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.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Sunday, June 08, 2008
Shhhhh! Or the Band That Almost Was.
First of all, this wasn't even my first-choice show. I intended to go out to Holocene for their 5th Anniversary show, free, with a ton of awesomeness including The Shaky Hands, Starfucker (the real reason I wanted to go, having seen them only-sorta once), Horsefeathers, and two DJs. Show at 9, I got there at 9:20, even the DJs hadn't started yet, and it was over capacity. The bouncers told us to give up hope and go elsewhere. Damnit.
I headed six blocks north to the "I totally would have planned to go to this show, but it conflicted with the other one" Matt Sheehy show. Pwrful Power opened, and I got there near the end of his set. A squeaky Japanese-by-way-of-Seattle deliberately-broken-english hilarious folk crooner with lyrics like "You're not really all that attractive, but I have a feeling we're meant to be together". The crowd was laughing awkwardly, like they knew they weren't supposed to be laughing out loud at an indie-folk-rock show at the Doug Fir, but they couldn't help themselves. Good stuff. Perfect opening band, fun and interesting but not something you would spend money to ensconce in your itunes lineup.
They were followed by The Brothers Young (or maybe The Young Brothers). Seven guys onstage without anyone leading the charge. The lyrics were pointless cliches. The hats made me think they'd been taking their fashion advice from Justin Timberlake. But the music had its moments, especially those moments it sounded like The Jam from early-'80's London. The throwback-to-proto-shoegazer bits were pretty stellar. But overall, they just didn't have a creative driving force. This band just needs to trade three or four mediocre middle infielders for a toolsy power hitter. (ETA: Turns out they're all related to someone-else Young, who heads Loch Lomond, and has played with them in the past. I guess they lost their toolsy guy to free agency.)
Matt Sheehy was pretty great. He had the dark-folk creepy-leaning vibe of John Vanderslice, but he sounded live like Vanderslice sounds recorded, so I imagine that Sheehy recorded is more polished and folky than what we heard. He had his rhythm-section-laden bits, but he did a set of three or four songs where the whole band sat on the stage floor in a circle with the lights off, too. During the midst of this set, I finally got off my perch and asked the bachelorette party behind me if, since they paid the cover to show up at a folk musician's show, they could respectfully keep it down. I was at my absolute most tactful and convincing, and for fuck's sake, convincing people of stuff is what I do for a living. The answer was that they each paid their seven bucks cover, and they could do what they wanted, fuck you. One of them walked by me a few minutes later and stopped to make grabbing motions with her fingers in my face while bitching (seriously, you need to come confront me after I've long since dropped the issue?), until finally I grabbed her wrist. ("Oh, oh, don't touch me!" Then keep your fingers out of the couple of inches in front of my eyes.) For crying out fucking loud, take your bachelorette party back to the nasty suburb you came from. I got a sympathetic look from the sound guy, but sadly, that's all the backup I got (I had three other patrons of the club on my side, but not any authority other than the "sorry it sucks" look when I mouthed "can you do anything about these people" to the sound guy).
How much does it suck that this is what I remember as much as or more than the music? I mean, holy hell, I'm 33 years old, and I have never in my life been in a bar fight. I really don't think this is my fault, and I want my seven dollars back.
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.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Loooooove! Or antidepressants.
I had a tough but rewarding week. Or the sun coming out for a day or two really made the drugs kick in. Whatever. Anyhow, I left work on Friday evening full of love and joy and optimism. I was so optimistic, in fact, that based on the headliner, I went out to the White Eagle.
The White Eagle is a beautiful space with an amazing history. It's a well-restored-and-well-modernized/hippie-ized spot that used to have Shanghai Tunnels in the basement and a brothel on the second floor. When I first came to Portland and stayed for a week to look for a place to live, I stayed in a room upstairs at the White Eagle, carefully balancing in my mind the astoundingly cheap and beautifully decorated tiny room (and the charming ghost stories) with the constant music noise bleeding up from the bar until 2 am. I will always love the place. But I haven't been there since. Of all the McMs' hippie ventures, it may be the one most devoted to hippie-country-folk-rock stuff that makes me want to shove sharp things in my ears. But tonight, it was headlined by Jared Mees and the (whatever follows Jared Mees this time), all indie-awesome-reputation folk-rock-indie-awesomeness-whatever. For five bucks. Sign me up.
