Perhaps not since Wesley Willis has there been a more bizarre-o piano man than Noah DeVore, otherwise known as Keyboard. In between crooning like a lovesick 14-year-old over his ‘91 Yamaha keyboard’s programmed dance beats, DeVore delivers some truly oddball (and usually slurred) stage banter.

Tuesday night, in his twang-y New Mexican accent, DeVore threatened to hold Dunes hostage by locking the door from the inside with an allegedly stolen key if the crowd didn’t stay for the following act, Pocketknife. After a bonked-out, back and forth negotiation he bargained to not take such unlawful action, but to rather treat whoever remains to post-show breakfast at Burger King instead. He even vowed to start a Facebook group to insure his loyalty. Later DeVore confessed to falling victim to an excruciating panic attack during his last BK visit, however, his Double Stack was so delicious, it was worth it.

Not too surprisingly, a few people left shaking their head early on in the set, as Keyboard’s Dan Deacon meets Billy Joel love songs aren’t for everyone. However, if you‘ve rotted the rational side of your brain playing Nintendo in your awkward teenage years, you’ll fall in love with DeVore’s unique brand of lonely bedroom pop (even if he does freak out on you time to time.)

The Rose Garden was filled up—say to a Blazers vs. Mavericks-like capacity—all there to see Gene, Paul, some dude in Peter Criss makeup (gay) and the guy who used to fetch Gene's coffee wearing Ace Frehley's space-suit and makeup. That guy who used to fetch Gene's coffee is Tommy Thayer, who attended Sunset High School in Beaverton and went on to form one of Portland's most beloved bands, Black N' Blue, in 1981.

Now look where he is. He's in effing KISS! The makeup. The devoted followers. There's nothing else like it. And to this day they still put on the best show $126 can buy (shove it up your arses, U2). There was a song about drinking and driving ("Detroit Rock City"), tempered by a PSA from the Starchild about drinking and driving, and Gene spit blood, which I'm sure spread all kinds of bloodborne pathogens. There was also fire and and bombs, a ticker tape parade, drum and guitar solos... but not a bass solo, which I would have enjoyed thoroughly.

Now don't let my sarcastic tone lead you to believe that I didn't enjoy myself... because I had a fucking blast—much more fun than standing and crossing my arms at the boring indie rock shows I usually go to. And Tommy Thayer and drummer Eric Singer are much, much better musicians than Ace Frehley and Peter Criss. But I bet they can't do as many drugs as they can. What else can I say? It might just be the greatest show on earth. It rocked. It rolled. It partied every day.

Photo: Mark Lore

Bonus: Old news footage of KISS in Portland during 1977's Love Gun tour!

A while back Terraform were a new three piece band that could wow you with their first and maybe even second song but from there out dribble down to a spaz-punk one trick pony offering identical sounding songs with modulated guitars and David Byrne-esque yelps.

Perhaps it's the new stop/start/stop/start again rhythm section - Jeff Brodski and Mark Makowski - that mad scientist/frontman Ryan Jorgensen lured in or the addition of their alto saxophonist -Katarina Lestenburge- who evens out the synth-y screetches of Dr. Joergensen's Devo-eque guitar playing, but this band sounded more coherent, diverse and confident than ever Friday night at Duckett's Public Haus. With their fierce punch Germs/Mae Shi/Arab On Radar punk energy, they're now a band that is living up to their promise and wowing their audiences the entire duration of their set and even having them plead for an encore rather than scaring them off outside to smoke or pee behind a dumpster.

• Asia Lupa

Terraform play their We Transmit tape release show at Valentine's December 7th before embarking on a West Coast tour on December 31st.

• When I say this was taken with my iPhone, I mean I'm sorry.

Bob Dylan didn't have much to say last night at the Rose Garden Memorial Coliseum. He went through his set with a lot of joy, smiling often despite the dark overtones of his stage lighting. His band was all dressed in black, but as far as I could tell Dylan was the only one wearing track pants.

