hearts. I really like their track on the '06 compilation, so I had high expectations. It started out pretty '90s alt-country. After a couple of songs, I decided to find some food, or beer, or something. ProRow is no longer open on Sundays, it turns out, and I wasn't all that hungry anyway, so after a bit of circling (drove back by the festival, heard a bit that might have been better from BS4BH) I headed back to La Merde. Intentionally missed System and Station, partly because I've heard them before and didn't like them, partly because it's Nice Girl Guy's band. And I am just not in the mood to be hit on by a short, balding guy with protuberant eyes behind self-consciously hipster glasses, and be called a Nice Girl.

Got back in time for just a few minutes of Blue Cranes, a pretty straightforward but fun jazz combo, like Happy Apple or something. It sounded promising, but not really what I was there for. If the Blue Monk still did jazz, I'd enjoy seeing them there. This was followed by a rather nonsensical bit from The Robot Ate Me...and not the kind of nonsensical I was expecting. I know them from one song on a Yeti compilation and one on a PDX Pop Now, and expected goofy, exuberant experimental indie-noise-pop. Instead, there were three whispery-quiet folky songs by one guy, followed by several minutes of him standing silently and staring at the audience, before walking off the stage. What the hell? Weirdo, or diva?

Laura Gibson up next. She's got this amazing, perfect voice (think Astrud Gilberto doing The Girl from Ipanema, but without the accent), and she and her band (with a saw in one song!) did lovely, subdued songs that were rather catchy. This is what I imagine I'll listen to when I'm old, and still have good taste but less energy. Jarring transition to the Nice Boys, who did pure retro rawk that ranged from sounding like early Replacements, to mid-'80s almost-twangy not-quite-hair-rock, to almost rockabilly. Any of these songs could have been covers, but weren't. Fun on a totally irony-infused level. And they looked the part, too (more almost-hair-band than Replacements).

Dat'r up next. They have really gotten their shit together. They're tight, balanced, and solid-sounding, and still crazy-manic dancetronica that layers live drums (by Paul Alcott, no less) over electro beats, and fills in with awesome synth noises triggered by Atari joysticks. The vocals have gotten good, too, making them pretty much indisputably kick-ass. I almost danced! Finally, the Shaky Hands. In my mind, this was the expected highlight of the weekend. They weren't so stellar as to knock me on my ass, and added a bit more rock and groove to their recorded music's loud-but-catchy Modest-Mouse-lite sound, but a great set.

Oh, and if you find yourself unexpectedly in Portland's Eastside Industrial district around lunchtime, AudioCinema makes a marvelous jerk chicken leg. It's not something to write home to the Caribbean about (the seasoning is mild and probably not very traditional), but it's lovely nonetheless.

Headed over to La Merde again (skipped Evolutionary Jass Band and Yellow Swans), and like last night, it left me inadequately motivated to return for the last set of the night (Blitzen Trapper tonight). But the cute guy who went with me to La Merde wants to call me again, so there's that.

PDX Pop Now! Part 1 (okay, 2)

2007-08-05T00:05:00.000-07:00

Yeah, it's a 3-day festival, and I skipped day 1. But there were too few bands to see on Friday, and none in a row. So I started today.

I wanted to see Dragging an Ox Through Water, but they played several hours before anyone else I wanted to see, so I didn't get over there for it. I did try to see my ex's performance of As You Like It in the park, but when you've got a park sandwiched between every single downtown bus going north, and every single downtown bus going south, it makes it hard to hear enough follow the play (plus the police sirens, and the guys who think the noise their motorcycles make is an adequate replacement for manhood...). Once enjoying the play is off the table, the social implications of being there around all those people who know him, and know me only through him, got to be a bit much. Which is worse, someone studiously avoiding you because all they know is that their friend dumped you and they don't know what to say, or someone making an effort to talk to you despite that all they know is that their friend dumped you, and they still don't know what to say? Rather than dealing with the worst of both of those, I bailed, and caught part of AristeiA. Pretty, ambie-indie without much for vox, some edgier moments.

I went home for a bit before coming back for Point Juncture, WA. Stunning as always, though the reverb under the bridge emphasized some elements (trumpet, vibraphone) and messed up others (vocals were flat and lost, guitars were harsh and trebly). I've seen part of a Per Se set once (PDX Pop Now! '06, actually), and they're much the same. Lovely, ultra-twee 2-girl vox, often without accompaniment beyond hand-claps, though sometimes with two guitars and drums. They're really very good. I can't handle a whole set of something that sweet. So after a while I took off down the street to the bar (called...those of you that speak any french will enjoy this...La Merde). Came back in time to see the last five minutes of Ethan Rose...who finished five minutes early. Eh...experimental, according to the festival press.

