DAY 3 - MELVINS

Usually we do phone interviews. Because with a band from Brooklyn, what choice do you have? Today, however, offered me a unique opportunity to sit down with a mind-bending group (for whatever reason I feel as if I shouldn't share the name, but there are clues throughout).

It's not a band's job to do sit-downs while touring, especially on a rare day off. When they do, they save these kinds of exercises for the big-timers like Rolling Stone and the New York Times. It's a bitch because, aside from the color a story gets by parking it in a real-life, hopefully-poignant setting, I personally feel better able to make honest connections with the artists, which in turn opens them to sharing more.

Yes, it relates to the show. Keep reading installment two, and get prepared for the third and final installment, which is massive and the most interesting (it also comes with video)

I was not prepared for Sasquatch. Mentally I was ready, but I mean literally I was not equipped at all. I had fifteen minutes to pack so I threw the following items in a bag: a T-shirt, two skirts, two hats, two Frisbees, a sleeping bag, and a toothbrush. I never got around to reading the massive email chain among my friends “RE: sasquatch planning.” I was traveling in a band of a dozen people, all of whom seem to have purchased at least one item exclusively for Sasquatch (Blublockers, a tent, a large bag of peanuts, etc.). I was just lucky enough to remember sunglasses, and I wouldn’t have traded them for all my other random crap.

Now, you may have noticed that “concert ticket” was nowhere listed in that pile. Unfortunately, I did not have one. Well, not until Troutdale. Sasquatch accident number one.

Leaving the house a second time (after a brief conversation with a shockingly helpful Ticketmaster representative) I foresaw a weekend of fun times, poor nutrition, rough terrain, and freezing nights. I assumed my band of merry campers would run out of sunscreen halfway through the weekend and be burned to a crisp. I imagined a land of distant porta-potties and no toilet paper. I predicted that in a moment of desperation or simply poor planning, someone I know would pee in their pants.

If only I’d been paying attention to what my friends had been doing I would have had no worries from the get go. I ate better, more balanced meals at Sasquatch than I usually do at home. My co-campers packed enough food, booze, and blankets for a week of concert-going. They made sure to get a station wagon there early enough to stake out a large campsite (in what eventually turned into a giant parking lot). Thanks to them we didn’t end up like the Canadians next door who were so cramped between two cars it seemed like they were loitering all weekend, not camping out. To my surprise, only one of these unfortunate events I predicted actually occurred. (I won't say which one, but I will say it was Sasquatch accident number two).

Those little plastic letters on the calendar board set this thing in motion—Four Shows in Four Days at the Roseland. It seemed worthwhile as the acts all share a particular distinction: each, at one time or another, has led the charge of their particular genre.

As much as the little plastic letters, I suppose you could say Sasquatch is responsible too. Indeed Portland benefits immensely via proximity, as most all bands headed to the Gorge (except the festival headliners, horrible without exception) schedule a show here on their way in or out. It's a beautiful thing really, as we get the bands in relatively-intimate spaces by comparison.

I suppose now is as good a time as any to launch off on my long-time Sasquatch tirade. I will avoid the obvious however, as countless others have noted the glaring lack of in/out access, overpriced beer and food, insane heat, surprise rainstorms/hail, and in particular, this year's Moody address to the jock/fratboy presence. Instead I'll offer a simple solution to most all these problems:

Start later. End later.

If Sasquatch began in the evening, a few hours after the Gorge's most heatstroke-inducing, high-noon sun had passed, it'd be almost all gravy (sans the jocks). First solve simply being comfort—no fighting sun burns and dehydration in a place with suspiciously little shade. No more getting drunk in the afternoon, running out of cash (or the booze you taped to your inner thigh), and sobering up before the good part of the show really starts. No clothes problems.

Instead spend the afternoon staying cool and comfortable in your campground. Maybe actually have the chance to go down to the water? (Seriously, how many of you actually have ever been to the water while attending a show at the Gorge? It's almost as if the scheduling methodically keeps us away from it...) We see the water, and feel like we're a part of the thing, but each of the two times I went to Sasquatch I never took a dip. Neither has anyone I know.

