I witnessed the Portland installment of the Hotel Café Tour last night at the Wonder Ballroom. Apparently, the Hotel Café is a venue in Los Angeles where aspiring singer-songwriters can show their wares in the hopes of landing a mammoth record deal and getting their songs on Grey’s Anatomy. It’s evolved into a community of musicians who sing and play prettily, but have no interest in rock, power, or redefining the boundaries of their medium. They all pretty much follow the James Taylor-Carole King template that’s remained in place for the past forty years. Oh, except some of them have incorporated that chip-chop fake techno beat that David Gray used eight years ago. Progress!

I don’t mean to be too cruel to the Hotel Café folks; they all seem like very nice people. They each have pleasant stage presence, and seemed to be enjoying themselves on this tour, in which they take turns playing short sets (3 songs or so). This frequent turn around is a great idea; I can’t imagine spending 45 consecutive minutes with any of these performances, except maybe one. The night was emceed by the guitarist/mandolinist, a bearded cornball with the earnest enthusiasm of a camp counselor. He would frequently ask the large, chatty crowd to “give this next performer your complete attention.” A bit school-marmish, sure. The crowd was generally respectful, mostly female, with a fair amount of patient boyfriends. My friend commented, “a lot of NEW boyfriends. The old ones wouldn’t go along with this.” Indeed, it was an estrogen-happy crowd, and a night of carefully exploring emotions through song.

It was rough.

William Fitzsimmons opened the proceedings with a giant, pillowy beard and a whispery, tender voice. I can’t remember anything about his songs except they were soft to the point of wussiness. In between songs, he was remarkably self-deprecating, actually funny in poking fun at himself. He seemed aware his songs were gently depressing, like committing suicide with feathers and kittens. He closed his set with a cover of Go West’s “King of Wishful Thinking,” for which the whole Hotel Café crew came onstage and awkwardly danced. It was weird, and served as a jump-start to a long night of music that frequently lapsed into tedium.
SCORECARD: William Fitzsimmons. Would I…
- invite him to a party? Yes.
- make out with him? No. (Beard.)
- buy his record? No.

Next up was Meiko, a sprightly, adorable girl whose sincerity came through her cuddly songs. Visiting her MySpace, it seems she’s really good at marketing herself, but the most appealing thing about her is the simplicity of her tunes. She was charming, talking about drinking Jameson, and the time she flashed her vaj to the audience (she now wears shorts under her dress). She sang a song about hot dogs, which was written to score a sex scene for a student film about a man who eats a hot dog, gets sick, and hallucinates about making love to the hot dog. (Meiko played the hot dog.)
SCORECARD: Meiko. Would I…
- invite her to a party? Yes. I’d even let her bring the guitar.
- be roommates with her? Yes.
- make out with her? God, yes.
- buy her record? Well, I didn’t. Sorry, Meiko.

Jim Bianco came out, looking like a skinny Dave Attell. His songs were Tom Waits vaudeville crossed with Jack Johnson blahhh. None of his songs registered, although he was the sole respite from soft rock balladry; he incorporated jazzy shuffles and muted trumpet blares into his songs. He asked us to pretend we were in a 1920s strip club, and at one point, came off the stage to play on the floor, in the Wonder’s barrier between all-ages and alcoholics. That was reasonably cool.
SCORECARD: Jim Bianco. Would I…
- invite him to a party? Yeah. He’d probably steal all the booze, though.
- make out with him? No… well, okay. If drunk enough. Pass the gin.
- buy his record? No.

Jesca Hoop opened her set with an a cappella song and immediately lost the interest of the crowd. When she did play her guitar, she barely moved her fingers. “You’re a better guitar player than she is,” I informed my friend, who responded, “I don’t play the guitar!” Hoop’s songs were strange, fanciful, incoherent swoops of melodrama and glitz. Like her name: really close to something familiar, but in the end it’s just totally weird. (Why isn’t it "Jessica"? Did her parents drink a lot of Fresca?) I have no problem with a person pursuing their artistic muse in whatever fashion they deem fit; I just don’t need to go along on the ride, do I?
SCORECARD: Jesca Hoop. Would I…
- invite her to a party? Well, we’re really trying to keep it small this time.
- give her the keys to my apartment and have her water my plants while I’m out of town? No fucking way.

A long-haired, suit-and-tied Cary Brothers came out and played some grade-A pussywillow doggerel. I felt like I needed to douche myself after listening to his sensitive, touchy-feely tunes. At one point, he said something like “Okay, we’ve played a lot of soft songs tonight, so for this one, we’re going to amp it up! Rock ’n’ roll!” And then proceeded to play a song that was as feeble and pussified as the rest of them. It was hilarious. Brothers seemed like one of those pretty-boy douchebags who care more about their hair than in developing themselves artistically. In fact, he seemed like one of those guys who picked up the guitar SOLELY to get laid.
SCORECARD: Cary Brothers. Would I...
- invite him to a party? No.
- make out with him? NO.
- buy his record? NOOOOOOO.

Ingrid Michaelson was the headliner of sorts, and has been onboard the Hotel Café tour since its inception. She’s a cute, bespectacled, friendly girl, with pleasant songs that don’t jump out and grab you with goodness. Still, though, she was fun to watch. She kept rhapsodizing about Portland and how great it was, and at one point crowd-surfed! It was awkward—there wasn’t any music playing when she took the plunge, and she seemed concerned that someone might grab her boobs while she was being groped by the crowd—but her enthusiasm was endearing. (As were her boobs.)
SCORECARD: Ingrid Michaelson. Would I…
- invite her to a party? Totally.
- make out with her? Sure.
- buy her record? Nope.