Speaking of experimental, two minutes into Starfucker's set (basically Sexton Blake has gotten prolific enough to spill into a second band), I was wondering why I had come back. By 3 minutes, they'd launched into a spectacular, perfect, loud and crashing indie-pop-rock song. By 3 1/2 minutes, "...was that it?" Super-short little gems separated by swirling noise. Two guys with drumsticks, two dancers, the rest electro. Dancers? Really? This is a band that doesn't need the visual distractions, but could benefit from seeing the guys on stage paying attention to the synth sounds. Next was The Maybe Happening. They're tighter and better every time I see them, without losing any of their trademark wildness. Guitar, drums, and lead violins, and it's fun every single time to see Nathan bouncing around, trying to dance to his tiny solo while he plays his violin like a lead guitar. Add to that image the sounds of indie-pop, Isaac Brock vocals and rhythms, rawk-god guitar, and circus music. Got it? No? Just go see 'em. They were followed by Swim Swam Swum. Power-trio setup. Unfortunately, I was poisoned by the description of this band. Sure, once you tell me that, I hear The Promise Ring, the only band ever called emo (back when it was "emocore") that I loved, and for good reason. But they also had a great Modest Mouse quality, melodically screaming vocals over guitars that veered effortlessly from jewel-toned to distortion. They were like the best of indie/college radio circa 1999, but without sounding dated (of course, this stuff still sounds amazing to me in my CD player). And so tight and put-together, I wonder where this band came from that I haven't seen them or heard of them yet.

After that, there wasn't anything that appealed to me for another 3 hours. I headed off to La Merde again, but I just got tired waiting. It's reportedly one of the last Snuggle Ups shows, andd I've missed it. Damn, I'm getting too old. But it's also the downfall of an all-ages venue that's dry, I have to head out to get a beer, and I'm unlikely to come back. I came back once, but twice is too much.

More tomorrow.

So glad I went.

2007-07-08T01:00:00.001-07:00

"I was walking around feeling satisfied. Can you imagine that? Then she cuts me loose. I don't know why. She won't tell me. Who knows the real reason? Maybe it's because of her father, I don't know. She won't talk to me. She won't even look at me."

--Lloyd Dobbler

Okay, I've been an emotional train wreck lately. I'm unemployed, I was broken up with this week, I've been in the blackest funk imaginable. I made myself go to this show for something to do, something to get myself out of the house. Nire, The Online Romance, and Sexton Blake at the Doug Fir.

I get there, and there's a wedding reception going on on the patio of the Jupiter Hotel (the same property that also contains the DF). Not a good sign, in my mind. But I head on in. I'm determined to have some fun.

I walk in just in time to hear Nire say, "Thanks, everyone, The Online Romance is up next!" I think that's the second time that's all I've heard from them. Oh well. Stupid parking...not only is there the show, and the wedding, but get this: Vanilla Ice is playing a creepy club down the block called Outlaws. Seriously. Vanilla Ice. The crowd standing in line for that place was indescribably, skin-crawlingly gross. Where do you get clothes like that, Hicks 'n' Prostitutes 'R' Us? So my intention to catch 15 minutes of the opening band was supplanted by 15 minutes of looking for parking.

The last thing I'm up for tonight is starting out by waiting through a set change. I went to get a beer, largely to convince myself to stay. But it gives me some time to watch the crowd. I begin to play a game with myself, picking out the people who came from the wedding (even if they'd stopped up to their room at the Jupiter and changed) as opposed to people who came because they knew they wanted to see the bands. Large group sitting at one of the few tables introducing each other and talking about their teaching careers: Wedding. Dancing Girl with the Excessively Aquiline Nose: Wedding. Four unfortunately sexily-dressed 50-year-olds in the corner: Wedding. Girls with big purses and skirts, shoulders in, wide-eyed, looking around nervously: Wedding.

So after that uplifting little game of cynicism and schadenfreude (is it schadenfreude if they don't even know how unfortunate they are?), The Online Romance started. It's not a good band name. It makes one think of My Chemical Romance. You immediately expect falsely dark adolescent emo. But no! It was stellar, Barsuk-ready, guilelessly referential perky and charming indie-pop. Earnest, non-ironic, bouncy, the perfect indie band circa 2007. It was a 5-piece band with an odd stage setup. The drummer sat in front, with the four other members behind him. The drummer was the only one who didn't sing. Not just boy-girl harmonies, but boy-girl-boy-girl harmonies. They started with just the keyboardist and a vocalist on stage, she backed him up and he sang about never falling in love with you again...and then falling in love with you again. In my pathetically emotionally vulnerable state, it made me want to vomit...but that beautiful, perfect '70's soft-rock combination of keyboards and falsetto...it was amazing! Fine, I'll stick around until I finish my beer. From then on, they had all five members on stage. Usually I find a band that shares lead vox duties among many members to be disjointed and incohesive, but this band had a remarkably consistent sound despite the changes in voice. And many songs had no particular lead vocalist, but passed them around or engaged in four-part bits that never, ever sounded like a barbershop quartet. Along with the '70's lite crooning, they used '60's pop conventions for their own purposes as skillfully as Elvis Costello. And I noticed during this set that the sticker that indicates that one has backstage privileges was a Tillamook cheese label! Near the end of their set, The Online Romance covered Toto's Hold The Line (...love isn't always on time...). And I smiled. I needed a good smile.

