METHOD MAN AND REDMAN, SERGE SEVERE, DJ WELS
(Crystal Ballroom, 1332 W Burnside) When they joined forces in the '90s, Method Man and Redman were like the hiphop equivalent of the World's Finest, a fearsome twosome full of microphone wreckage. Over a decade later, they're re-teaming to put the Crystal Ballroom's trampoline of a floor to work. BOBBY ROBERTS
UNCLE TUPELO TRIBUTE: COFFEE CREEK COLLECTIVE, HOOK AND ANCHOR, MBILLY, LEWI LONGMIRE, NATE WALLACE
(Mississippi Studios, 3939 N Mississippi) I've come to the realization that Uncle Tupelo is probably the one band I will never see take the now commonplace victory-lap style reunion tour. It's okay, though. Jeff Tweedy has Wilco, Jay Farrar has Son Volt, and Portland has the Coffee Creek Collective. The group, which takes their name from an Uncle Tupelo side project used by the band to play their favorite dive bar once they got too big, prides themselves on playing the music of Uncle Tupelo "pretty true to life." A whiskey-soaked night with these devotees and a few of Portland's finest roots rock and Americana musicians is a great way to celebrate the band that, embrace the term or not, paved the way for the alt-country genre over two decades ago. Plus, you know that "Black Eye" is going to hit harder here than it ever would at an overblown Coachella reunion show. CHIPP TERWILLIGER
ROSE FESTIVAL: SHAGGY, CARLY RAE JEPSEN, SEAN KINGSTON, & MORE
(Waterfront Park, 1020 SW Naito) Pop music has always been about sex. But rarely has the subject been so brazenly penetrated as deeply as with Shaggy's smash ode to adultery, "It Wasn't Me." Sugary smooth guest vocalist Rikrok steals the show, extolling the ins-and-outs of getting caught. "Picture this," he croons, "we were both butt-naked, banging on the bathroom floor." While grinding alongside the porcelain, however, Rikrok's girlfriend suddenly appears. (It seems he forgot that he'd given her the extra key.) Seething, the girlfriend remains silent as he turns and resumes ravishing the neighbor. Rikrok is bouyed, however, by a denial stupefying in its simplicity: "It wasn't me." And here it is a quip that knows no bounds. Caught kissin' on the counter? "It wasn't me." Busted bangin' on the sofa? "It wasn't me." Even had her in the shower? "It wasn't me." All the while, wrapped in such a sunny, unshakeable melody (and perhaps whatever it is Shaggy's blathering on about), "It Wasn't Me" proves that ignorance can indeed be bliss. ANDREW R TONRY
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