I got there, and with the 30-minute set-break-tuning-sound-check, I figured I must be there for the first band. It was like 9:45, and if the first band was just getting their sound-check shit started right now, I wasn't happy about it. But no, I missed Old Money. Given the quality of the rest of the set, I'm not sure whether I should be disappointed that I didn't get a 4th band in this stellar lineup or happy that nothing brought it down.
First band I saw was called Saw Holly Fam'ly. There are almost zero bands I've ever enjoyed called anything family, and none before now called fill-in-the-blank Fam'ly. They were two bands getting together for the first or second time, Saw something and something Fam'ly (didn't catch which had the Holly bit). Messy, tentative, and mismatched. But wow. It started with an a capella duet between the two girls (who seemed to comprise the something-fam'ly band) whose voices were totally mismatched, but both interesting. The alto was much more suited to a low mike and a small venue, and was also better dressed. She was in a little black dress that I might also own (it looks like one I snagged at Ross for 14 bucks before an event that unquestionably required a little black dress, and I love it), and looked all laid-back-cool in the haircut I should have and the Mona-Lisa half-smile. The mezzo combined a horrible dyed-red bangs-and-layered-waves country-1997 look with a black-and-white polka-dot dress and bright-fuchsia footless lace-edged tights and high heels in a this-isn't-a-flute-it's-a-baton-in-a-small-town-marching-band disaster look. And an odd mouth that was turning down at the corners just waiting for her to lose some teeth. But the thing is, her voice, too, was awesome in a dark-twang sorta don't-know-my-place way. Her higher-pitched, stronger-toned voice was miked too hot, and she knew it, so she kind of stepped back and kind of whispered. The alto was warm and soft, and mostly fit well, either balancing her or melding nicely with the male vocal from Saw-whatever. His voice was like a kazoo through a mute, like singing trumpet in a whisper, unique and marvelous. But too quiet next to the strong, piercing mezzo. Just a mixing/practicing/voice effects issue.
This first band had not only the nasal kazoo/mute voice and the overdressed girls and the a capella duet, but also flute, cello, a tiny leather-briefcase glockenspiel, and a tiny ukelele/guitar/12-string-mandolin-thingy called a turango. Messy, in need of some direction and some sound management and some practice and...probably lots of other things, but no complaints at all. Dark country-funk-indie-folk-whatever joy.
(Where does the music come from on a flute? She had her mouth next to the mic, but that didn't seem right at all...is it the holes controlled by the fingers? The very end?)
The second band, Church, I initially judged when they were warming up. And there was the one uber-skinny guy in a purply-maroon velvet jacket with the drug-addled hair...seriously? And then the three guys and two moogs were warmed up, and the jacket was discarded. He was really funny using all the X and S sibilant words he could think of to sound check (Michael J. Fox, Sexual safari, Flux capacitor!). And then the music. Messy, ambient, all Radiohead meets Thom-Yorke-With-A-Lobotomy (by which I mean Coldplay) meets early goth-like Joy Division and The Jam meets beep-boop-space-alien-electronica. Plus occasional harmonium and lap-steel guitar. Again, they seemed uncomfortable with their mikes. I bought a 3-dollar CD-R (they have a third "CD" coming out! They've been together six months!) which is jaw-dropping given the source.
Finally, Jared Mees and the Grown Children (the moniker they've been using recently), who had been renamed Jared Mees and...shit, I got drunk and I lost my notes. But they were as joyful as the other two bands, loud I-was-here-for-grunge guitar (and clothes) with a folk-blues beat and playful vocals. And I went home even happier than I started. Damn, it was a good start to the weekend, and I went home bubbling over with all sorts of love and marvelousness and joy in everything. And I promise more about Jared Mees if I can find my notes (and read my drunken writing...).
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...).
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
This is hard.
So, after much political manoeuvering and social finagling (okay, I e-mailed the volunteer coordinator), I get to be a listener for the PDX Pop Now! compilation this year. Please do not send bombs to my blog. I will, however accept pastry or savory baked goods. Any combination of baked goods with bacon will get extra consideration.