Sexton Blake headlined the night. Every time I've seen them they've been a different band entirely. There's the pop song Emma, on PDX Pop Now! 2004, that is so perfect I put it on a compilation for my mom (yeah, my 57-year-old mom loves her some good, clean indie-pop). There was the time I saw them live, with four or five people onstage, and they were an experimental '80's-themed electronic band in matching vests. There was that other time I saw them, and they were a three-or-four-person super-loud noise band (also, I believe, in some sort of uniform). The preview I read for the show indicated that SB is really the brain child of just one guy, and it's a great loud indie-pop outfit, and he just put out a disc called Sexton Blake...Plays the Hits! In which he covers a shitload of mediocre '80's pop songs, and does so miraculously. I hoped for the latter.

I got the latter. Two skinny guys in t-shirts bent over a pile of keyboards, a drum set, a Rickenbacher guitar (squee!), an acoustic guitar, a Fisher-Price toy keyboard-xylophone toy (used for Emma), and a harmonium. Playing terrific, danceable indie-pop that usually had an electronic beep-bloop vibe, but sometimes was just strummed guitar. Rather than the dressed-to-match polish of previous shows, they ended most songs in what seemed like the middle, like they just kind of ran out of song. They were humble, adorable, and happy. In past shows, the lead guy seemed to be the mop-top guy, but this time the guy who looks like my next-door-neighbor did all the talking, so I don't know which one guy is the "one man band" referenced in the weekly. They played Emma, which I haven't heard live (and that's where the toy key-xylo came in). And they played three songs from ...Plays the Hits! The first was Rod Stewart's Young Turks (Young hearts be free tonight! Time is on your side!). Such a crappy song. Such a transcendent cover. I may be the world's worst sucker for cross-genre covers, but for the first time tonight, perhaps for the first time in days, I smiled. Grinned, really. The Twins managed to score 32 runs in a doubleheader the day before, but that really didn't lift me out of my murk, but a completely unwarranted Rod Stewart cover? Better than drugs. (I have to give some serious credit to the Toto cover, though, for softening me up considerably). Sexton Blake also covered Bruce Springsteen's Hungry Heart and (oh my god...no way) Kim Carnes' Bette Davis Eyes, a song I actually really loved as a kid.

After the show, I asked the guy who seemed to be the lead this time about his hat. "Is that an old-school Pittsburgh Pirates hat?" "I dunno...I just got it at a thrift store. I decided it's P for Portland." I was disappointed, but not crushed. It's hard to be crushed when buoyed by Toto and Bette Davis Eyes.

Sheesh, where've I been?

2007-03-30T11:56:00.000-07:00

I swear, I have been out seeing music. It's been a busy...gosh, has it been 9 months? The Boyfriend moved in, and he and I then moved to a new place, I finished and defended the big paper, all sorts of busy-ness. So I haven't had time to write. But I'm back now, and you'll forgive me, right?

The last month or two has been pretty quiet for shows, but it seems spring has sprung, and bands are celebrating by getting out into dark, windowless basements late at night! Last night I saw Nick Jaina at Mississippi Studios. I've been to MS twice now, both times to see Nick. It's a bit too grown-up a venue for me, with chairs set out in rows and earnest folkies strumming guitars onstage.

Openers: Douglas someone? Someone Douglas? Hushed, fingerpicking folk songs with some....zzzzzzzzz. Oh, sorry. Molly Rose: A young barista, big-eyed hipster-waif, who drove down from Seattle to sing strummy folk songs about death and crushes and, uh, I guess I stopped paying attention after a while. I liked one song okay. The Boyfriend asked me why I like some indie folk, like Horsefeathers and Iron and Wine, but not acts like these. So I spent much of my time during these two sets mentally debating what the difference is between good, engaging indie-folk and coffee-shop-in-a-Borders-Books folk. I didn't come up with an answer, but at least it gave me something to do while waiting for Nick to start. (Verdict: Both opening acts were 15% the former, 85% the latter).

Nick J: Seven people crammed onto the tiny stage. A pump organ. These weird things called bell plates. Nathan the violinist was mostly pushed offstage into the audience. It was a comparatively introspective set from Nick, and he pulled out two songs he had written years ago and hasn't played since (including one that was a dead ringer for a lost Dylan song). He also had two new ones! A few rollicking tunes (can't help it when Nathan's singing along, like on Battleground), but overall a bit quieter and more serious than usual. Oh, and a hilarious monologue about having discovered American Idol. Absolutely awesome.

