To all things not hairy and reclusive

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next!

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

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

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

Has it really been two months?

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

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

Am I forgetting anything?

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

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

Much, much more to come. Much.

Church on Sunday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Month Or So In Review.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is a song. It's a singalong.

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

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

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

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

Last Grasp

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

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

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

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

Oh, To Be Wanted, To Be Useful

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

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

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

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

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

The Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald

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

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

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

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

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

Places I've Never Been

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Birthday To Me...

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

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

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

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

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

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

All Experimental and Punk and Shit

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

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

And Now, The Exciting Conclusion

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

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

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

The end.

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

MFNW Continued...By Request!

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

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

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

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

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

Musicfest NW's Awkward Adolescence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day Two! Day Three!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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