This is much harder than it seems. First of all, all the tracks have been sanitized of all identifying information except...damn, do I know that voice? Second, it turns out that liking a song takes a few listens, while hating it can be done in...well, most of the time I get all the way through the song, but sometimes I can't quite manage that. And third, though this makes me sound a bit incompetent, I've got a long list of track/vote/track/vote/track/vote. After I've skipped a few votes (see problem the second), it's easy to get confused. There's no notable visual marker to indicate whether the vote goes with the song above it, or below it. Though to my knowledge, I've only screwed that up once.
The current track only took about 20 seconds before it merited a no. The nos are easy. Next!
I've got about 85 tracks to listen to. I've voted no a bunch of times, yes a few times, and skipped a ton of songs for a second listen. And I need to get it all decided by this weekend (when my votes will be compiled with a bunch of other people's...so again, don't bother with the bombs, but I'm happy to accept pastry). Wish me luck.
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.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Eye Contact Shows, with Morrissey
This week I've been to two small, very intimate shows in which the artist could have made eye contact with nearly everyone in the audience. It doesn't get better than that.
Last sunday was Nick Jaina at Towne Lounge (I was at TL the previous night, so I don't need to repeat my rants about the place, but I'll note that this night was significantly less smoky than the previous night) with...oh, crap, this is why I shouldn't wait to write about these things. Oh! I remember! Michael the Blind was first. He does gorgeous, usually quiet pretty-folk with a bit of an edge to it. It was a Willie-Week-interviews-the-artists! deal (oh dear, did I just use the word 'deal' to mean 'thingy'? I skipped turning into my mother and went straight for turning into grandma, I guess), but I didn't get there early enough to see the interview with Mr. The Blind. That was followed by two guys from Shoeshine Blue (acoustic guitar and upright bass). I didn't like Shoeshine Blue the first time I saw them (I believe I described them as Borders-Bookstore folk), but this combo was grittier and bluesier, and it was fine. Nothing like "gotta rush out and see 'em again" but at least I won't cringe next time I see the band's name or anyone from the band appearing between two acts I really want to see.
I felt just a little bit bad for the kind of clueless chick from the WWeek who interviewed Nick. She did okay with the other two guys, but she just seemed unprepared to talk to Nick, and he didn't make it easy on her. Sometimes she just rambled ("Is there a question in there?") and sometimes she asked yes-or-no questions, which Nick answered with yes or no. It was pretty funny, and I have to admit, it's a joy to watch someone take their own mild social awkwardness and use it to make someone else look silly. I've mentioned the pleasure I take in schadenfreude, I'm sure. Nick didn't do his typical "solo" show, he actually played solo. A bunch of it was at the piano. I'm probably the only person who really, truly loves the sound of an off-key bar piano, but there's just something lo-fi and personal about it. (Maybe it's because I had an old, beat-up upright piano when I was a kid (I think it was made of plywood and spray-painted the greyish-pinkish-beige of a three-day-old corpse), and it never got tuned after it was moved from my grandma's house to my house. Three of the keys didn't work, they just made a dull thud.) It was a marvelous show. The highlights: There was a new song, about a woman named Helen Hill in New Orleans after the hurricane (some political significance, people marched on the mayor's office, but I didn't quite follow the story). And Nick somehow managed to merge from The Mercy Of His Arms into The Smiths' (Morrissey's?) Panic On The Streets Of London (hang the DJ hang the DJ hang the DJ), all slow and serious and acoustic. Kick. Fucking. Ass.
Nick gave me a hard time about not showing up for the CD release shows at Mississippi Studios a couple of days before, and I know after getting an advance copy of the CD from him, the least I could do was pay the cover for a show, but I'm utterly and indescribably broke right now, so I went to the free show at the Towne Lounge instead. Guilt aside, I'm glad that's the show I saw. He's heading off on a really impressively extensive kinda-nationwide tour, and I made sure he had some info about Minneapolis/St. Paul and a musician-friend of mine's name/number/e-mail for when he goes through the Twin Cities. I've also insisted that two people go to his shows there, and for several other people it's (technically) optional but highly encouraged. If you know anyone who lives...well, pretty much anywhere except the southeast, check Nick's itinerary. Make people go to his shows, and better yet, help him find a laundromat/coffee shop/bar/place to eat/some radio promotion while he's in their town.
