Really? OMG!!! This is too good to be true. Deuce Bigalow sings? World-renowned thespian Rob Schneider is performing at the Doug Fir tomorrow night? America’s own pint-sized Laurence Olivier? Will he do his famed “Tiny Elvis” routine? Will he bring to the stage his hilarious turns in The Animal and The Hot Chick, in which he convincingly took on the roles of, respectively, an animal and a hot chick? Perhaps he’ll recreate the racist stereotypes he’s played in every Adam Sandler movie ever!

… Wait, what? BOB Schneider? Who the hell is Bob Schneider? A mild-mannered Austin folkie with a wide sentimental streak, whose songs sound like Jay Farrar and Adam Duritz sharing a hot tub, you say? Who typically stays in lyrical folk mode, but has a couple ill-advised lite-funk G. Love-type numbers, and even posted a god-awful rap on his MySpace page? I see. Well, I highly doubt his talent is the same caliber as that of Sir Rob Schneider, but there’s only so much genius to go around, I suppose.

w/Tina Dico, Jay Thomas; Doug Fir, 830 E Burnside, Sat March 29, 9 pm, $15

Photo actually is from this show! By Ned Lannamann

JUSTICE - Wednesday, March 26 @ Roseland

Besides their single, “D.A.N.C.E.”, I hadn’t heard much from Justice, and what I had, I didn’t really care for. Still, the hype—and more-so the live photographs—spoke of insane, righteous dance parties. I had to see up close what this thing was all about.

Honestly, I didn’t expect much, especially after my dance partner flaked out. Fuck, was I surprised.

Inside it was packed--floor to ceiling, end to end, railing to railing--and everybody was dancing. I mean EVERYBODY. The people in the wings, up in the balcony, in the stairwells, and standing in their seats. EVERYBODY. Never before in Portland have I seen a show or DJ set anywhere near this scale of mass hip-shaking hysteria. It was mind blowing and viscously contagious.

There are two key ingredients to understanding Justice that I had missed, and they can only be realized live:

1.) The Light Show. It was like a fucking rave, except (I imagine) better. Maybe even Burning Man. Empty Marshall cabinets, stacked three high and three wide, towered above the crowd and surrounded the two head-bobbing Frenchman at work in their fort between. Instead of speakers they are filled with lights. There's a huge light-up cross mounted on the DJ deck, which is a bunch more intricate lights disguised as rack gear. There are tons more lights mounted all over the fucking place and they are all synchronized with the music. Certain songs have certain color themes. Strobes and bright washes accentuate the crescendos and punctuate the downturns. Do yourself a favor and take drugs, they seem to suggest--but the production is so good you don't need to.

With just a naked stage and the duo at their laptops, this does not work.

2.) Earth Shaking Volume. For these songs to work, to really get you moving, they have to rattle your guts. Quite simply, they did.

Seriously, the exuberance from the crowd was something rarely seen. That said, I doubt this show was special--they probably all go off just like this. Complete insanity mobile dance party unit.

Hard to tell what the two backlit French dudes were actually doing up there in their crazy DJ booth. By the end of it, after an Encore, they're being held up by the sweaty, exhausted crowd. Who says Americans don't love the French?

Today is the most holy of all holy days (Bruce Springsteen is in town!), and while it’s sacreligious to acknowledge that there is any other musician in the world on today’s holiday, I must admit that I took a brief break from my “All Bruce, All The Time” mantra.

That break? It was to watch the above video for The Teenagers “Love No”. Wow. I must admit the rest of their singles kind of creep me out (especially “Homecoming” with its gross underage sex business), but this song makes me smile. The “you spend soooo much time on your computer” line is pure genius.

Ah well, break is over. Now it’s time to go listen to some more Boss bootlegs and get ready for, dare I say it, the Magic that will be tonight’s performance.

GREYBOY ALLSTARS, BUSDRIVER (Roseland, 8 NW 6th) Out of South Central LA’s Project Blowed crew, Busdriver has carved a frenetic hiphop niche. His songs are a Masterpiece Ghettotech Theatre and he plays the role of speed-reading auctioneer. Busdriver’s flows are precise and freely associative on RoadKillOvercoat, which was produced by DJ Nobody and Boom Bip. Topics cut quickly from casting agents, cowgirls, oxycodone, and suicide to brunch. “In the Polaroid at a get together/Wearing a corduroy vest sweater,” he “negates the myth of the great black boyfriend.” Busdriver’s spitfire delivery conjugates the grammatical latticework of a sentence like a jazz drummer dices a beat. Content is scattershot, but there’s balance. TRENT MOORMAN

MP3:
Busdriver - Casting Agents And Cowgirls

BELL X1, THE SUBMARINES (Dante’s, 1 SW 3rd) In their native Ireland, Bell X1 are pretty much the biggest rock band since U2. Coincidentally, both bands are named after US military jets—Bell X1 was an experimental supersonic jet; U2, a spy plane. Like modern-era U2, Bell X1 aim squarely for prime-time television placement with their brand of gently soaring soft-rock mope, landing songs on popular programs such as The O.C. and Grey’s Anatomy. Of course, dubious licensing isn’t really the kiss of death for a band these days—quite the opposite—and Bell X1’s songs are fine as far as unsubtle emotionalism and budget-rate Radiohead are concerned, but they’re unlikely to achieve anything like the ubiquity of their similarly aeronautical countrymen. ERIC GRANDY

MP3:
Bell X1 - My First Born For A Song

With any luck, I will be that eight year old girl tonight. I mean, I know I’ll be screaming like one for roughly two and a half hours anyways.