Catching up, slowly.

2006-06-26T01:09:00.000-07:00

Again, here I am behind in my reviews. Saturday the 17th, I saw Built to Spill at the Crystal Ballroom! I got there for half of the Prids' set. They were loud. They played rock music. Meh.

Next up, Brett Netson. A member of BtS, I expected good things. Boy, was I wrong. '70's soporific medievalist meandering aimless hippie jam crap. 3 "songs", 45 minutes. But during that otherwise wasted time, I spent a lot of time observing the band. The guitarist reminded me of frightwig (who can be found at a blog entitled sundappled wood), only old and balding. But it was the vibraphonist who I couldn't stop watching. Like a train wreck. I've never seen anyone who so obviously has an eating disorder. From where I was sitting, I had so little perspective I couldn't tell you how tall she was, but I'm gonna estimate 5'6". And she couldn't have weighed 75 pounds. The hollow face, the sunken chest, the convex upper arms, the shoulder blades and spine and scapulae...just looking at her was so sad and frightening. I might look like that if I lost 45 pounds. Maybe. I don't understand how she could be on tour with two bandmates and two other bands, and no one thinks, "she's sick, she won't make it. She needs to be in the hospital." That really rattled me.

Then, finally, BtS. The visuals behind them really captured my attention. And you know how I feel about that kind of thing. It always makes me wonder, "Why do you feel you need to distract me from the music?" But BtS wasn't hiding behind cool visuals. The images, ranging from cartoony to Joan Miro, were kinda fascinating and didn't take anything away from the performance. It was a great show, not too jam-bandy (Nick asked me, "You went to see Built to Spill? Aren't they... (nose wrinkled in subtle distaste) ...kind of a jam band???" Sheesh, some people's histories skip entire decades.), absorbing and intense. Unlike that one time I saw them in Charlottesville, they didn't end the show with Freebird, but those guys put on a great live show every time.

I've seen a zillion other shows, so more to come, I hope...

I'm so behind!

2006-06-04T01:47:00.000-07:00

I have so many reviews to catch up on. It's been a busy week.

First off, Jamie Lidell, Copy, and...hmmm...someone else, at Holocene. Crap, I hate it when I get so far behind I forget who I saw. I had a good friend visiting me, and I promised to get him out to see a show or two. I remember that the first band was "okay, it's electronica." Copy, too, was electronica. I expected to recognize the song on the PDX Pop Now! compilation, at least, but no. Maybe he didn't play it. But it all kinda sounded alike, long blurry swirling whatever, no vocals, just a guy and his keytar. Jamie Lidell: This man's insane. Sometimes that's fun. A blues-influenced screaming Brit in a satin smoking jacket.

Now, I'm going to attempt to review Sasquatch. I fully expect to fail.

The first day, we saw more weather than music. Thunder, lightning, 45 minutes of hail. People made hailmen. Thankfully, we found an indoor sanctuary and didn't get too wet. When we first got there, the sun was shining, Iron and Wine was playing, god was in his heaven and all was right with the world. It was a long, long drive, and we missed some stuff I wanted to see, including Sufjan Stevens, Rogue Wave, and Architecture in Helsinki. I think I saw Band of Horses and liked them, until the hail chased them off the stage. I ended up buying their CD, and it's pretty damn good. Lovely, fuzzy, intense, sort of on a My Morning Jacket - Arcade Fire axis. Neko Case got hailed out entirely. From then on, the main stage was behind. The Tragically Hip were interesting and totally internally consistent. The Shins were pretty great--much poppier, rockier, and more hyper than I expected, given what I've heard. I should buy some Shins. Then, a long wait. The side stages had long been shut down. And after all that wait, it was announced that Ben Harper would play first, and then the Flaming Lips. Oh, fer crying out loud. Ben Harper's stoner neo-hippie played-out jam band crap never belonged on this bill in the first place, and now I'd have to sit through that to hear the Flaming Lips? And I'm frickin' freezing. Shit. I've got a cozy little cabin waiting for me in Soap Lake, I'm tired, and I just don't have the patience to sit through Ben Harper, even for the Flaming Lips. So we left.