This afternoon, I went to Jackpot Records' new space on Hawthorne for a free, tiny solo show by Colin Meloy. I got there pretty early, and managed to make my way to a front corner of the room. I staked out my spot...and immediately had to pee. Crap, I can't go anywhere now! So I admit, I was a bit impatient and antsy through the show, marvelous though it was. He seemed to be having fun, pulling out random requests and songs he didn't actually remember how to play, bumbling his way through them and joking and laughing throughout, sometimes stopping his rhythm guitar part to try to pick out the solo, sometimes just singing it. He told some stories, when he could fit them in before audience members shouted out requests (Shut up! You can hear the songs at a Decemberists show, but Colin telling stories is something you only get here). He played a Morrissey/Smiths cover that's not on his recorded EP, Ask (Ask me ask me ask me...) which was incredibly fun despite his one chord/one note guitar part (it's actually more fun when he points that out and explains how that happens, then apologizes to Johnny Mars). There was an acoustic version of A Perfect Crime that he described as "the Steely Dan version from before we got all New-Wave on it," different chords and rhythms, that was a brilliant, fascinating and messy take on my favorite track from The Crane Wife. He (barely) managed to get all the way through the three-song cycle from The Crane Wife that starts with Come And See (that might not even be the name of part one of that song), and the lack of grace, style, or even accuracy somehow added to the experience. He'd point out his mistakes and verbally correct himself in mid-song ("I figured it out--it's a D7!" the third time through that particular verse). It was like hanging out in the guy's living room watching him practice.
These are my kind of shows. There are some of you out there who want a polished, practiced, and perfected stage show, and you're frustrated when artists don't seem on top of what they're doing. You folks can shell out for your stadium shows by your major label bands. But those kinds of shows leave me broke...I mean, leave me cold. Two free eye-contact shows in a week, both with banter and mistakes, sounding nothing like the album tracks, is the best thing I can imagine.
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.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
The Guys-Who-Lead-Other-Bands Show
Tonight I went out to a show featuring three guys-with-acoustic-guitars-who-normally-lead-other-bands, and some fourth guy-with-an-acoustic-guitar (-bass hybrid). The show was at Towne Lounge, an interesting little place. It's got this air of a prohibition-era speakeasy, invisible from the street, only marked by a signboard on the sidewalk when they have a show (and by a backlit plastic sign over the door that simply says LOUNGE, which initially convinced me it was another of Portland's many strip clubs when it first opened near my old apartment). This speakeasy vibe is enhanced by the ornate, heavy wooden door with a swing-open little window in it. With the window closed, it looks just like a very elaborate door. With the window open, you expect furtive eyes to look out, and ask you for the password. (Cheese it, it's the cops!) Luckily, since I didn't have a password, I only had to give the guy at the table inside six bucks instead. Inside, it's got some interesting elements, including the funky coved ceiling and the hand-carved-looking piano that reminds me of the piano in the made-for-tv version of The Piano Lesson (that sentence, in retrospect, amuses me greatly). Sadly, though, for the most part, it's a smoky shithole. I don't know what it is that the smoking-allowed music venues in town all seem to be covered in crappy sharpie graffiti (though here it's primarily confined to the dingy bathroom). For christ's sake, it's a tiny acoustic music venue, what's with the graffiti? And in this tiny room, I'm pretty sure I was the sole non-smoker in the whole place. I was all excited, because I'm broke right now, and I remembered that Towne Lounge used to have the stubbie bottles of Session for two bucks...but no longer. Their cheap beer is Miller High Life in a can. Uh, no, thanks. Really.
