A gold dodo! Get it?

The Dodos were great last night.

They really did surpass all the expectations I had for their show, and proved that they are a phenomenal live band. There were a few times, especially during “Jodi” and “Paint That Rust”, that the band just transcended the guitar and drums duo thing they have going to make a ton of beautiful, cacophonous noise, with singer Meric Long yelping his way though his second, reverb-driven microphone, and drummer Logan Kroeber pounding away with ridiculous precision and fury. Third man (sorry, I don’t know your name) added a ton to the mix, too, with his percussion assistance.

For a “folk” band, they really do some incredible things. I really liked Meric’s second microphone, and the reverb-effect that it had on his vocals sounded pretty true to what they do on record. Also, the way he looped his own voice to harmonize with himself was pretty impressive. Hell, as was all he did with the loop pedal, like looping the trombone (it was a trombone, right?) as the back bone of “Eyelids”. Also, for sitting down the entire time, they managed to really keep the sold-out crowd fully captivated, which itself is a pretty decent feat.

However, as good as the Dodos were (which they were!), the last two tracks I caught of Au’s set completely blew them out of the water. It could have been for a number of reasons (local band versus touring band, pop band versus restrained folk band, etc), but the atmosphere at the Holocene was that of complete jubilation, with Au’s music soaring high and everyone smiling along as they went for the ride. It really was fun as all hell, and Au seemed excited to be playing, grinning and clapping and rocking the fractured pop they’re so good at creating. Those two songs were as good as I’ve seen that band, by far, and there was an excellent audience/performer vibe going on that seemed to be feeding both real well.

Had I only seen the Dodos last night, I would’ve been pretty happy. However, seeing Au made them seem more than a little pale in comparison, which is too bad.

If you’re at home keeping score, you can chalk another win up for the home team.

I haven’t played any sort of musical instrument since I was forced to haltingly learn the rudiments of the recorder in like fourth grade, and I am resolutely, pathetically tone deaf—which means if you probably shoudn’t ever invite me somewhere if you plan on having a jam session, or even if you’re just planning on singing “Happy Birthday” to somebody you don’t loathe. All the same, I ended up at Weezer’s “Hootenanny” last night, at the Oaks Park Dance Pavilion of all places—an event that was more or less a combination between a secret show and what I imagine it felt like to be a marching band nerd in high school.

Elementary school is probably the better comparison, actually, as long as you imagine your favorite music teacher is Mr. Cuomo. 94.7 sponsored the show—one of a series of such hootenannies that Weezer’s traveling around and putting on to mark the release of their latest album—and the basic idea is this: A local radio station invites like 200 people out, who are told to bring whatever instrument(s) they play, and, beforehand, to learn the basics of the songs that make up the setlist. In Portland’s case: The 200 or so people were invited by 94.7, and they brought instruments that ranged from plastic kazoos to a drum that was the approximate size and shape of semi-truck’s wheel. Also: trombones, guitars, trumpets, violins, cellos, tambourines, maracas, clarinets, those drums hippies like, tubas, and those egg-shaped shaker things that don’t even really count as instruments. And then Weezer played six songs, and everybody played and sang and hummed along, and it was one of the most fun shows I’ve been to in a really long time.

Photo not from last night, although singer Jack Barnett WAS wearing the same outfit

These New Puritans @ Doug Fir, 6/17/08

When we showed up at the Doug Fir last night the ticket office was closed and at the top of the stairs, nobody was stamping hands. Shit, I thought—show’s canceled. Or maybe we missed it. Neither, it turned it.

The show just wasn’t selling tickets. These New Puritans would play, and they’d do it for free. Somebody said something about really brisk door sales and almost nothing in advance… A damn shame. These kids—and I mean kids—are on to something. But indeed they are a very new band from half-a-world away (they’re from the UK)… So I suppose it’s not a huge surprise that the show undersold.

Puritan’s turned heads at this year’s SXSW, and that’s about it. The album, Beat Pyramid came out pretty recently. It’s a minor chord, angular, minimal, post-punk affair—not exactly the rage at the moment. But still, it’s good stuff.