Sunday was so much better. So. Much. Better. After corn dogs in Ephrata, we got there in time to hear most of the Nada Surf set. They really rocked it, reminding me that the dimensions of an artist's music that get emphasized in a recording are often not the aspects that come through best live. Kick ass. We missed Pretty Girls Make Graves, and that's another band I still need to see. We wandered off and saw some okay stuff at the third stage, then some of the Arctic Monkeys set on the main stage. They were fun rock. That is all. Next up: The Decemberists. Strangely, my first intro to them was at Sasquatch in 2004. My review then: "What the fuck is with all the accordion?" Clearly, I've developed a much finer ear for them since. What an amazing show. Colin Meloy just teases the audience, shushing them or drawing them out at will. He's such a performer. It inspired me to buy Her Majesty The Decemberists, the only disc I didn't own. For the record, the friend with me was equally impressed. Strangely, as I spent the drive playing the Decemberists for my friend, ensuring he was adequately prepared for the show, Colin seemed to be listening in. He spent the first half of the show carefully mimicking the playlist from the drive from our cabin. To the 3rd stage for Rocky Votolato. Cute & hip-folky. Over to the second stage for some We Are Scientists (they Rock (tm). 's about it.) A few songs from Matisyahu (I hate reggae, and I'm pretty picky about hiphop...sure, a Hassidic Jew claiming these art forms is novel, but it doesn't make it sound any better), then back to stage 2 for some Damien Jurado. I know the man's a lovely songwriter, but by this time in the weekend, he was barely background music. Sorry, Damien, next time. I promise. A bit of Clap Your Hands Say Yeah (cute and energetic, trying to rock hard), Then back to the main stage for DCFC. Though he often speaks to the crowd, Ben Gibbard seemed to almost have taken a page from the Decemberists' playbook in the way he turned the show into a dialogue. And they rock so hard live. Every ballad and sweet pop number develops a driving beat and a vocal attack that make it sound brand new. Finally, Beck. He played his songs. There were puppets of the band playing the songs, projected behind the stage. My friend really didn't know a lot of the music over the weekend, and said some really objective, insightful things. About Beck: "It was like he didn't care that the audience was there." Stupid scientology. We left early. And we did, eventually, find the car, despite my picking it out from a distance, then deciding it wasn't, actually, my car. But I double-checked! And it was.

And now it's Saturday again. To Acme! Super, wonderful news: When Acme renovated recently, they also made the main space non-smoking! Towne Lounge and Dante's, you're the only holdouts. Get with the program. Sure, Acme's got an open back wall leading to the smoking patio, but it's so much better than it was. So much better. Due to the lingering effects of the Rose Festival Starlight Parade, I got there much later than I intended, and missed Hello Damascus, whom I remember liking once before. Next up was a band that called itself THONG. I was wary. They were actually a lovely, folky, occasionally alt-country six-piece that didn't all fit on the Acme stage. Guitar/male vocals, viola/female vocals (can I have *her* job?), bass/male backing vox, pedal steel, keyboards I couldn't hear, and drums. If the new trend is to sound like Iron and Wine, I'm all for it. Pretty, quiet, with the occasional twang. Stellar harmonies and strings. And occasional trumpet. Last up: Pentecost Hotel. Four-piece (male vox, guitar, drums, bass) that blew me away. Jangly rocky guitars, jagged strained vocals, driving yet playful, I'm hoping they've recorded something and I can find it.

Whew! And now I'm sleepy, from reviewing all these bands and from seeing them play. Until next time.

--OMS

all over the map

2006-05-14T01:34:00.001-07:00

It's been quite the weekend, music-wise. And it's barely even sunday.

Friday night, I was ridiculously tired. I went out for dinner because I was too tired to cook. I had a beer with dinner. In the state I was in, that one beer made me a bit loopy. I thought to myself, "I keep hearing about Caves. Maybe I should go see them? I'm sooooo tired. But I could drink coffee, and then I'd be awake enough to listen to bands, right?" Um...sorta. I missed Jonah. I got there in time for the start of Oslo's set. Had they done this sound first, they'd be huge. Giant. Stadium shows, screaming fans, the whole bit. As it is, they were just loud enough to fill a stadium, but in the Doug Fir. They sounded just like one of those Rock Revival bands. The Killers? The Bravery? Whatever. They were certainly good, and had I not been so tired I would have enjoyed them on an entirely superficial level. There are certainly people I think would love them. People I know, even.

Next up: Caves. I'd read a few good reviews, heard the name a number of times, decided it was finally time to seek them out. I'd heard "dark, swirling indie" about them. Sounds lovely. In actuality, it was...uh...okay? But again, I was SO tired. I sat through most of the set thinking, "I wonder if I like this band?" They sure didn't look it, but if I closed my eyes, it had a distinct "goth lite" flavor, like Wish-era Cure. Rockin' out, but doing it darkly. Verdict: If they were to play a show with Swords, I bet I'd love 'em. But I'd love 'em even more if they keyed their volume to the size of the room and the crowd.

Saturday: All sorts of fun at the Doug Fir (again). Started out with Bright Red Paper. Only caught the last song and a half. Despite the dumb name, they're not Adult Alternative but a driving-yet-psychedelic foursome of drums, two guitars, and cello. They may be instrumental--by the time I got a beer and settled in to listen, I hadn't noticed any vocals. Worth checking out again--part pretty-indie, part guitar-wank. I hope, overall, they lean former, not latter.