I got there just as one of the musicians took the stage. I had, most likely, missed the first guy, then. Lucky for me, they didn't play in the order they had been listed. I missed the one guy that isn't associated with another band. I was reading the WillieWeek on and off during the show, and they actually previewed this show, pointing out that the one I missed, Justin Power, played some sort of homemade guitar-bass hybrid. I was disappointed I missed him just because I would have liked an image in my head to go with that phrase. The guy who played when I got there was Nicholas Delffs, who heads The Shaky Hands. His voice is unmistakable. Interestingly, once you take the pop and rock elements out of the equation, and it's just him and an acoustic guitar, he almost sounds less like a hippie than he does with the band. I really enjoyed the set. It was all folk-rock...well, ah, no, that's not quite it...rock-folk...shit. Have you ever tried to describe Neil Young before? Turns out you can't do it without making him sound wimpy and annoying. Apparently words don't do him justice. So I'll describe Delffs by saying he sounded a hell of a lot like Neil Young throughout the set. But like Neil Young's prettier, more wistful sounds, not his angry-young-man (become angry-old-man, but not of the "get off my lawn!" variety) stuff.
The next guy, by process of elimination, must have been Ryan Sollee of The Builders And The Butchers. See review of them below. Of the three guys I saw, he was the only one who didn't sound so distinct that I could immediately associate him with his band. Of course, I've only seen TBATB once, but their "swamp-blues" (WillieWeek's words) stomp-along dark wildness had little in common with this straightforward 70's-ish white-boy blues/blues-rock. It was okay, mostly just kind of cliched. The guy would have an interesting, unique voice, except that it sounds just. exactly. like some other voice in 70's white-boy blues/blues-rock, but I could never quite put my finger on who. Eh. It was okay.
Last up, Justin Ringle of Horsefeathers. I didn't recognize any of the songs, but I only own the very early HF demo, so I don't know if he was playing HF songs or not (Delffs did not seem to play any Shaky Hands songs, and I don't know about Sollee, but he did play a couple of requests for songs he hadn't played in years). But he sounded just exactly like he does in Horsefeathers, with that incredibly unique warm-fuzz voice and perfect pretty-folk, but even more spare without violin, saw, and another voice. Beautiful, and soothing (which was great, since the smoke and the smokers were making me irritable). And what the hell was the WillieWeek talking about, his voice sounding like....oh, damn you, WillieWeek. I might never have heard that if it weren't for you. Tracy Chapman. I didn't hear it until a handful of songs in, and then I could never quite shake it. Thanks a lot, WillieWeek. Crap. I preferred it when all I heard to compare it to was Sam Beam's voice (of Iron and Wine). But still, it was lovely and a nice note to end on. He also noted that they're just finishing up a new HF disc, which is definitely something to look forward to.
With four sets, I expected the show to go quite late, but there was little changeover time (how long could it take to get your acoustic guitar offstage and get the next acoustic guitar set up?) and they were all fairly short sets, so I was pleasantly surprised to be home by about 12:30. And I'm ready to do it again tomorrow, same time, same place, for Nick Jaina!
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!
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Nice Egg Hat.
Rotture. I hate this venue. It has so much damn potential. The second floor of an old industrial/warehouse site, with amazing brick walls and steel I-beams. A lovely deck overlooking the river and downtown. It could be so fucking great. But instead, it's one of the few music venues in town that still allows smoking. I was impressed at first with how many smokers were trained well, and went out to the deck to smoke though they didn't have to, but after a while they all got lazy. It's stuffed full of weird-ass ugly creepy people. And every surface is covered with sharpie graffiti tags. Not graffiti art, not something the venue has invited or commissioned, just the pissing-on-a-fire-hydrant territory-marking shit. The atmosphere just seems so ugly, reeking of cloves and permanent marker, like shitty-ass places I could have hung out when I was seventeen but chose not to, for the most part. The crowd was so utterly strange, all sorts of sundresses, furs, and boots (I get the furs and boots, though if I owned an interesting fur, I wouldn't wear it to a stinky shithole like that...but sundresses? I counted 15 before I lost count, and damn, it's cold for Portland tonight, 30 degrees and the threat of snow), but also snaggle-toothed dingy people in ill-fitting, grimy hoodies drinking Hamm's (did you know Hamm's still existed? I sure didn't.). And if you wear your bluetooth headset to a bar? You're an absolute tool. And then if you make me move from my seat so you can play pinball, then take over my seat when you're done...what's a few steps beyond absolute tool?
