DAMIEN JURADO, PETER WOLF CRIER, KELLI SCHAEFER
BEHEMOTH, WATAIN, THE DEVIL'S BLOOD, IN SOLITUDE, STONEBURNER
(Hawthorne Theatre, 1507 SE 39th) When you see a band play, you expect to hear your favorite songs live and see their stage show. Your sense of smell never really enters into the equation unless the dude in front of you is farting all night. Watain's shows are a little different. There, you will see Erik Danielsson and his cronies drenched in blood and corpse paint, wearing clothes that look like they are rotting off their bodies. You will also hear their brand of Lucifer-approved Swedish black metal, and probably a little bit of Danielsson's Satanic rhetoric. The one thing that sets Watain apart from any live band you will ever witness is the stale stench of death they emit. If you think for a second that it can't be that bad, think of how bad it could be, and multiply that by 12 rotten goat heads on spikes, and five dudes who cover themselves in real gore nightly and shower as often as they pray to a Christian God. It stinks. And it's guaranteed to make you blow black boogers the next day. Enjoy! ARIS WALES Also read our article on the Devil's Blood.
CAVEMAN, AAN, PURE BATHING CULTURE
(Mississippi Studios, 3939 N Mississippi) The New York lads in Caveman are building a reputation as a ferocious, powerful live band, which seems a little at odds with the muted, pastel-hued jangle pop on their debut album, CoCo Beware. Still, there's no denying those melodies, which grow in sweep and magnitude the more you become familiar with them. There's something lovely at heart with Caveman, and with a singer who doubles on percussion and a guitarist who makes his own instruments, the band's sunset-swept brand of pop is irresistibly intriguing. If it's bolder and brasher in the live setting, all the better. Throw in opening sets by one of Portland's best art-rock workhorses (Aan) and one of Portland's best new bands (the beachcombing bliss-anthems of Pure Bathing Culture), and this is a win from start to finish. NED LANNAMANN
SCHOOL OF SEVEN BELLS, EXITMUSIC
(Doug Fir, 830 E Burnside) I don't think this is what they were going for, but after a few listens, I realized that School of Seven Bells' Ghostory reminds me of nothing so much as a club remix of—no judgments—Sarah McLachlan's 1991 breakthrough album, Solace. It was then that I began to truly enjoy it. Like a vaguely familiar actress airbrushed on the cover of an expensive magazine, this third album invites even as it holds you at arm's length. Ghostory is more accessible than SVIIB's first two albums, especially the quirky 2008 debut, Alpinisms, with production that perfectly melds '80s synths and shoegaze into a package seemingly tailored for working out or, possibly, dancing. Alejandra Deheza's glossy vocals maintain a detachedly cheery note throughout, creating a pleasant start-to-finish cohesion. The album is apparently about a haunted child, but her ghosts are obviously the well-adjusted kind—and probably well dressed, too. REBECCA WILSON
SOUL'D OUT MUSIC FESTIVAL: ALLEN STONE, SNARKY PUPPY, WORTH
(Wonder Ballroom, 128 NE Russell) Allen Stone would make viewers of The Voice flip out: a silky, buttery smooth voice, full of Stevie Wonderisms, emitting from a goofy, bespectacled white kid from Washington State. His lite-funk songs are totally hit and miss, sometimes hitting their mark and sometimes landing squarely in John Mayer cheeseville. NL
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