Next up, Ape Shape. Led by someone-in-the-portland-music-scene, better known as the leader of whatever-band-that-was. I don't remember right this second. A seven-piece! Guitar/male vox, female vox/'80's dance moves, bass, drums, trombone, sax, and trumpet. It was kinda...uh, sorta sounded a little like...well, you know, reminded me...huh...yeah, not quite a...Fine. I'll just come right out and say it. With the horn section, the guitar rhythms, the way the two voices didn't meld well, they sounded rather like a ska band. Honestly, to me, part of Portland's charm is its lack of ska bands. I kept trying to imagine it without the horns, to see if the ska thing was accidental, but I wasn't succeeding. Some songs were less ska-like than others.

Last up, Cloud Cult, from Minneapolis. What I'd read about them was interesting. A (ugh) "sustainable music collective" that didn't have a label, yet had shot up the indie/college charts. "Avant chamber-pop" that had a cello. And two painters. You may remember how I feel about bands that feel the need for extra visual art: What are you compensating for? Is the music not good enough? But also interesting: I remember the cellist from my high school orchestra. Well, they launched into their set, and I was immediately in love. A four-piece (if you don't count the painters, which I don't): Male vocal/guitar/occasional keyboard, 5-string bass, cellist/female backing vocql, and drums/male backing vocal. Then there were two painters and two different projected cycles of found images on stage. They can all go. The music speaks for itself. First impression: Flaming Lips. Later impressions: Is that a Neil Young bit? Huh...this one song sucks, sounds like crappy adult alternative...shit. Except adult alternative doesn't launch into a total rock-out that flattens me. Those harmonies...Crosby, Stills, and Nash? Well, that was fleeting. Now the 5-string bass is churning out hardcore metal. Oooh...pretty! And yet it didn't seem at all disjointed. I'd like to hear more from this band, figure out what they sound like in the studio, integrate some of the disparities. I was impressed.

Finally, this weekend I received a 3-cd mix set of all-'80's nostalgia. And as you turn up your nose and think, "I'd never listen to that crap," I'll list some of the tracks. Not a clinker in the bunch, and all obscure-cool or forgotten or in some way unexpected. The La's - There She Goes. Robyn Hitchcock & the Egyptians - Flesh #1. The The - This is the Day. The Mighty Lemon Drops, Mojo Nixon, Grandmaster Flash, The Art of Noise, The Cocteau Twins. Kate Bush - Running Up That Hill. Style Council, Jellybean, Stacy frickin' Q, Lisa Lisa and the Cult Jam (seriously!), Dead or Alive. Real Life - Send Me an Angel. Alphaville - Big in Japan. Icehouse, Wham!, New Order, Front 242, Meat Beat Manifesto, Ministry, Siouxie and the Banshees. Thank you, Nick Danger, and your slightly-earlier-than-mine, slightly-cooler-than-mine high school existence.

I promised what??!?

2006-05-10T02:04:00.000-07:00

Okay, that's right. Never to hide anything from you again. So here goes:

I haven't been to a show in nine days. My name is OMS, and I'm...ready to get the hell out of my apartment.

Tonight was a free Binary Dolls show at Dante's. But first I had to sit through two other bands. First, Super Plus. I have to admit, there's not much I find funnier than women dressed as drag queens. How much more meta-meta-whatever can you get? And I loves me some meta-meta. So the fact that, among the six of them, they could barely play any instruments or sing anything, despite the four microphones, was almost forgivable. Almost...but not quite. Honestly, they sucked, and didn't make up for it with humor or chutzpah like they intended to. The Aerosmith cover was either obscure or so crappy as to be unrecognizable, and the Neil Young cover just sucked. The rest of it was girls without melody or rhythm, or even coherence, but with costumes galore. Lots of knee-high stiletto boots, two (maybe even three) pretty impressive wigs, and three girls who I'm sure read fantasy-romance in their spare time, but like playing dress-up in the band. Next up: The Crosswalks. Keep at it, guys! Good but not great, almost-interesting but not special, all this trio needs is to figure out who their voice is and where they want to put the exciting moments. It's a Band With Potential (BWP). Perky indie-pop guitar, bouncy-yet-tom-heavy drums...you're almost there. Almost.

Binary Dolls. Oh, I love this band. Tonight they ditched the subtlety for outright kickassness.
Every song was zero-to-sixty with nothing in between. Raucous, wild, amazing. Too short. But they totally read their venue and played to it. Mmmmm....love. Love this band.

confession

2006-05-01T00:45:00.000-07:00

Is it weird that I fear posting my reviews here because I'm afraid someone will read them? Let me rephrase that: How weird is it that I'm afraid to post at my own blog? I have this terrible fear that I'll review some band, or I'll relate some conversation, and someone with a basic working knowledge of google will discover it, and will somehow connect it with me. Not me, OMS (tm), but the real, actual me that went to the show, and could be identified by what I was wearing, or where I was standing, or whether I spilled only a little beer on myself, or a lot of beer. So that's the crux of it, really. I'm not so much afraid someone will read my opinion. Even an opinion about the person reading it. I'm afraid of losing my anonymity.