There were maybe 30 people in the Doug Fir downstairs. Maybe a quarter of them standing. The Puritans took stage and you could tell they weren’t exactly buttressed by the clubs energy. Their age is striking. They look like high school kids. God knows, they might be. I wondered what it might look like if singer Jack Barnett got hit on by groupies — it would look wrong. Dude looks like he doesn’t even have armpit hair, much less own a razor (ok, and also he looks sort of a like a brown-haired, even younger version of Mercury Film Editor Erik Henriksen). They are all that age and build. Almost too innocent to be doing this sort of paranoid, cryptic post-punk thing.

But here they were, and damn if they didn’t do it well. The band, which sounds quite electric and synthesized on record but more organic live, was tight as chain-link fence. They didn’t waste notes. Ever. The drummer George, Jack’s twin, was something—fast, sharp and precise. Supposedly a wild performer, Jack didn’t really break out of his skin like I was hoping for, but again, you couldn’t blame him. Opening up the show for free seemed like a nice enough gesture.

The Puritans didn’t play a long set that night, and well they shouldn’t have. The energy, or numbers, just weren’t there. But then again, the somewhat abrasive, minor-chord slices aren’t an all night affair under any circumstances. Still, we stood there, legs cocking to the beat. In the right space, however—a packed, sweaty, club swirling with drink—it’s easy to see how These New Puritans could lead some amazing, cathartic, tribal dance party.

Kanye West is in trouble. Marooned on a strange planet that resembles the set of this movie, a futuristic miniature golf course, and the cover of Dianetics, Mr. West is alone in space (like The Little Prince with a Rocafella Chain) and spends his time spitting rhymes and conversing with his sensual computer pal, Jane.

No, seriously, I did not just make that up.

This ambitious, if not fucking bizarre, setup is at the heart of West’s “Glow in the Dark Tour” which rolled through town with openers Rihanna, N.E.R.D., and Lupe Fiasco last night at the Rose Garden. Surprisingly not sold out, the event was all about Kanye and he wasn’t about to let you forget it. The openers had a stage to perform upon, Kanye had his very own planet.

West’s sci-fi cosmic odyssey is grand in scale, but the spotlight never strays far from the man of the hour—his 7-piece live band (it could have been more, they went out of their way not to be seen) was absolutely stellar, operating in the shadows in front of the stage, like a percussion-heavy hiphop orchestra—who roams the planet/stage while running through his seemingly endless array of hit songs. The entire performance was like a swirling black hole of pure narcissism, but what else would you expect from a man who takes the time to pen a mid-show script about him being “the biggest star in the universe?”

“Through the Wire” seemed naked without the Chaka Khan sample, while “Get Em High” didn’t benefit from the demonic vocal effects, but with the exception of those two songs—and an unfortunate incident where Kanye laid on the stage while his band went into Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing,” thus violating the longtime no-Steve-Perry-in-hiphop rule—the setlist was fluid, if not perfect. The stark “Flashing Lights” was glorious in the live setting, as was the extended version of “Good Life,” although it failed to reach the 10 minute mark as he claimed it did in his late-show rant against critics (my ears are burning!) and haters alike.

Oh, and “Gold Digger” featured a pair of hologram lesbians. Yup.

The Kooks’ secret MySpace show took place last night at Backspace, with kids lining up around the block hours beforehand. By the time I got there, though, all 250 wristbands had been issued and there were only a few stragglers on the sidewalk outside. I peered through the window at openers the Dutchess & the Duke, who were playing to a crowd of eager teenagers pressed right up against the stage. I wandered in (no wristband for me; I am a big shot journalist, don’t you know) and took my place at the back as the Kooks hit the stage, to screams and delight. These guys are really popular! Are they on the radio? (I don’t really listen to the radio.)