And the worst part, "Show at 9" meant doors, not show. Most of the other venues in town have finally gotten a system down, where they'll either say "doors at...show at" or "show at" and that's when the first band takes the stage. Rotture hasn't gotten the memo. So I sat there for a good 45 minutes before the music started, listening to (well, feeling as much as hearing) the incredibly loud vibrating dance music bass coming from downstairs. Luckily, it didn't bleed to the front of the room by the stage. This was at least interesting...while I was sitting and waiting, an already-drunk couple addressed me, she in a sundress and he in a black-and-white checkerboard boot-length fake fur (Prince? Or a '90's club kid? Who knows...) and she told me I was gorgeous, and he said something that sounded like "I like your egg hat!" I wasn't wearing a hat, or eggs of any kind, much less an egg hat. It wasn't 'til an hour later that I realized that he must have said "I like your necklace." I so rarely wear extra jewelry that this just didn't occur to me. (I was wearing a cheap plastic cameo that I bought at Target for $3.94...never ever has $3.94 bought me as many compliments as this little crappy piece of plastic and beads--someone even once pretentiously asked me if it was Wedgewood.)
So it's pretty impressive, in such a dismal venue, that tonight's show made me so crazy happy. Portland incest of the highest degree--Nick Jaina (with Nathan Langston in his band, as well as six other people from eight or ten other bands), followed by Dat'r (the two other people in the Binary Dolls with Nick), then The Maybe Happening (Nathan Langston's band, playing their CD release party for a CD Nick produced, and Nick and three or four other people who were in his band supported them onstage). Was Nathan trying to reunite Nick and the Dat'r boys, get Binary Dolls working together again? Will it work? Please, please, please?
Nick Jaina first. Lately, every time I've seen him, he's had eight people on stage. I've said it before, but...this is his solo project? Nick on vox and guitar, Ali on backup vox/clarinet/accordion, Nathan on violin and shouting (and conducting the audience into shouting along), plus guitar, upright bass, vibes/percussion, trumpet/bass clarinet, and drums. Great show, high energy from beginning to end, but not a single song from the new disc. Marvelously dark and dynamic, though, truly awesome. I say this over and over, but every time, the songs are different. One intro had me thinking they were about to launch into a U2 cover (where the streets have no name, maybe?) before it became something familiar (Red Queen, I think, though it may have been a different one). Just imagine having so many songs in you that you can lead two bands, play songs from one of them, play nothing off your new album, and still have new songs to play.
Dat'r...well, there are about three bands out there that can induce me to do something approximating dancing. They're one of them. You can still see the hipstergeek head-bob-foot-tap underneath, but superficially, it's almost like dancing! There was one guy who really did know how to dance, almost b-boy-like, but he stayed on his feet, no handstands or backspins. So I don't know what to call him. But he was fun to watch. Nick Jaina even waggled his skinny hips for three or four seconds...who knew he had it in him?
And then The Maybe Happening. They're usually three guys, but tonight they had as many as eight people on stage. Nick joined them and played bass (like rawk-god bass, no less), random percussion, and keyboard, and he actually grinned and looked like he was having a shit-ton of fun. He's usually so damn serious, so it was really awesome to watch him grin and laugh, not just once or a little, but like crazy. Nathan, as always, was buoyantly wild and nuts, and played his violin like a rock guitar, like I always got in trouble for in the high-school orchestra (no, I wasn't pogo-ing up and down and screaming darling lyrics, but whenever Ms. Director was talking, and I was going over the hard parts pizzicato with the instrument tucked under my arm, I got yelled at). This band has so ridiculously much going on. The couple in front of me managed to combine pogo-moshing and the twist at one point...and that was the perfect set of moves for this band. I heard math metal, doo-wop, ska (this usually isn't there, but they had a horn section tonight), early Pavement with maybe a little very early Weezer thrown in, early punk-ass Modest Mouse (especially in the screamy vocals over orchestral-instruments-gone-wild), and a billion other things. I even had a little almost-dancing left in me after Dat'r.
And then I snagged a poster and went home. Where the reality of the Johan trade crashed down on me once again, but at least I had pretty-blond-bowler to chat with about the show, and of course, you all, my imagined audience, to talk to.