Here is a friendly reminder that this event is happening tomorrow and is free to the public.

Have you ever wanted to meet me and punch me in the jaw then run away as I crumble to the ground in a pool of tears talk about music? Well my friend, now is your chance.

On Saturday, March 29th, the Musicians Union is hosting a “Meet with the Press” Q&A where you can say hello to Portland’s best music critics—Luciana Lopez (Oregonian), Amy McCullough (Willamette Week), Barbara Mitchell (Portland Tribune)—along with myself, “Portland’s Ninth Best Music Critic With a Beard Who Is Named Ezra.”

The event is an ideal opportunity to speak about the relationship between local bands and the media, get an outside perspective on how to better pitch your music to the press, and I’m sure we will cover all sorts of other issues as well.

Sadly, the Musicians Union rejected my idea of adding a battle royal to the death (“Four critics enter, only one lives to blog about it…”) at the end of the event. Then again, that’s probably a good thing.

Full press release below…

Ever wanted to Meet with the Press?

The Musicians Union, Local 99 is hosting 4 of our esteemed local
music writers for an afternoon presentation and Q & A about their
jobs, press releases, what they like to see, and how you might help
yourself get some press.

Present at the event will be:
Luciana Lopez Pop Music Critic-Oregonian
Amy McCullough Music Editor-Willamette Week
Ezra A. Caraeff Music Editor-Portland Mercury
Barbara Mitchell Music Critic-Portland Tribune

Saturday, March 29, 2008
2-4 PM

Musicians Union Hall
325 NE 20th
Portland, OR

The event is free to all, though we are suggesting a $5, tax
deductible, donation to the Music Education Assistance Project, a
non-profit organization that provides support for Public School Music Programs.

Photo: not from Portland

…and we just keep stomping along.

JENS LEKMAN - Berbati’s Pan, March 24th.

As previously noted lots of great shows keep stacking up on the same nights. Sometimes you’re forced to choose, and sometimes you run like hell from one to the next.

Mick Jones ended on the early side on Monday and it left me in a good mood. I wanted more. Thankfully, another European had taken to the stage a bit later. When I arrived the doorman told me the Swedish pop-sweetheart Jens Lekman was only three or four songs into his set.

Unfortunately that meant missing one of the hits, "Opposite of Halleluah," but there was still plenty of swirl left. Most of the songs in Lekman's set drew from Night Falls Over Kortedala, with a few extras thrown in (most noteably, "Maple Leaves", which has been slightly reworked since Lekman has embraced electronic instrumentation).

There's some added value in seeing Jens live, and not just in gazing at his all-girl backing-band (there's one other guy running the laptop, who Ezra said "looks like a butler"). Jens peppers the story-songs with added depth. There'll be a spoken set-up that leads into the song, sometimes with backing music and sometimes without. Lekman has a good, cute sense of comic timing and a playful, perhaps fabricated bashfulness. The tales provide extra insight to the songs they accompany.

And while Jens tells these sweet, quirky tales of life and love in uniquely European settings, he becomes the exchange student you always wanted. His funny, slightly skewed and sometimes awkward take on things seems so right (gotta love that foreign perspective). You want to put him in your pocket. Take him in, drink wine and play songs. And in a couple of years, you travel to Sweden and he returns the favor.

This was the second time I'd seen Lekman, and for the second time the show was sold out. The first was at Someday Lounge, which probably fits twice inside Berbati's. It seems that Jens' personality, under-control playing, and dinner-table storytelling are best suited for smaller venues. More than most performers, Jens makes a personal, friend-like connection with the audience. The closer you are, the easier that is to achieve.

The demand for Jens is high, and it would seem he's been touring pretty hard to fulfill it. He appeared slightly worn out, at least, in comparison to the first time I saw him. With his show, it's understandable. The stories and jokes he shared were performed pretty much verbatim from the previous show I saw a few months ago. That's not easy. It's more than just playing the same songs over and over. Add to that the static tempos created by the laptop backing, and the fact that Lekman is not totally burned out is testament to his vigor.

Laptop tracks accounted for a vast array of Lekman's backing, his instrument toting band notwithstanding. The bass and drum hits, and even some guitar were doubled by the computer, the players contributing as much or more to mood than as were to sound, however the live strings (cello and violin) provide an important emotional impact.

It would take a lot of overhead and some seriously killer players, but if Jens were to assemble a full band to make all the sounds coming from the laptop he might be able to pull of some ridiculously amazing, stadium style shows. It could really be something.

That said, the show's high point came during the encore when Jens emereged to play sans band. He did two fabulous tracks. The first, which was unfamiliar to me, was performed with Jens on the mbiria (African thumb piano) and the two string players. The mbira tone was beautiful and meshed with the strings to create a soundscape all its own. The second and final song, "Shirin," Lekman performed all by his lonesome. Here, with just his guitar, Lekman's bright, sumptuous voice truly soared. In the midst of the set, sharing the air with so many other sounds, it isn't quite as obvious just how talented Lekman is. But in the clear sky, it becomes apparent-he's got one hell of a voice. Almost angelic.