And wouldn't that make the whole thing more awesome? Swimming and BBQ'ing with friends BEFORE going to the show? Plus you'd have a good opportunity to get roundly liquored up. At the same, too, I figure is the band.

My vision is that of old festivals in the 70's, where some performer like Jimi Hendrix waited till 3AM to take the stage with a head-full of acid. Let the excitement build into surreal delirium (not to mention let's be a little more flexible with the set times—I'd take a few less bands to get this done).

But so much for all that woozy out-door romanticism—I'm headed for the middle Chinatown's dingy remains at the Roseland, a land of metal-detectors, pat-downs, and lines.

Keep going, for Mos Def, TV On The Radio, more

End Hits has been overloaded with reviews during this action-packed week of music—thanks to Sasquatch—but I couldn't live with myself if I didn't tell you just a bit about the King Khan and the Shrines show at Dante's on Monday night.

It was the tail end of Memorial day weekend, and the atmosphere was one of defiant fatigue, a crowd of rested yet restless young folk looking to be moved to action. Openers The Fresh and Onlys put a lot of energy into their performance, but it didn't quite transfer to the audience. I, for one, was content to save up my dancing steam while watching the female tambourine player belt out ceaselessly obnoxious vocals, reminiscent of the good part of the B-52s gone bad.

After an extended set-up and sound check, Mark Sultan came on with additional bass and guitar players fleshing out his traditional one-man-band getup. My friend and I were wary that the addition of the extra musicians might dilute the raw, rowdy power that makes Mark Sultan as BBQ such a damn fine show. The three-piece ensemble proved to be enjoyable, but the undeniably high moments came when Sultan veered into straight-up BBQ territory, going balls-out on his special mini kick drum and clanging out chords extra-hard to aggravated effect. Even the new Sub Pop single "Hold On" couldn't compare to the response elicited by his older material.

Another tortuously long set change ensued, and the venue, at near-capacity if not entirely full, palpably foamed at the mouth for the headliners to begin. Just in the nick of time—just after midnight to be precise—the various Shrines began to saunter onstage and man their instruments, and an unnamed Indian man jumped up, grabbed the mic, and in a mix of grumble and shriek addressed the crowd: "LAAADEEZ annnnd GENTLEMEN !!! Are! You! Ready! For the supreeeeme genius of KIIIIING?! KHANNNN?! and his faaaaabulous Shrines?"

We were.

More photos and King Khan after the jump!

Sasquatch was hot. H-O-T. Not Paris Hilton "hot," but temperature hot. For a mossed-over clutch of Northwesterners who have been shrouded under rain and clouds for the past eight months, the brutal sun at the Gorge this weekend was a shocking jolt into summer. Sure, it was generally nice to be out in the sun, but any shade cover at the 'Squatch was few and far between, and there was almost no chance of relief. A small row of spindly trees dotted the upper walkway, and overheated concertgoers crammed themselves underneath them. When the sun dipped behind a cloud during Animal Collective's generally unimpressive set, the crowd cheered louder than they had for any band. Clothing sweated clean through, energy was conserved, and water was at a premium. It was a weekend of dizzy sunburning and frizzled brain.

But no one ever needed to be in their right mind to enjoy a music festival; in fact, it's better to be a little bit loopy. Freaks and partiers perspired and made their way from the campgrounds—a wild, lawless place—to the festival. There were more of them than ever; indeed, to me Sasquatch felt overcrowded in a way that it didn't last year.

Bon Iver ruled on Saturday night, playing a set at dusk that brought cooling Wisconsin winds to the scorched crowd, despite being plagued by technical difficulties. In fact, indeed the Wookie stage had intermittent problems throughout the day; Passion Pit's set was marred by melting gear, with instruments cutting in and out of the mix. But Bon Iver switched up their setlist to make the best of the limitations. "Blood Bank" was tear-jerkingly magnificent, and a cover of Kathleen Edwards' "Mercury" brought shivers to even the most basted of sunbathers.

Photo courtesy of The New York Times

I assume I know why Muslims make their Hajj pilgrimage (something to do with God)—or maybe even why Phish fans head to Vermont (relaxed possession laws, and that Ben & Jerry's factory tour is quite nice)—but as a tried and true fan of the Boss, I needed to see Bruce Springsteen in his very own Mecca: the fine state of New Jersey.