It was an acoustic set, with frontman Luke Pritchard and his oddly Hasidic haircut strumming an acoustic song while the drummer thwacked a snare and bass set up. The young Kooks fans were thrilled, mere inches away from their idols. I’m hard-pressed to tell you about the musical merits of the show; not being familiar with the songs, I was not the target audience. I should say, though, that Backspace handled the event expertly. While the stage was thronged by teenagers, they did not overfill the venue, and there was plenty of room for some kids to dance in the back, as well as a sectioned-off “beer garden” for parents, and, well, me.
Sybris

What I can tell you about is the Sybris show that took place next door at the Someday Lounge. These guys fuckin’ rock. That’s all there is to it. They didn’t get much of a crowd, sadly (there were, like, fourteen other big shows in town last night) but they killed it with their spastic, dirty, fun, funny post-alt indie guitar rock. Angela Mullenhour strummed her guitar without a pick while getting all kinds of worked up on the vocals. Screaming, howling, moaning, and—on occasion—singing. The band seemed road-weary but it good spirits despite the meager attendance.

Members of the Kooks moseyed into the Someday Lounge for a private post-show drink. They came from backstage to avoid their fans on the street, but the teenagers quickly spied them through the windows and congregated around. None of them were permitted to enter the 21+ Someday Lounge. It was a curious sight to see the mass of kids outside looking into the sparse adult crowd inside, with few people paying attention to the awesome band onstage. After awhile those Kooky rockstars went out to say hi to their fans and take pictures and sign posters. Sybris, meanwhile, finished their set with an unfussy frenzy and left their small audience wanting more.

For photos of this year’s Sasquatch! festival, go to:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/sasquatch08

Well, I was wrong about Sasquatch (which is still currently happening): Dan Bejar DID perform with the New Pornographers. It was awesome! Neko Case was there, too. In other surprises, the National’s tour bus broke down so they played later than their original slot, which meant Fleet Foxes were able to play a later set, to a bigger crowd. Their carefully-stacked harmonies and acoustic instrumentation seemed like a natural fit for the splendor of the Gorge, but I think their music is really too subtle for such a large venue.

M.I.A. did not get stopped by customs and was able to perform a pumping, puzzling set; on such a grand scale, some of her songs sound very unmusical. (The other ones, the hits, sounded great.) She did the standard thing of letting a whole bunch of kids onstage during a few songs, causing panic among the yellow-shirted security staff. In other news, the band “Awesome” is not, despite their name, awesome. In fact their music is spectacularly un-awesome. Hokey joke-fiddle-rock with jam band overtones. Atrocious, really.

Tegan and Sara were great, able to scale their performances to the giant venue, complete with their trademark witty banter. Kathleen Edwards killed it with a passionate, perfect set complete with some foot-stomping spear-in-the-back lead guitar work courtesy of Ms. Edwards. The Morning Benders played a charming, effortless set, and J. Tillman’s dry, hilarious between-song banter is at excellent odds with his mopey, beautiful acoustic ballads.

In other Sasquatch news: Morgan Murphy is a very funny stand-up comedian. (No, I’d never heard of her, either.) She made a joke about waiting in line for the ice cold showers, to which a hippie festival-goer shouted, “Why bother with a shower?” She quickly whipped back, “Well, eight guys came all over my face last night so… yeah, R.E.M. was just that good.” Another note: Canadians seem to be much more naturally disposed to be festival-goers than Americans. They are just better at it; they have more fun, and get more fucked up, without getting exhausted. I am not sure why this is; healthcare, perhaps? Also, Truckasauras would very much like to see your tits. If you show them, they will give you a T-shirt. (Which seems to kind of go against the whole point of baring one’s… oh, never mind.)

Photo NOT from last night

w/ El-P, Tuesday May 20th @ Berbati’s Pan

London’s Dizzee Rascal is a willing, earnest and engaging performer. Unlike a lot of stoic rappers who keep their head down and their pretension up, Rascal is all about the joy of it. He bounces, shucks and jives across the stage, all the while firing off a million words per minute. Even as an opener—a total injustice—Rascal dazzled.