And with that, we all floated off.

COMING TOMORROW, CAPPING REVIEW WEEK: JUSTICE

BIRDMONSTER, LOVE LIKE FIRE, CEMENT SEASON (Towne Lounge, 714 SW 20th Pl) There are moments in “Ball of Yarn,” the beaming standout track from 2006’s No Midnight, that San Francisco’s Birdmonster sound like the very future of rock ’n’ roll. Heavy statement, I know, but you cannot deny such lavish praise for a band with the keen ability to stretch a melody for what seems like hours—when in fact, it’s just a few short minutes. While singer Peter Arcuni’s delivery is worn thin and raspy, it’s also the reason you hang on every word he speaks/sings, since his voice is that of the scrappy underdog, the sort of frontman who’d give it all onstage, dedicate his dying breath to some gorgeous lyric, then keel over right in front of your eyes. Now that they are freshly inked up with Fader Records, the band will be spending their days on the road, a task they are prepared for, as their band blog details the fine art of Taco Bell dining: “The first, indeed the all-important, rule of Taco Bell ordering: NO SAUCE. It doesn’t matter what flavor said sauce is masquerading as—be it ‘baja’ or ‘chipotle’ or ‘I hope that isn’t human sperm’—do not eat that sauce. It will do bad things to your innards and your innards will punish you for your courageous idiocy.” EZRA ACE CARAEFF

Do you have three minutes and 52 seconds to spare? If so, there isn’t a better way to spend that time than listening to the song below. It takes a second to build, but the payoff is worth every second.

MP3:
Birdmonster - Ball of Yarn

The sun is shining right now. When I left work for my lunch break the sun was shining. Why am I currently sitting here soaking wet?!

Damn freak rain storm. Needless to say, this guitar-pop gem is going to be stuck in my head for the rest of the afternoon.

Let’s start with the good news: the teenage juggernaut that is Be Your Own Pet just announced they’ll be playing Portland on June 19th!

The bad news? They’re playing the Crystal Ballroom with quite possibly the worst band currently making music, She Wants Revenge. Ugh. As much as I would like to see them absolutely demolish the Crystal, there is no way I’m even stepping foot near a She Wants Revenge show. Period.

Continuing with our good news/bad news theme, the band just released a new video for their excellent “The Kelly Affair” (yay!) but embedding is unfortunately disabled (boo!), so head over to YouTube to check it out.

I thought it would take a little longer than it did—I guess I underestimated this town’s knowledge (or Googling ability) of musicians and their respective faiths—but we have our two winners of the “Relgious Who’s Who” contest. Congratulations go out to Nathan Winters and Daniel Flessas (who, according, to our office headmaster Brad Buckner, “was surprised he’d won, given the fact that he is in Boston right now and didn’t even know about the contest. Apparently someone filled it out for him. How nice!”), they take home their choice of a $50 Music Millennium gift certificate or a $50 Jackpot Records gift certificate, plus a Gideon bible stolen from the Unicorn Inn.*

Thanks to all those who entered, and congrats to the gentlemen who won.

* I have a confession to make. The bible prize was a lie. The only thing that scares me more than a (stolen) bible, is lifting one from that motel. It’s scary. Sorry, I lied, but the gift certificates are very real. Nothing scary about those.

Another week, another Mercury music section to read while you count your blessings for not growing up goth in England. That is fucked up.

It only took seven years of lobbying, but I finally convinced the powers that be here at Merc HQ to put Bruce Springsteen on the cover. In case you have not noticed, it’s our sorta annual music issue this week, and the paper features all sorts of great stuff on the topic of religion and music. Finally, this rag is God approved, well, maybe with the exception of those hard working ladies in the back of the paper.

But it’s not all bible thumpin’ and guitar pickin’, we actually wrote about some upcoming shows as well. Included in this is Jim White, who coincidentally is right at home in an issue about religious imagery and music.
MP3: Jim White - A Town Called Amen

What’s more punk thank an entire album of Crass covers? Performing them as simple folk songs. Indie-savant Jeffrey Lewis does just that with 12 Crass Songs, which, like all his recordings, is both frustrating and brilliant.
MP3: Jeffrey Lewis - Banned From The Roxy

Meshuggah (or משוגע as they are known in Isreal) are Sweden’s finest metal export. But you’d be angry too if you lived in a country with amazing health care, low crime rates, and an average of 7 weeks paid vacation.
MP3: Meshuggah - Combustion

Everyone in the pool! It’s time for some good Summertime vibes courtesy of New Zealand’s the Ruby Suns. No running by the pool, and for god’s sake, cut out that horseplay!
MP3: The Ruby Suns - Kenya Dig It?

Picture not from this show

CARBON/SILICON - Lola’s Room, March 24.

Something tells me I’m late. It’s about 11pm, or a little before. There’s a sign on the door of Lola’s Room that says “No Smoking, by request of the band.” I can dig it, but it also gives me the fear—this show’s not going to go deep into the night.

Former Clash member and living-legend Mick Jones, along with Generation X’s Tony James have entered their formative years. Not a big surprise they don’t want any smoke, or might jump onstage before midnight.