It was a mix of old and new, with the majority of the songs coming from his recent, and good, Together Through Life. The highlight of the show came during "Spirit on the Water" from Modern Times, when Dylan sang "You think I'm over the hill/you think I'm past my prime/well, let me see what you got".

What I gathered to be the set list, after the jump:

I've got to say, everything in Eric Grandy's recent Modest Mouse review proved to be absolutely right on. I reference it because even though I went to last night's sold-out Crystal Ballroom show—the final of four—I was sick as shit.

Really, I spent the whole day in bed. Should not have gone. Good God. And for any of those who may be now suffering of my Swine Flu, I apologize (except for that passive-aggressive dick who stood behind me, poking me with his fingers until I had to talk to him—I hope your eyeballs bleed).

But for all the snot and headache-y shit I suffered throughout the day, while Modest Mouse played, I was able to find comfortable solace. I even felt good.

Like Grandy, I've loved the band for over a decade now (jesus...). And while nothing will touch those days as a raucous three piece, a good part of that free-wheeling spirit prevailed. The band spun out large, extended improvs on a number of songs, most of which excited, except on "Tiny Cities Made Of Ashes" where Brock began improving up front, stripping away all momentum.

I was surprised with the set's depth and reach into the back catalog. A likely impartial list:

Never Ending Math Equation
Baby Blue Sedan
Paper Thin Walls
All Night Diner
Doin' The Cockroach
Night On The Sun
Gravity Rides Everything

Strangely enough—and actually kind of nice—there were no capitulations to recent singles like "Float On," "Satellite Skin," or "Ocean Breathes Salty." (But Jesus, I would've died for "Trucker's Atlas.")

With two drummers and a number of complementary players (six, all told), the band's ability for dynamic improvisation has diminished slightly—it's more of a steam-power chug, towing the original groove rather than really twisting it too radically. This happens with two drummers.

But Issac's free-styling is still just as vibrant as ever. And even if he never really found the greatest additives Wednesday night, he's still just as committed to shaking that tree. At one point Brock hopped down into the audience to continue his caterwauling solo, shouting occasionally into the distorted second mic. It was Brock's catharsis of the evening, one where hundreds of kids (and a few 30-somethings) had their own.

After an extended encore, which ended with a surprising, brooding version of "Parting of the Sensory,"—but only after about 10+ minutes of audience pestering—Brock got a haircut onstage, a fitting end to a long home-stand and the wrapping of a current tour, I suppose. Strange, yes, but Brockian as ever—the kind of thing he'll wonder why about later.

If any readers attended previous shows of the four-night run, I'm very curious what other songs filled out the sets. So by all means, share in the comments section.

For the final night of the Works, a pair of Portland rock bands played, one well known, the other nearly lost to memory. Quasi opened the evening with a thundering set of old songs and new, proving once and for all that they are an infinitely better band once Sam Coomes gets off the synthesized piano and straps on a guitar. Fortunately, he brandished the axe for the last two-thirds of the set, even briefly throwing himself into the crowd at one point. Bassist Joanna Bolme appeared to be suffering a foot injury—sprained ankle or something—so she sat on a stool for the duration of the set. Prior to cracking jokes about heroin (ha! Heroin is hilarious!), Sam said they were unused to playing under such bright lights, but that he hoped it looked good from the audience. And it really did.

Bugskull followed, playing meandering, stoner rock that breezily sailed without causing too many ripples. Their music was at all times pleasantly hypnotic, even causing a few brief moments of transcendence. A new song and a Pink Floyd cover aside ("Fearless"), much of their old material was unfamiliar to the audience, a symptom of their being overlooked and on ice for so long. Indeed, Bugskull's inactivity seemed obvious at a couple points, but if they become an ongoing concern again—and I hope they do—there is no reason why, with a bit more practice and tightness, they won't quickly become one of the best bands in town. They played in front of a charming collection of stock footage, which ranged from instructional filmstrips to surf flicks to arty dance film to stop-motion animation. It was tough to look away.