The crowd seemed somewhat split between the Rascal and El-P’s camps. It was a strange pairing to be sure. Rascal’s minimal beats are short on hooks and almost completely devoid of melody. Instead they are driven by a rapid torrent of curt language. In contrast to Rascal’s sharp, raw beats, El-P’s set sounded almost like some techno-industrial apocalypse. (But holy crap, did you know Rascal toured with Babyshambles in Europe—how fun would that be?)

It was a shame that Rascal had the opening slot. His show is much more welcoming and upbeat than El-P’s (party vs. prog?). Still, many Rascal fans showed up and held the sing-alongs. After the show I made one note: “Dizzee = happy to be there, El-P = happy to yell at you.” (To be fair, El-P had a strong contingent of hardcore fans, pumping their fists, pressed against the stage.) Rascal is truly a strong, competent performer and easily a knockout headliner (as anyone who attended his Dug Fir show some years ago will attest to).

Dizzee and his hype man were totally on point. Their lines were crisp, even at the most break-neck of speeds. They were equally fun to watch—especially Dizzee never stopped bubbling. At one point, during “Old Skool”, the two jumped into a rehearsed dance routine. They pointed back and forth at one another, grinning sheepishly, then simultaneously busting into the running man which Dizzee took into the thing where you hold your shoe and pump your bent knee back and forth (what the hell is that called? It’s got to have a name…) Most of the set came from Rascal’s latest, Maths + English, but he closed the show with what might now be considered an early classic, “Fix Up Look Sharp.”

But yeah, anyway, Dizzee’s performance was on point. Total old school— voices as instruments, rhythmically propelling the whole deal. Bouncy and fun. Entertainment as opposed to introspection. Hard to find anyone who wouldn’t have enjoyed it.

Case and point: I brought a friend with me, one who doesn’t own a single rap song—no joke. No Public Enemy, no De La Soul, nothin’—a bonafide rockist. And he totally dug it. Bobbin his head the whole time. “This is fuckin’ rad,” he said. And well, what more do you want?

Shearwater. Picture not from last night.

Last night I ventured to the Doug Fir for the Clinic/Shearwater show. The two bands are nothing alike and each have amassed their own legion of dedicated fans. I can’t imagine any of those fans overlapping, but each band put on a confident, theatrical set that showcased their individual strengths.

This photo isn’t from yesterday, because yesterday there was only one rapper…

Yo Majesty @ Rotture, May 5, 2008.

Fresh off Coachella, brimming with hype, Yo Majesty figured to be a wild party. Add Portland’s best DJ, Beyonda, and the floor at Rotture figured to split open and pour us down into the big open room below. And well, downstairs is where we ended up, but it wasn’t because of all the dancing.

Something went awry last night for Yo Majesty’s Portland performance*, and honestly I’m not quite sure why. Just two weeks ago at Rotture the French pop sensation, Yelle put on a bouncing show with the integral warm up assistance of Beyonda. Certainly Yo Majesty’s music is different — queer-crunk as opposed to shiny pop — but both are popular party acts. But for whatever reason, the people didn’t show for the ladies from Tampa like they did for the girl from Paris.

Now, a packed crowd isn’t always necessary for a successful performance, but for hip-hop with a celebratory bent, it surely helps. So why was the room so sparse? I don’t know. Strangely enough though, Rotture’s print and internet ads said “tickets were going fast”.*

But I maybe I shouldn’t even say Rotture, because although they are basically housemates, the show took place downstairs in the larger room at Hippodrone. It was an all ages affair, which is great, but it didn’t help fill the place. Drinks were available in the back room, but you couldn’t get anywhere near the performance with them—just peer through the two doors. Not exactly a great crossover venue. Even had the show taken place upstairs at Rotture, it likely wouldn’t have gained that sense of packed, communal intimacy. But downstairs at Hippodrone, the room was all empty space.

To their credit the contigent of diehard fans did their butt shaking in an effort to shake off the room and the night’s strange vibe.

Perhaps strangest of all were the missing band members. In all the photos I’ve seen of seen of YM, I saw two rappers. Heard them in the songs too. But last night, there was one pacing the stage—Shunda K. I’m sure there was some explanation, but arriving shortly after the set began, I must have missed it.