I enter the room and it's pretty full. Not quite packed but there's a good throng of people pressed right up against the stage. Can't get quite as close as I'd like. Staring at Jones I have to pinch myself. He's practically an idol. Everyone else is doing the same. They can't take their eyes off him. The crowd is a generational mix often unsee--original, older Clash fans who don't make it out too often, and younger types. No one is outcast and all seem to lean with like enthusiasm.

On record, the band uses a substantial amount of electronic beats, but none are to be found here. Just good ol' drums, bass and two guitars. They're heavy, loose and loud. In-between songs Jones swigs from a beer and appears to get into a nice buzz. Clearly he's enjoying himself--glad to be back out with the people, cranking out punky pop. The feeling is contagious. He's really having lots of fun, bobbing around, smiling almost all the time. So is the band. It's simple, classic, good times.

Keeping in mind he's a punk vocalist--Jones' voice is as strong as ever. It cuts graciously through the mix.

All too it's their last song, but the audience has no intention of letting them get away that easy. Neither do they, really. After few moments of stomping and shouting the band is back on stage. Mick says something to the tune of:

"It doesn't take much to get us back... we were ready at the first clap."

Awesome. Thank you. He'd probably say it back.

In vintage Jones fashion, with that strong, bright British accent, he made a crack about how the band practices in front of the television--good ol' alienation of technology, Clash style. He moved on to say it's different here in Portland is beautiful; that we "have mountains behind our televisions."

Good stuff. Very sweet. The amount of love pouring out towards Jones was astounding, albeit expected and deserved. Every bit of it he reflected and amplified. It was a very touching scene--the tears traded for dancing.

The closed with an extended two-chord jam. It was jarringly simple, but done in Clash-like way that only Jones can do. He introduced the band, talked over it, sang a Carbon/Silcon number, and spliced a verse of the Clash's "Police On My Back," before saying, with a laugh, "now, let's not get all weepy eyed about the past." It was a perfect tease.

There's something very honest about what Jones and his band are doing. They're not out touring because they need to dough, and I don't believe they even need the affection. They're just a couple of guys who love making and playing music, and missed it enough to go back for another run. Simple as that.

This is all underscored and elevated by the untimely death of Joe Strummer. Even though men like these--honest to God living legends--appear to have many years left, one never knows when they might suddenly shuffle off. It makes a night with them a extra special treat, especially in such an honest setting.

It's edifying and inspirational that these guys, on in their years and well past their heydays, still enjoy a lust for life. There's hope for us yet.

If you’ve ever longed for a website to give you a pulsating migraine and crash your browser, please, by all means, visit the DIA Records page. Home to HR—that backflipping lovable nutjob from Bad Brains—the site has all the technological features of the Geocities days (circa 1997), and makes that Menomena site look tame by comparison.

It’s such a mess, that I secretly kind of love it. I wish all sites were this confusing.

Enter at your own risk.

The Doug Fir was crammed to capacity for last night’s Vampire Weekend show. I thought it would be a crowd of college-age indie music lovers, up to see the latest blog phenomenon from NYC. But the average age of the audience was surprisingly old, and the house was filled with scenesters who were curious about all the hype, rather than fans there to see the music.

Lots has been said about the Vamps; they’re Northeastern prep-school Topsiders wearers, making Afro-tinged pop music. It’s Paul Simon’s Graceland updated for a simple four-piece rock band. And to their credit, there’s not much conceit or trickery in what they’re doing. It’s four guys with bad haircuts and lame clothes, playing their instruments without any effects or distortion, singing carefree songs with pretty stupid lyrics. While it’s marginal fun, it’s also surprisingly lacking in substance.

Then I looked over at the bald guy in his late 40s who was standing next to me. With pressed, striped shirt tucked neatly into a clean pair of jeans (his after-hours casual wear, no doubt), he was loving every second. He danced like the whitest guy at your white cousin’s white wedding. He raised his fists in the air, did some pelvic thrusting, screamed “Woooo!” at appropriate intervals. This guy was a FAN.

And all of a sudden, I got it. Vampire Weekend is like Jimmy Buffett. The tropical-tinged happy goodtime music reminds people of spring break. It’s sunny, cloudless, warm music. It’s like a trip to Margaritaville, and on a chilly, damp March evening, it was pure escapism.

So, I foresee one of the following three futures for Vampire Weekend (which you can read after the jump).

1. The Hootie & the Blowfish scenario. The Vampire Weekend machine trucks along, continuing to pick up steam. Their record gets a shitload more popular, especially when summer starts warming up. All the suburban kids, and their mothers, and their grandparents, jam to "Oxford Comma." It becomes a phenomenon. Then, when the time comes to release their second album, it's a massive turd, no one buys it, and the Vamps quickly fall back to the sidelines. There's quite a good chance of this happening, since Vampire Weekend played a pretty short set, and couldn't even muster an encore. They don't even have a cover song to flesh out their setlist. (If they don't write, or learn, some more tunes, this could be what happens.)

2. The Jack Johnson scenario. Vampire Weekend writes the score for Curious George II. They make a conscious decision to never write any music of any consequence, and subsequently are assured a long career in making bland, sweatless, unchallenging music for sorority girls and grown-up sorority girls. They become filthy rich buy yachts and houses in the Hamptons. (This scenario is pretty likely. If I was a betting man--and I am--this is the pony I'd pick.)