A word about the performance space at Washington High School: It's fantastic. Once PICA's lease runs up, it would be a shame to have it fall back into years of disuse and neglect. For the past 10 days, it has been the best place in town to see a show. So here's hoping, that by some avenue, it will host more shows, please—music, theater, otherwise. Hopefully Buckman neighbors will realize what a gem it is and allow plans for a community center—centered around a prolifically used performance space—to gain traction.

I recently interviewed Modest Mouse's Isaac Brock for an upcoming issue of the print edition. We covered everything from the band's rise, what he misses about the early days, the two local groups he's working with, impressions of the Portland scene, and even the mellowing of his own destructive habits. So yes, keep an eye out.

In the meantime, for those considering scooping up tickets to one of MM's upcoming four (!) Crystal Ballroom shows, this detailed review of Modest Mouse Sunday at Bumbershoot from the Stranger's Eric Grandy should help you decide—especially if you, like Grandy (and myself as well), haven't seen the band in a few years.

I had high hopes for Modest Mouse's set going into Bumbershoot this year, and I had pretty much resigned myself to being at least a little disappointed (and, gasp, maybe even leaving to go see some of Metric), but while it wasn't everything I wanted to hear from the band—that set would be hours long—it was just a fine selection and a fucking fantastic set. I just wish the rain had started coming down in torrents—that would've been perfectly terrible.

Grandy calls it the best set of Bumbershoot. Read the whole thing at Line Out.

After the Mercury's mind-bending interview with Al Green last week, it was clear that all ticket holders were in for something spectacular. Not just due to the fact that this is MOTHERFUCKING AL GREEN we're talking about, but also because, as the interview revealed, AL Green is aware that he is MOTHERFUCKING AL GREEN and seems intent upon living up to all his reputation entails—up to and beyond the point of exaggeration.

His Portland performance was very much along these lines. As the light drained from the sky on a late summer Friday night, Edgefield filled with a rather diverse clientele: older folks came out in abundance to gaze upon the soul sensation of their younger years, sometimes with children/grandchildren in tow, and a fair amount of 20-somethings milled about as well, many with significant others clenched at their midsections, prepared for the sensuality of Al's music to inspire possibly unforeseen levels of orgiastic pleasure.

The Reverend's set began with fanfare from his large band and an introduction from one of the three female backup singers, clad in red. He took the stage in sunglasses and a full tuxedo, accented with a maroon vest, and immediately began to distribute a large bunch of roses to the ladies in the crowd. He continued to pass out roses throughout the set, seemingly whenever he perceived a slight lull in the action Al knew he could pep things up simply by throwing out more flowers. He also launched into his trademark wail—"Aiiieeeeeeee-ie!"—whenever he sensed a dull moment, and it's effect was immediate, drawing squeals and hollers of approval.

After starting out with some newer, less well-known numbers (including his duet with John Legend, "Stay"), Al segued into a long string of classics, starting with "Let's Stay Together," "How Can You Mend a Broken Heart?," "Here I Am," "Tired of Being Alone," all the way down to "Love and Happiness." As he strutted about the stage Al let us in on many more thoughts running through his crazy mind, such as when he informed the crowd that the backup singers were all his daughters, and went on to discuss how "there's nothing wrong with keeping money in the family." Further antics included tearing off his suit jacket in moments of passion, falling to the floor and waving his feet in the air during a song with a chorus of "Lay You Down." He also took time to speak of America and the Lord, at one point leading a chorus of "AMEN! AMEN!" that—as my friend pointed out—ending up sounding more like "GAY MEN! GAY MEN!"