The final night of the "Working on a Dream Tour" found the Boss in his swampy backyard, the sprawling mass of endless pavement and stadiums that is the Meadowlands. Saturday's Izod Center performance—an arena that was sadly lacking this adorable logo—marked the band's final Jersey show of the year, that is before their run of Fall dates at Giants Stadium. Those shows will be the last events at the football stadium before it's demolished once and for all. (Sorry, Jimmy Hoffa, they'll never find you now.)

Clearly in the homestretch of his live band career, Springsteen leans heavily on the mythology and energy of the 11-member E Street Band. Suspiciously muscular (seriously, the flex-happy Boss had two tickets to the "gun show" he was eager to share with the sold out crowd), the modern Springsteen is an ageless wonder that feels more Vegas than Jersey, a dedicated showman that occasionally drops cringe-worthy lines (choo-choo train noises in "Johnny 99," his generic faux-preacher rant about "building hope"), yet feels immune to both mortality and criticism. I suppose you'd feel the same if your band just played sold out show number 56 (!) in this arena.

Saturday's setlist featured a surprising amount of covers, plenty of material from The Wild, The Innocent and the E Street Shuffle (three songs), 1978's "Something In The Night," an underappreciated number in "The Ghost Of Tom Joad," plus all the hits you expected ("Born to Run," "Badlands"), and even some you didn't ("Cover Me"). The cover songs were a treat, as the E Street Band suddenly became the world's most talented—and expensive—wedding cover band (I wonder if they'll play my nephew's bar mitzvah?), blazing through spirited takes on "Good Lovin'" and "Mony Mony," complete with plenty of crowd interaction. Speaking of both crowd interaction and Vegas, someone even tossed a pair of panties onstage. Watch out Tom Jones, he's coming for you.

While my dreams of filming Bruce Springsteen Parking Lot, a lazy sequel to this film, were squashed by the inept service of NJ Transit, not a single second of this nearly three hour performance was missed. It was enough to hold me over until he plays Luxor in 2013.

To write a live review takes more time and care than you might think. Looking like an idiot and/or passing on shitty or full-blown-wrong information is something we here at End Hits hope to avoid. (And frankly, at our pay-grade, it's a big ask. I mean, you know, *cue sarcastic dumb guy voice* "This Economy...")

But dammit, we at End Hits go to so many shows and it's time to share at least a little something about them. So, in homage to Ben Sisario's Four Word Reviews from SXSW (where brevity is necessity), I present the first of what I hope to be many Four Word Reviews.

Mike Watt: Remains in full shred.

Saturday was a night I will never get back. I wish I had more to tell you about the three excellent bands that performed at Berbati's; sadly, the day's sun and booze got the best of me, and my recollections of the show are rather hazy.

Good thing my friend was there to remind me how great it was the next day. He confirmed my blurry vision of the Detroit Cobras as having rocked the house, with Rachel Nagy delivering her trademark rollicking vocals and a rad lady bass player bouncing around in flannel. They played a nice long set that concluded perfectly with the excellent "I Want to Holler (But the Town is Too Small)."

An unanticipated treat of the night, as my friend helped me to remember, was openers the Dexter Romweber Trio. Neither of us had heard of the group before, but my friend, who is usually somewhat hoity-toity about music (he calls me a teenybopper), had this to say after seeing them perform: "No pretensions or shit—that blew me away."

So once sober, I researched the fellow and learned from his website that he is hailed as "nothing less than an icon of the American music underground." Performing since 1990 and collaborating with rock 'n' roll legends from across the board, his unique brand of rockabilly punk is cited as Jack White's main influence, and his latest release, Ruins in Berlin, features duets with both Cat Power and Neko Case. The current duo consists of Rex and his very talented sister Sara on drums.

Well damn! I wish I'd known about these guys beforehand, and/or had the presence of mind to fully enjoy it. Next time they come through I'll be sure to catch them—and I'll do my best to be more sober*.

*No guarantees.

LISTEN:
Dex Romweber Duo - "It's Too Late"