3. The Joy Division scenario. Troubled frontman Ezra Koenig offs himself after failing to reconcile the band's burgeoning success with his artistic integrity. Mopey, darkhearted teenagers for generations to come discover the abbreviated output (an album here, a smattering of singles there) of this darkly-named "Vampire Weekend" band. The self-titled debut is eventually considered one of the finest albums ever made, and little goth hearts the world over pledge tear-eyed allegiance to tormented, beautiful, forever-young Koenig. (This will not happen.)

The following is an open letter of sorts in response to the “The Day the Music Died” piece in the April issue of Portland Monthly. It’s not on their site, so I cannot link to it. My apologies. But you can pick up the issue at your local Zupan’s checkout stand, or wherever fine publications are sold.

Hey Bart
Someone here at the office just showed me a copy of the latest Portland Monthly, and I read your article on local music (“The Day the Music Died”), which took me by surprise for a couple reasons. First off, I thought you were better than the same old “waaaahhhh I’m old, and music isn’t what it used to be” piece. In fact, I’ve been reading your work for years now, long before you moved to Portland. I even sent you complimentary emails about your pieces, since I’m a huge fan. Secondly, well, it’s because you call me out in the article. Not me specifically, I guess, but a “music writer for Portland Mercury.” Being the editor of that music section here at the paper, I suppose I should compose some sort of rebuttal.

Hmm, how should that go? How about this?

Fuck you.

I know, I know, music critic fights are about as entertaining as two guys in wizard costumes going at it in the parking lot at the Renaissance Fair. And I don't want to throw down, but seriously, fuck you for that slab of lazy, hackneyed music writing. You are so much better than this.

How age and apathy are killing Portland's music scene

While that might be the case for you personally, it is hardly the truth. Have you ever been to an all-age show at the Artistery when it's packed to the gills with kids? Or what about the suburban kids with the unfortunate haircuts who congregate at the punk shows at Satyricon or Hawthorne Theatre? Please tell me you've at least been to one Rock and Roll Camp for Girls showcase, or a spent an inspiring day at PDX Pop Now? Probably not, but if you had you would have witnessed a glimpse of a youthful, apathy-free future for Portland music.

Listen, the scene is not forever. We all get older and part of that is coming to terms with the fact that we don't go out as much as we used to. I know, you are in your mid-30s, have a flat-screen TV, stable relationship, and those fancy bed sheets with the high thread count, so why the fuck would you want to head to a smoky bar to see a band play at 1am on a Tuesday? Isn't that a work night? If you stay out that late, you'll miss Morning Edition on NPR.

There is a vast music scene in this town, and just because you think that the bands and their fans aren't as reckless and crazy as they were in your totally awesome youth—with those "real rock shows of yesteryear"—it doesn't make it so. Plus you named three bands in your piece (Spoon, Wilco, Arcade Fire), two of which aren't exactly known for their riveting live shows.

Also, what business do you have accusing "today's plugged-in easy listeners" (old critic speak for "kids") of being apathetic? Sure, maybe all the 16-year-old kids in town weren't shitting themselves to drop $25 to see Wilco lull the crowd to sleep at the Edgefield (sorry, I love that band to death, but Sky Blue Sky is like a handful of Ambien), but it doesn't mean that kids in Portland no longer care. They just don't care about what you are listening to. Or used to listen to.

If the teenagers scare you, yelling at them to stay off your lawn and waxing on about a time when "finding new music took effort," is just going to make you seem all that much older.

And for that amazing Arcade Fire show you went to, one of the handful of shows that you managed to scrap yourself away from Law & Order in order to attend, it was great. I was there. So was another writer of ours. And lots of young people. It must have been intimidating, I know. But was I the smirking "music writer for the Portland Mercury" that you speak of? I doubt it. But regardless, be careful of assessing a world you no longer know anything about. I don't publish longwinded rants about how apathy and age are killing the Pearl District condo and loft scene (or, how Portland tapas restaurants just aren't what they used to be), I'd appreciate it if you didn't do the same for Portland music.

Thanks.
Ezra A. Caraeff
Music Editor, Portland Mercury

Berbati’s Pan–Saucy Yoda, Digital Love, The Mystechs, Emerson Valentine Lyon, 9 pm
Crystal Ballroom–Nada Surf, Sea Wolf, 8 pm, $15-17, all ages
Doug Fir–Teddy Thompson, Rosie Thomas, 9 pm, $15
Exit Only–Atlases, Batman vs. Predator, 8 pm, $5, all ages
Holocene–Manifestation Facilitator Pt. 1: Mike Jedlicka, Ignatius, Loki, Prophetnoise, Ian Fidel, CaCb, 9 pm
Mississippi Studios–Casey Neill, Mike Coykendall, 8 pm, $7-8
Roseland–Justice, Diplo, Fancy, 9 pm, $22-25, all ages
Rotture–The Beauty, Brother Sister, Megadome, Pipedream, 9 pm, $6
Slabtown–The Besties, Black Horse, The Anxieties, 9 pm
Towne Lounge–Trespassers William, Tractor Operator, The Coast, 9:30 pm, $6

This cat loves Phil Collins!