Towards the end of the evening, the banter and antics ceased to really matter, and the sea of people at Edgefield could be observed in various states of ecstasy—some dancing, alone or in embrace, while others swaying blissfully while seated. In those moments it seemed that though many artists past their prime are relegated to the graveyard of classic radio, or vinyl collections, others are still tearing it up on stage. Granted, this is not always for better (Billy Joel, anyone?) and clearly no modern day show could live up to seeing a legend in their original run. Yet some performances have merit in bringing back to life—just for one night—the music that is known and loved by fans the world over. Tonight, Al Green was one of these.

The Dandy Warhols played a somewhat-secret show last night inside Ron Toms.

Four Word Review: More Fun Out Back

Photos: Ralph Abbate

at the Portland Cello Project's dance party last night that the ladies in the audience post Mercury I Saw U's for Brian Perez:

PCP Show

Your cello-backed George Michael cover was pretty much the greatest thing I've ever seen. You are a talented man. And, like many of the women in the crowd last night, I am prepared to offer you my womb.

When: Saturday, August 8, 2009

Where: Doug Fir

I saw a: Man

I am a: Woman

Score one for enthusiasm over irony: Even post PDX Pop and Pickathon, the Portland Cello Project's dance party at the Doug Fir last night was the musical highlight of my summer. A handful of local musicians rotated on the mic to cover a selection of poppy, familiar dance tunes—"Take on Me," "Man in the Mirror"—backed by cellists from the Portland Cello Project. Doug Jenkins of the PCP is an organizational wizard (yeah, you can quote that!) who orchestrated incredibly quick and smooth transitions between songs; the show's pace was good, the crowd was excited, the musicians were clearly having a great time. The whole thing was just ridiculously goofy and fun. And when all the performers took to the stage at the end to cover "We Are the World"? It was actually kind of moving.

Are you following End Hits on Twitter? I know, I know. But we've been at Pickathon all weekend and have been posting thoughts and impressions there (the kids call it "twerping"! or something) throughout the weekend, much like we did last weekend with PDX Pop Now. I'll save us all the embarrassment of spouting that brave new world, justification/democratization of new media, up-to-the-minute, of-the-moment bull-dickity. The reason we're doing it is because it's easy. We can post updates from our cell phone. No need to lug a laptop around Pendarvis Farm. Just jam a quick thought into the phone and send it off by text. Done!

So, yeah, check out our bite-sized Pickathon "coverage" on Twitter; there'll be more posts throughout today as well. There's not room on Twitter to say this, though: Pickathon is again as laidback, relaxing, and fun as it was last year, if quite a bit hotter. Highlights have included: Thao's blistering set in the Galaxy Barn; Sam Quinn's midnight appearance on a small makeshift stage in the main field; Breathe Owl Breathe's quirky set in the forest, which had all the charm of a kid's concert, complete with song instruction and impromptu waves; Joe Pug's no-bullshit songs, done honestly and directly in a shady barn mid-afternoon; Samantha Crain's crackerjack band and heartfelt songs; Foghorn Stringband's Friday night square dance, which got maybe 500 not-sober people doing their best to follow caller Caroline Oakley's increasingly complicated instructions; and Dr. Dog's rocket-hot set in the barn, playing sugary pop-rock songs that were hollered like anthems.

That's it for now. I'm going back to the farm. Check Twister, or whatever that thing is called, for more updates.

I didn't think it was possible, but the second day of PDX Pop Now! was even more fun than the first. Late night attendance was big, although probably not as big as Friday's, but for most of the afternoon Rotture was comfortable, not too hot and crowded. Church played a remarkable set that featured a horn section augmenting their darkly dynamic, ponderous rock; meanwhile, Nice Nice played a rare killer set that only emphasized how much more often they need to play. Laura Gibson commanded a hushed crowd with ease, while Deelay Ceelay after some technical hiccups played a zoney, trancey tunes with two drumkits and some wild video projection.

We've been using Twitter to broadcast impressions about the event, and I could rehash those "tweets" for you into a semi-coherent overview—they're actually functioning as a kind of public notepad—but I think it's more in keeping with the momentary, flashing thrill of PDX Pop Now! and its clusterfucky tendencies to let the "tweets" stand on their own. Check 'em out here.