And the worst part, "Show at 9" meant doors, not show. Most of the other venues in town have finally gotten a system down, where they'll either say "doors at...show at" or "show at" and that's when the first band takes the stage. Rotture hasn't gotten the memo. So I sat there for a good 45 minutes before the music started, listening to (well, feeling as much as hearing) the incredibly loud vibrating dance music bass coming from downstairs. Luckily, it didn't bleed to the front of the room by the stage. This was at least interesting...while I was sitting and waiting, an already-drunk couple addressed me, she in a sundress and he in a black-and-white checkerboard boot-length fake fur (Prince? Or a '90's club kid? Who knows...) and she told me I was gorgeous, and he said something that sounded like "I like your egg hat!" I wasn't wearing a hat, or eggs of any kind, much less an egg hat. It wasn't 'til an hour later that I realized that he must have said "I like your necklace." I so rarely wear extra jewelry that this just didn't occur to me. (I was wearing a cheap plastic cameo that I bought at Target for $3.94...never ever has $3.94 bought me as many compliments as this little crappy piece of plastic and beads--someone even once pretentiously asked me if it was Wedgewood.)
So it's pretty impressive, in such a dismal venue, that tonight's show made me so crazy happy. Portland incest of the highest degree--Nick Jaina (with Nathan Langston in his band, as well as six other people from eight or ten other bands), followed by Dat'r (the two other people in the Binary Dolls with Nick), then The Maybe Happening (Nathan Langston's band, playing their CD release party for a CD Nick produced, and Nick and three or four other people who were in his band supported them onstage). Was Nathan trying to reunite Nick and the Dat'r boys, get Binary Dolls working together again? Will it work? Please, please, please?
Nick Jaina first. Lately, every time I've seen him, he's had eight people on stage. I've said it before, but...this is his solo project? Nick on vox and guitar, Ali on backup vox/clarinet/accordion, Nathan on violin and shouting (and conducting the audience into shouting along), plus guitar, upright bass, vibes/percussion, trumpet/bass clarinet, and drums. Great show, high energy from beginning to end, but not a single song from the new disc. Marvelously dark and dynamic, though, truly awesome. I say this over and over, but every time, the songs are different. One intro had me thinking they were about to launch into a U2 cover (where the streets have no name, maybe?) before it became something familiar (Red Queen, I think, though it may have been a different one). Just imagine having so many songs in you that you can lead two bands, play songs from one of them, play nothing off your new album, and still have new songs to play.
Dat'r...well, there are about three bands out there that can induce me to do something approximating dancing. They're one of them. You can still see the hipstergeek head-bob-foot-tap underneath, but superficially, it's almost like dancing! There was one guy who really did know how to dance, almost b-boy-like, but he stayed on his feet, no handstands or backspins. So I don't know what to call him. But he was fun to watch. Nick Jaina even waggled his skinny hips for three or four seconds...who knew he had it in him?
And then The Maybe Happening. They're usually three guys, but tonight they had as many as eight people on stage. Nick joined them and played bass (like rawk-god bass, no less), random percussion, and keyboard, and he actually grinned and looked like he was having a shit-ton of fun. He's usually so damn serious, so it was really awesome to watch him grin and laugh, not just once or a little, but like crazy. Nathan, as always, was buoyantly wild and nuts, and played his violin like a rock guitar, like I always got in trouble for in the high-school orchestra (no, I wasn't pogo-ing up and down and screaming darling lyrics, but whenever Ms. Director was talking, and I was going over the hard parts pizzicato with the instrument tucked under my arm, I got yelled at). This band has so ridiculously much going on. The couple in front of me managed to combine pogo-moshing and the twist at one point...and that was the perfect set of moves for this band. I heard math metal, doo-wop, ska (this usually isn't there, but they had a horn section tonight), early Pavement with maybe a little very early Weezer thrown in, early punk-ass Modest Mouse (especially in the screamy vocals over orchestral-instruments-gone-wild), and a billion other things. I even had a little almost-dancing left in me after Dat'r.
And then I snagged a poster and went home. Where the reality of the Johan trade crashed down on me once again, but at least I had pretty-blond-bowler to chat with about the show, and of course, you all, my imagined audience, to talk to.
Gotta rant a moment here.