This is just mean. From Spinner.com:

Dr. Pepper is imploring Axl Rose to put out his album that’s been an astounding 17 years in the making. The creators of the curiously candy-like beverage have promised that if Rose releases Guns N’ Roses’ ‘Chinese Democracy’ at any point in 2008, everyone in America will receive a free can of Dr. Pepper.

Yeah, that’s right: Dr. Pepper is taunting Axl Rose. You know Axl is going to pitch a fit over this, and it’ll be another eight years before that sure-to-be-one-of-the-worst-records-ever finally comes out. Personally, I hope Chinese Democracy never comes out, since seeing what one of the biggest assholes in rock does next is far more entertaining.

Finally! Technology and my hardwired desire to make mixes on a MAXELL UR-120 cassette tape have finally come together—let me introduce you to Muxtape.

This “simple way to create and share mixtapes” allows you to upload a custom mix to a “tape” (or at least a .JPG graphic of a tape), and then send the mix to your friends, co-workers, and most importantly, your creepy online crushes. The layout is simple and uncluttered, while the music stream is quite quick, with little buffer time

Is it legal? Um, not sure. Probably not. But who cares about all that? It’s an adorable online mixtape, so get taping!!

My apologies to the lispy Promise Ring for borrowing their song title.

There have been so many good shows in the past week. Shit—the past few days even. The only problem is that they keep stacking up on the same nights and you can’t be everywhere at once. That said, I want to empty out the remaining pockets of my recent memory. Over the next few days I’m going to do that. Here’s the first:

SCHOOL OF LANGUAGE – Thursday, March 20 @ Towne Lounge

Sea From Shore is a terrific album. Front to back there isn’t a weak minute. If I owned the copy on record, it’d probably have worn out by now. David Brewis is an auteur in total control—he wrote and recorded all the parts himself.

That being the case, I entered the stuffy Towne Lounge wondering what I’d be in for. Would he have a band? Would they be up to it?

By God were they ever—tight as a fucking whip. Crisp, forceful, snapping drums and rollicking bass. It’s as if they were tied together—fishing line from the big toe on the bass-pedal strung right to the fingers on the bass strings. Perfect.

The two players are label-mates of Brewis’ from Chicago. Doug McCombs (of Tortoise and others) on bass, and Ryan Rapsys (of Euphone, Ambulette) on drums. Talking with McCombs afterwards, I was surprised to find they’d never played together before—it sounded as they had for ages.

Brewis is clearly a perfectionist on stage as much as in his recordings. He’d tap the distortion on for a second and a half then tap it quickly off again. Total precision, but the performance wasn’t at all stale. The band peppered in little extra bits, and Brewis , whose voice was on point despite having to swallow a few cough-drops, seemed to add bits of guitar that weren’t note-for-note replicas of the album. They were having fun.

There were anecdotes and interludes. The band apparently enjoyed their day in Portland. Brewis is very slight and quirky. It came as news to me he was British, but then it made total sense. He comes from Sunderland, the same city that gave us the Futureheads. And although Brewis’ pop is more textured and less aggressive, they are indeed similar. Notes and time are hardly ever wasted—the attention spans are short and every line is a hook. They are tight, angular and rarely explorative.

The set, like the album, was bookended by “The Rockist Part”, which worked without the big looping vowel sounds. As played the final version though, they stretched it out, pounding free and heavy, much more so than the album. They stomping improvisation took off like a rocket launch. If only it could’ve gone on longer…

And if only more people had been there to see it.

School of Language are a terrific live band rolling on a fabulous record. If you get the chance, don’t fuck it up—see them. I can only hope they return to Portland again so those who missed out get another chance. We’ll do our best to spread the word.

Just a few more tour dates, plus some songs here:

http://www.myspace.com/schooloflanguage

Last year Sub Pop gave away $5,750 to one lucky kid via their Loser Scholarship, a program intended to help some little badass make their rock and roll dreams come true in college.

Well, this year they’re outdoing themselves, giving away not one but three scholarships:

Sub Pop Records in Seattle, WA is offering a grand total of $13,000 worth of college scholarship money to three eligible high school seniors. There are three scholarships—one for $6,000 and two for $3,500 each. To apply for these scholarships you must be a resident of Washington or Oregon, and a graduating senior on your way to full-time enrollment at an accredited university or college. We are looking for an applicant who is involved and/or interested in music and/or the creative arts in some way.

Many thanks to our Big Sister up north for the tip on this one.

Amidst the Radiohead-LCD-MIA-National blitz that was the “Best of ‘07” lists for most major magazines last year, those crazy taste makers over at the NME had something a little curious listed for their second-best song of the year: “Daddy’s Gone” by Glasvegas.

Glas-who?!

According to the NME, “Daddy’s Gone” was better than everything else in 2007 except “Golden Skans”. And this from a band who only has three 45s listed to their name, and, when this poll came out, didn’t even have a record deal.

Needless to say, those days are long gone. Glasvegas signed to Columbia and are working on their debut album as we speak. You think the Vampire Weekend hype is big? Just wait. In six months all you’re going to hear about is this band that sounds like Elvis if he were signed to Creation Records.

I for one in am full support of this band blowing up. Too many mornings I wake up singing one of their hooks (like I did this morning, hence the above post), and there is just something so epic and catchy about their white-noise sprawl, not to mention that great, great accent.

Bon Iver. Picture not from last night.