Oh, and hey, I am a lousy photographer so I am not going to inflict any pictures on you, but if you've got a link to pics you took at the fest, please post them in the comments! Also, take a gander at the PDX Pop Now! Flickr group.

Day Three begins at noon. Are you ready?

(I think I need some pancakes before I can answer that question.)

So we've been Tweeting about the whole affair via cell phone. Hey, technology! For up-to-the-minute coverage, in brief, not-thought-out-at-all, possibly drunken bursts, you'll want to follow us on Twitter. If you have a Twitter account of your own, you can follow us @endhits (and if you're Tweeting, too, use the #ppn hashtag for your updates). If you do not Twit, and these last couple sentences have been scary and confusing to you, you can simply check out our Twitter updates here. Check out what was rambling through our minds last night. (The Mint Chicks were a personal highlight for me, and my biggest disappointment was that I missed the final song of the night, the Minus 5's cover of one of my all-time favorite songs, Neil Young's "Don't Be Denied.")

Day Two of PDX Pop Now! begins in less than half an hour; we'll be Tweeting as much as we can from the show. See you there!

@ East End, July 11, 2009

Pterodactyl: Blissful Major Chord Squall

@ Doug Fir, 6/26/09

Sunset Rubdown: Geeks alternatingly swift, docile

EDITOR'S NOTE: Dearest End Hits Readers: We take our show-going duties very seriously here. But sometimes we like to mix things up and combine our two true loves in this world: live music and illegal gambling. That was the initial motivation behind The End Hits Concert Challenge, where upon losing a bet, a blogger of ours will be annexed at a show (of someone else's choosing). Also, they must partake in this activity sober, alone, and stay for the entire show. Plus, the added salt to the wound comes in the form of a 500-word review to be published here.

Yes, it's cruel, but much like the firm hand of discipline we all longingly crave, these concert challenges keep our staff sharp and alert. It also makes us afraid to bet on anything. In the coming weeks and months, we'll all partake in a series of these dares, but for now, enjoy our second post of The End Hits Concert Challenge.

- - -

I thought this would be easy. Lose a bet, go to a shitty show, review it. Five hundred words. Fine—worth the risk.

Not so. Matisyahu, the Jewish reggae-rapper is one of the worst concerts I've experienced in my life. The kind of thing that re-assures you there is no justice in the world.

It started slightly better than it ended—with Somalian rapper K'Naan and a photo pass. Both would run their course.

When K'naan emerged with a full band, I thought, 'hey, cool, this will make things more interesting.' Again, not so. Save for a few African-tinged polyrythms, K'naan's backing band, mostly Philadelphian, strayed more into vapid rap rock and that hiphop drummer syndrome of overplaying fills.

From my notes: "Remarkable how long it took K'Naan to re-appropriate the worst parts of American culture—rap rock." Don't call me a rockist. Dude would've been better off with turntables or a sampler or something—anything but a guitarist sporting a Rock Band video game hat.

Finally, the final installment of my Four Shows in Four Days series, complete with blown-out video after the jump. Read also parts one and two

Memorial Day is a holiday I neither plan for or care about—most every day for the past few years has been an amalgamation of work and play. I'm a New Media Asshole with a home office and I work when I want (that is, when I haven't mismanaged my time and a deadline starts sinking it's fangs into my frontal lobe). That said, Memorial Day this year was idyllic. The weather was picture fucking perfect. I got high and rode my bike across town, iPod churning all the way to a park where friends had put together a lovely spread. Gnawing on sweet corn as beams of golden sunlight dart between the tall trees...

The afternoon became the would-be aesthetic framework for a living music video of Animal Collective's Merriweather Post Pavilion: long, wispy days, meandering beauty, friends and lovers, the joy of simple things, sunshine.

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.