At the risk of giving away state secrets, I've seen several shows recently that I haven't reviewed here. Last weekend I saw Small Sails (barely), Binary Dolls, and Helio Sequence. This weekend I saw, over the course of two shows, Point Juncture WA (twice), Super XX Man, Norfolk & Western, and Alan Singley & Pants Machine.

The short version (in the order listed above): Missed the music so no opinion but stuff-projected-behind-the-stage always makes me wonder what they're covering up; never the same and mathematically improbably always above median--they rocked; where does the invisible bass player stand and why so prog-rock?; always lovely and stellar with vibraphone (twice), pretty and whispered but I imagined there was some interpersonal tension on stage; move further from "pretty and...uh....pretty" toward "shit, they rock!" every time I see them and they had a violin and a viola; and silly, wild, and playful but they've got to have some serious talent to keep it from careening off the stage and crashing in a heap and someone getting hurt.

Whew. Now I feel better. I promise, I'll never hide anything from you again.

A new obsession.

2006-04-25T21:51:00.000-07:00

Sunday night at Wonder Ballroom: The Kingdom, Mecca Normal, Viva Voce, and Mates of State (It's this band the title of the post refers to).

I got there nice and early, thanks to local weeklies and even the ad by the local show promoters being just completely wrong. This is not uncommon, and I'm going to have to figure out a better system. So I saw all four sets beginning to end. The Kingdom gets talked up madly by the Portland Mercury, though they point out that one member writes for them. Meh. Pop songs with punk-rock musical conventions underpinning it, without exactly being pop-punk. The guy's got an interesting voice, like if Johnny Rotten had a background as a choirboy. British accent and all...but of course, not British in the least. Silly. All the songs sounded alike, so it got old quickly. Verdict: It'd be okay on a mix tape.

Mecca Normal: I feel like I'd heard this name before, but I'm not sure. They started the theme for the evening (two people, one male, one female, = whole band). They continued the theme for the weekend (More instruments in the song than were being played onstage...Helio Sequence, I'm lookin' at you!). These guys were just weird. He played guitar, she sang, and there was an invisible bass player. I don't like invisible musicians. Her lyrics were excessively detailed confessional prose (sample: "I listened to him stretch the condom...") sung without much rhythm or melody, mostly about people she did or did not sleep with, and occasionally about grocery shopping. Again, all the songs sounded alike. I'll pass.

Viva Voce: Husband and wife team, she played guitar and sang, he played drums and sang. The invisible member played bass. Same one? I couldn't tell. Sometimes it was fun, sometimes it was a little too arena-rock sounding. She had a double-neck guitar that was fun and hilarious, all rock-star-like. Maybe I just need to be more familiar with their stuff, though, since the two songs I have on PDX Pop Now! compilation discs I thought they knocked out of the park.

Last up was Mates of State. I am absolutely in love with this band. I was wary--another husband and wife duo who had a lot of space to fill with only the two of them. He played drums and sang, she played keyboards and sang. I spent a lot of time watching her hands (well, as best as I could from the balcony in an 800-person venue). Were they also using an invisible bass player? I finally decided that she was making all those sounds. Hooray! This was an amazing set. He's a great drummer, with this odd, high-pitched voice I kept confusing with hers. He also played kazoo (sorry...). She absolutely rocked the keyboards. It's completely joyous, major-key synth-pop, like The Postal Service without any of that pesky self-doubt. That sounds annoying. It wasn't. It was beautiful, and I'm in love.

hooray for multitasking. and long band names.

2006-04-21T21:18:00.000-07:00

Wednesday night: At the Doug Fir, a benefit for Bus Project, the young-democrat politician incubator, and supposedly a celebration of congressman Earl Blumenauer's 1/3-of-a-century in public service. Blumenauer was a no-show, but the crowd was hilarious--all sorts of people in suits, the young Bus Project ones standing around head-bobbing, the older ones (including the head of the local teamster's union) drunk and dancing like they were at a wedding. Though there were the requisite bike-messenger bags and flip-flops too, because, of course, this is still Portland. People kept coming by, shaking my hand, and thanking me for coming. There were also people just there for the show, but they (we) were in the minority.

I missed the Retrofits. I was at home celebrating the 10-inning win over the Angels and K-Rod's blown save. I don't know anything about this band, so I wasn't wildly disappointed.

I got there just in time for Please Step Out of the Vehicle. These guys are awesome, and put on a great live show. Bouncy-yet-edgy indierock that's funny and a bit weird. The drummer kept getting up to play flute, and someone else would sit down at the drums. They're in the studio now, I think I've heard, recording their debut, but at another show of theirs I got a handmade CD-R for 2 bucks. I was hoping for another one, but no such luck.