A highly-anticipated double bill resulted in a sold out show at Holocene last night. Much of the crowd was there to pay homage to Bon Iver, the hipster’s folksinger of choice at the moment, due to a remarkably good album he recorded in the dead of winter of Wisconsin, in between chopping down trees and skinning bear carcasses. Phosphorescent, meanwhile, has acquired the mantle of songwriter savant, with dedicated fans eagerly anticipating his powerful, emotional songs. It was an eventful, nourishing night of music.

Lots, lots more after the jump.

White Hinterland took the stage first, the project of songwriter Casey Dienel, who possesses a quirky, childlike voice that has moments of real power. She started off plonking on a ukulele, and at first I thought to myself, oh god, here we go. But when she began to sing, her voice was utterly captivating. And the song was gorgeous, with thoughtful lyrics about walking on a lawn, or something. I don't remember exactly. Anyway, it didn't last. She moved onto the electric piano for the rest of the set, and played jazzy chords that shimmered with vibrato. Her melodies picked difficult, dissonant notes and at first I thought she had lost control of her powerful voice, but it seems she selected those notes that jutted out like sharp angles on purpose. Her friend accompanied her on violin and accordion, which I didn't think particularly added anything to the set. She mentioned she had a cookbook for sale, which included illustrations drawn when she was drunk, which is sort of adorable, and kind of useless--and that's pretty much how I felt about her music.

Bon Iver came next, and the inner room at Holocene was absolutely stuffed to capacity. A very well-behaved crowd (Portland does have such a thing) listened intently to Justin Vernon's aching falsetto. It was particularly illuminating to see Bon Iver function as an actual band (a three-piece, with Vernon accompanied by drums and baritone guitar), since the songs on For Emma, Forever Ago are defined by their sense of isolation. They took on new life in the ensemble format; the room couldn't have been happier than when Vernon let rip a couple guitar solos. He was surprised by how appreciative and attentive the crowd was. "You guys are really great." So are you! someone responded. "All the coolest people in Portland are in this room right now," he told us. Fuck Jens Lekman! some idiot shouted. (Oops, was that me?)

The crowd thinned significantly when Phosphorescent took the stage just before midnight. This is the second show in a row I've been to where the second act was a bigger draw than the headliner. Anyway, Phosphorescent has been touring as a trio, but tonight it was a one-man show. Matt Houck of Phosphorescent apparently had an awful time getting to Portland. He told us the story, and I'll paraphrase it here (these are all my words, not Houck's):

My band's still in California. I just got here. I landed about an hour ago. Our van broke down in San Francisco, so we called the tow truck to take it to the mechanic. We had all of our gear and the tow truck driver said, "Oh, don't worry, I'll tie it all down." ...Anyway, he didn't do exactly that. so we were driving through San Francisco which is, uh, kinda hilly... anyway, when the mechanic finally looked at it, which took all day, he said, "The engine's gone. It's not worth replacing. The van's a loss." So we ended up getting a rental van. We drove the rental down the busy street to where we left the first van, and started moving everything from the broken van to the new van, blocking traffic with our blinkers on. So the plan is, the band will drive the new van, and I'll jump on a plane to get to Portland on time to do the show by myself. So, I leave the guys and catch a cab about six blocks away, head to the airport with barely enough time to catch the flight. At this point, my cell phone is totally dead--this is important to the story. Anyway, about twenty minutes later, we're getting closer to the airport, and I start to breathe a little easier... Wow, I'm going to make it. It's going to be all right. Then I reach down into my pocket, and I realize I have, there in my pocket, the keys for the rental van...

So Houck did a solo turn, and he was noticeably frazzled. Meanwhile, his low-tuned guitar did not cooperate, constantly needing to be adjusted to keep the pitch. I'm guessing it got banged around some in the tow truck. He used Bon Iver's gear otherwise, and somehow, against every odd, wrung out a breathtaking set. He opened with "Wolves," moved onto "Joe Tex," using simple guitar phrases and his mournful, woolly howl to create fragile, powerful laments. The two highlights were "I Am a Full Grown Man (I Will Lay in in the Grass All Day)" and "South of America," which shimmered with careful optimism and a fatal sense of longing. The set closed with Houck looping himself with falsetto vocal phrases, then introducing guitar lines and distortion, growing thicker and messier with each repetition. It eventually turned into a wash of blurry sound, and I thought its incoherence lasted a little too long, but the rest of the crowd seemed enraptured and Houck was definitely exorcising some of the stress of his journey to Portland.

Quite possibly the single nicest person in Portland (and also the nicest person in Gresham, although she doesn’t even live there!), Laura Gibson has announced plans to release an all-covers EP that will only be available on her upcoming tour with Colin Meloy. Of course, Meloy does the same thing, but unlike his upcoming Sam Cooke covers EP, Gibson tackles some old blues and traditional songs on hers.

Wouldn’t it be great if we had the ability to now post a song from this EP for you to listen to and possible save to your computer and portable digital music device?

Oh yeah, we totally do.

MP3:
Laura Gibson - All The Pretty Horses

photo: Laurent Orseau

If you’re not going to see Jens Lekman or Carbon/Silicon tonight, you’re probably headed to Holocene to check out Bon Iver and Phosphorescent. Bon Iver has gotten plenty of attention with his lone woodsman opus, but Phosphorescent is the headliner, damn it, and don’t you forget it.