Johan Santana got traded yesterday. It was made official today. I don't know if we got a handful of magic beans...or a hill of beans. Four prospects. No major-league-ready pitcher. No major-league-ready center-fielder. I don't think much of anything would have made me happy to lose El Presidente, Mr. Cy, the best player in baseball. So I don't know if I'm just grousing or if I'm genuinely upset that we didn't get enough.
Some folks I know started talking about this deal, and discussing how player loyalty has fallen by the wayside. Someone started talking about fan loyalty...do we even deserve Johan's love?
"We sometimes talk about how players should have loyalty to the team but we don't seem to have problems saying things like, "the Twins need an upgrade at this position," or to use an example we all remember, "When are the Twins going to just dump Ponson's sorry ass?" We all invest something looking for something in return."
I read this as saying that we, as fans, demand loyalty, but somehow aren't loyal in return. That wanting "something in return" (for our team to try to be the best it can be) is somehow different than, and less than, loyalty. In return, I want my team to try to do their best. I want the front office to recognize genuine weaknesses and try to remedy them. I want the coaching staff to realize that some things aren't working and try to change them. I want to be able to get excited about successes, and to be able to worry about difficulties and mourn failures. It's easy to be "loyal" to a team that wins every year and has a damn good shot at the playoffs. But what happens if they have a bad year? Real loyalty is still loving a team that isn't perfect, and knowing they aren't perfect, being utterly clear-headed about their weaknesses, but loving them anyway. I love the Twins, but I know they have weaknesses. I admire Kansas City fans, but if they don't sit around every offseason saying, "I have hope that this massive change will happen, and it will fix what we all know is seriously wrong with this team," then it's not loyalty, it's blind belief in the impossible.
In exchange, even when the Twins have a losing year, or a losing decade (okay, almost decade, between 1991 and 2001), I will find every upside and every bright side. I won't pretend I have no idea something's wrong. But I'll find those young Toriis and Jacques and get excited about their potential. I'll read the box scores, listen to the games on the radio, listen online, watch online...wherever technology takes me, I'll be there, cheering. When I sit down at a coffee shop in small-town virginia (sure, it won't likely happen again, but I don't know where I'll be next time the Twins are starting from the very bottom) and someone tries to take my sports section away and I tell him, "hey, I'm reading that!" and he quizzes me...'where's Cuddyer from?' 'Virginia.' 'Where's Hunter from?' 'Pine Bluff, Arkansas.' I'll know the answers. I'll be at that debut game where Torii hit the wall in center field, fell down, got up, threw to home, and got the guy out (I'm pretty sure that was opening day in 1997, at least I have the baseball from that game, and I remember the play, and I put the two together), and I'll be overjoyed, but it won't stop me from saying that the team has no pitching. (ETA: A little research suggests to me that the game I'm thinking of was opening day of 1999, as Torii only played seven games before that, none of them on opening day.) I'll be there, every step of the way, up and down, and I won't pretend it's all up. To me, that's loyalty. Not to pretend the team has no weaknesses, but to know the weaknesses, recognize them, point them out, but to still be there every day anyway. Fan loyalty isn't to pretend Ponson's a hero, but to say, "Dump Ponson. He sucks. But I love the team every day anyway. I'll be a fan every day Ponson's on the team, but please dump him because he will never be any good for the team I love."
Goodbye, Johan. I want to wish you all the best, but it's hard, when I also want baseball to right itself, and come back down to earth. You're amazing, and one of the best things to happen to baseball this decade. But your contract with the Mets may be one of the worst things to happen to baseball. I wish you loved us enough to stay for four years, $21 million a year. I wish Pohlad had offered you close to what you're worth. But I'll still love my team, knowing all the while they'd be better with you on it.
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.
Monday, January 28, 2008
I'll think about you.
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.
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.
Friday, December 21, 2007
George Bush is a Facist.
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.
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.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Why? Why?!?! Why are there always hippies?
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Any questions?
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.
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.
Friday, November 02, 2007
Good Day/Bad Day
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.
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.
Friday, September 07, 2007
MusicFest NW Thursday
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....
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....
Monday, August 06, 2007
Day two!
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.
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.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
PDX Pop Now! Part 1 (okay, 2)
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.
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.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
So glad I went.
"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.
--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.
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