Last up, Alan Singley and Pants Machine. I've seen these guys a few times. He totally played to the drunkening crowd, with shoutouts to some of the local pols, and all sorts of getting the crowd to "woot!" Probably could just as easily be described with the same words I used for PSOTV, but a little more acoustic-strummy and melodic.

I was actually going to bring my business cards with me, but I didn't have any at home. If there are going to be local political movers-'n'-shakers, I'd like to get in a plug for relief nursery funding. But I did end up talking to this guy, a staffer for Blumenauer, who gave me his card. His brother-in-law then joined the conversation, and B-I-L's wife is looking for a job. They live a few blocks from where I work, she's got the qualifications for a job that just opened up at the agency I work for. So I did get some networking done, both with Blumenauer's office and with a possible resume getting sent. Hooray for multitasking!

Finally Quasi

2006-04-16T03:29:00.001-07:00

Well, we might as well start somewhere, mightn't we? This is reposted from the Batcave (see my links), so if something doesn't make sense, go ahead and ask me about it. It could be some sort of joke. I could just have forgotten to explain myself.

Okay, so last night's show at the wonder ballroom:

Pan Tourismos. I'd heard the name once or twice, knew nothing about them, skipped them to listen to the end of the Twins-f'in &%^kees game. Twins won, and it was so worth it! Sorry, Pan Tourismos.

The Minders: I was looking forward to these guys, I'd heard of them repeatedly and expected to enjoy them. There was nothing wrong with them, but they didn't sound like anything but a bunch of other bands. "What do you do for a living?" "I have Robert Pollard's voice." So they sounded remarkably like Guided by Voices, but sober, and perhaps with a lobotomy (none of the weird, bizarre, fun aspects of GBV). And I spent much of their set thinking, "Oh! This bit reminds me of....oh, crap. Who is that?" Here's the partial list I came up with: Elvis Costello, The Waterboys, The Pixies (I wondered, "did they have to pay Frank Black to use that guitar line?"), every generic '60's garage pop band, and the obligatory nod to the Velvet Underground. The one band these guys didn't sound like were The Minders. There was no there there.

Finally, Quasi: I made it. I finally saw Quasi. And...um...I don't know what to say. It's like the complete opposite of the previous band. I simply can't come up with any rational comparisons, or any descriptions, or any words at all. But you know me, I'll keep talking anyway. I don't even know whether I liked them or not. Janet Weiss of Sleater-Kinney on drums. Imagine her given total free rein...holy hell. I can't imagine how she keeps from putting the drumsticks right through the drum heads. She's all power, and I swear to you, her biceps could rival the Doctor's. She's utterly amazing, and she drove the songs. She's the third voice in S-K, so it was interesting to see her voice get more prominence. Her ex-husband, Sam Coomes, heads another local band, Blues Goblin. He's a f'ing hippie. I hate f'ing hippies. But he plays crazy-ass keyboards, sometimes pounding out stride-piano blues lines with the keyboard set to what I can only imagine is "piano dropped from a great height," sometimes just pounding on the keyboard with his fists. And sometimes you can't tell which is which. At times it was fascinating and engaging, bordering on melodic, at other times it was just about to derail into experimental mess. Frequently I was sure it had derailed, but after a minute or two, Janet's drums would reassert a dominant beat, and hey, it's a song again! Coomes' voice sounds remarkably like Weiss', and the off-kilter harmonies were very fun when they were on (and unintelligible screeching when they weren't). Oh--and there was a bass player. Overall, it was incredibly loud, and powerful, and overwhelming, and interesting. Remind me never to see them in a space smaller than the Wonder Ballroom. I'd just end up a huddled mass on the floor, bleeding from the ears.

Crazy, Isn't It?

2006-04-16T01:54:00.000-07:00

This blog is in existence not to bring my off-kilter descriptions of bands and live shows to a wider audience, but to find a nice, secluded corner of the web to shelve these opinions, so the people I normally foist this stuff on can move on to more important topics. Like whether Francisco Liriano's going to make it into the starting rotation this year, and what they've had for lunch.

Now, I can't promise I'll stick to music here. Largely because I have no talent for keeping my big mouth shut. Expect to hear about baseball, beer, politics, psychology, good food, Portland, mid-century modernism, video games from my childhood, anime, day trips around the pacific northwest, things that are lime green, and the occasional foray into network television. Topics I promise to leave to the more knowledgeable: Any other sports besides baseball, and...uh oh. Help! Can anyone help me think of some other things I don't have opinions about? You won't hear much about classical music. Or....um...nuclear physics, most of the time. Pop stars, like Britney Spears and Jessica Simpson, are unlikely to get mentioned here. There will be no recipes for french onion soup. And I promise not to engage in lengthy debates about comparitive ornithology or biochemical engineering. For those of you who want less, you'll have to find it somewhere else, I guess. Bring it on, blogosphere. I've got my dukes up, and I'm ready for you.