Because Matthew Houck (the man behind the soft, dim glow) has released a number of heartbreakingly beautiful songs, including those on his most recent work, Pride. (Judging from the album cover, and the picture above, Houck is presumably talking about a bigger, broader meaning of the word “pride.”) Take a listen to “Wolves.” Sure, it’ll make you want to kill yourself, but when something is this devastatingly gorgeous, how can you ignore it? It’ll be a night of beards, fleshy calloused hands strumming acoustic guitars, and sharing uncomfortably intimate feelings with a roomful of strangers.

MP3:
Phosphorescent - Wolves

Phosphorescent, Bon Iver, White Hinterland; Holocene, 1001 SE Morrison, 9 pm, $8

Uh, why don’t you go ahead and file this movie poster under “creepy”. Yes, that’s a fat Mr. I Kant Read Gud playing Mark David Chapman, aka the dude who shot John Lennon.

Well, at least the poster is effective: I’m now both scared and intrigued.

I’m excited. You?

CARBON/SILICON, MATT POND PA (Lola’s Room, 1332 W Burnside) Mick Jones. Seriously. Mick motherfucking Jones. There’s a chance to see a member of the Clash performing in an intimate room tonight, and that should be all you need to hear. It should be enough to drop the paper right now and run wild-eyed in a rabid search for tickets. But that Jones is simply coming isn’t all you need to know. First, he’s here honestly—this isn’t some money-grab tour packaged on lingering goodwill—and second, it’s not some kind of play-the-old-hits sad retread. Carbon/Silicon (also featuring Generation X’s Tony James) are a modern band with a new album. Samples and electronics meet Jones’ recognizable melodies as he reformats punk isolation and angst for this cold, passive, modern age. It’s fucking fabulous, especially when I’d have been happy enough to catch Jones reading the newspaper or just making a sandwich. ART

Listen to“Caesar’s Palace” from the band’s recent release, The Last Post

There’s another track available on my podcast, Easier Than Reading. Also, you can visit their space

Everyone knows that seminal indie label Kill Rock Stars pulled up stakes and moved to Portland awhile back. But now the label, which has always had a soft spot for the bounties of Portland’s music scene, is throwing a little soiree to celebrate their arrival. Featured will be the mighty trifecta of Panther, New Bloods, and Horse Feather, plus some DJs as well.

No word if the man (and pizza) eating shark pictured above will be there. Those large aquatic tanks are expensive to rent, they cost more than bouncy castles.

Sometimes the internet blows my mind. Today is one of those days.

Signing into my Gmail account today, the sponsored link at the top of the page boasted Born To Run pint glasses for sale. Little did I know I was about to stumble onto quite possibly the greatest website of all time.

Ladies and gentlemen, behold the glory that is Tenth Avenue Productions and their signature line of Glassic Lyrics Heavy Pub Pint, Billy Tumbler, and Double-Old Fashioned Rock glasses.

That’s right. Now you can get drunk and live your life like you’re hiding on the backstreets, like you’re holding Kitty’s black tooth, or like you’re living in some sort of apocalyptic jungleland that is equal parts The Warriors and West Side Story.

I am going to order the entire collection, and I am never going to let another glass touch my lips ever again.

And hey, OK, you’re not a fanatic Boss fan like myself, and you’re more interested in, say, the Beatles, or maybe even hot cartoon ladies. Well, don’t worry: Tenth Avenue Productions has your back.

I love you, internet.

Cause of death reportedly NOT being hit by bus.

This may be of little interest to anyone but the most die-hard Beatles fans, but Neil Aspinall passed away. He was a longtime friend of the Beatles; he started as a roadie and van driver before the Beatles broke it big. Any history of the Beatles has his name all over it. He was originally friends with Pete Best, whose mother Mona played a huge role in the early days of the Beatles; Mona started a nightclub in the basement of her house where the Beatles played some of their first shows. Aspinall was living with the Bests as a lodger; he eventually ended up banging Mona, who was 20 years older. Sha-zing! Then Pete Best was kicked out of the band to make way for Ringo. Ouch. Aspinall stayed on as roadie and assistant, eventually becoming president of Apple Corps. Various people have laid claim to the “Fifth Beatle” title, and Aspinall comes as close to anyone to deserving it.

The Beatles - Get Back (rooftop 1969)

Synchronize your Swatches, it’s Countdown to Jens Lekman time! Only about a dozen hours remain until the pride of Göteborg (Sweden, not to be confused with Göteborg, Texas) takes the stage tonight.

But really folks, hasn’t this paper been riding Lekman’s dick for far too long now?

Evidentially my creepy fandom wasn’t enough, so now every freelancer and staffer here has to feel the exact same way about Jens Lekman that I do. If it wasn’t for our nonstop pro-escort slant, we’d surely have filled this week’s issue with more and more praise for the Swedish crooner.

Instead, let us calm down a bit and focus on The Honeydrips, who are opening the show tonight. The brainchild of one Mikael Carlsson, the Honeydrips are more beat-heavy than Lekman, but share his love for whimsical and charming little pop songs. Take a listen.

MP3:
The Honeydrips - (Lack Of) Love Will Tear Us Apart

The Honeydrips - Trying Something New

The Honeydrips, and that Lekman guy, perform at Berbati’s tonight.