Shunda is indeed a solid rapper although without the interplay the sound was somewhat thin. Really though, this comes back to the missing member. In a playful group with songs like “Cryptonite Pussy” and the fantastic hipster-skewering “Leather Jacket,” with out a cohort to double lines and joke around with, well, what can you do?

But really, for whatever reason—and there seem to be a great number of them—this was a show that missed it’s mark. It’s too bad, because if chance and word of mouth and venue selection and what the fuck other magic things a good show takes would’ve aligned, Yo Majesty probably would’ve brought the house down… A time and a place, they say.

*Now, it is also certainly possible that loads of people came to see Beyonda and Does It Offend You, Yeah? then just peaced the fuck out before. I came to see Yo Majesty.

Last week was the US premiere of Wild Combination: A Portrait of Russell, a feature-length documentary on the avant-garde composer and disco powerhouse. It’s a project that I first heard about probably a year and a half ago, and having to wait that long to finally see the film set it up for nothing short of disappointment. Thankfully, it did more than exceed any of my incoming expectations.

For as much as I love Arthur Russell, I had never seen, apart from a few brief clips in the trailer for Wild Combination, him perform live. Nor had I seen any pictures outside of those readily available in each of his releases. Info is scarce, and besides the basic biographical stuff, I really knew nothing about the guy. And, well, info is still scarce, but far less scarce than it used to be. The thing was chock full of images, live performances, and just about anything that an obsessive like myself would freak out over.

The major highlights, for me at least, were the clips of Arthur playing live, running from early folk (I had no idea he even played the guitar!) straight through to the World of Echo drone business. Also, his parents and boyfriend were unbelievably charming and made for great interviews, and without their quirky antidotes and clear love for the man this film would have probably been lacking.

The documentary also didn’t really fall into any of the traps of “misunderstood genius” or “ahead of his time” (well, maybe a little on the latter) that plague most rock-docs. Instead, this was more of a friendly portrait, a love-letter to a guy whose life ambition was to make music. Perfect he wasn’t, but rather than dwell on any negatives, the thing felt more like a fond farewell and instead chose to celebrate Arthur’s life for what it was, and completely succeeded.

Also, in what is about the best news I’ve heard (straight from the director’s mouth), Audika is planning on doing a new installment in their reissue series later this year, this time featuring a bunch of folk and acoustic guitar tracks from the earlier part of Arthur’s life. The film featured a few of these unreleased cuts, which were haunting, sublime, and gorgeous, all at once.

I caught the Stephen Malkmus & the Jicks show last night at the Wonder Ballroom, and took full advantage of the photo pass that I was issued. (Which didn’t really seem to get me anywhere that regular ticketholders couldn’t go.) Let it be said that I am a horrible photographer. I took dozens of photos, most of which are too awful to post here. And the camera evidently knew how poor a photographer I was; after each picture, it politely asked me: “This picture is blurry. Delete?”

Thoughts on the Malkmus/Jicks set, and the Joggers’ set (along with a couple more cringe-inducing photos) after the jump.

The Night Marchers last night at the Hawthorne Theatre.

The Night Marchers, the new band of Speedo (AKA John Reis, formerly of Rocket from the Crypt, Hot Snakes, and a million other bands), performed last night bringing a catalog of mostly new material, all of which had the accelerator punched down firmly to the floor. They were joined by the Muslims, whose record got me all giddy, and Red Fang, Portland’s own grunge metal heroes. More to read, and more pics, after the jump.

Throw Me the Statue played the last date of their extensive first tour last night at the Doug Fir. Many of their friends came down from Seattle for what was not quite a homecoming show; the band looked very happy to be (almost) home. Throw Me the Statue’s album Moonbeams is primarily the studio work of main Statue Scott Reitherman, but live it is very much a band effort. The chemistry between the five members was solid, and they all took turns and switched instruments, moving between guitars, floor toms, keyboards, tambourines. Only the very deft, speedy Jarred Grimes stayed on one instrument (drums) throughout the show.
No, this picture is NOT from the Doug Fir show.

I initially thought Throw Me the Statue took their name from Raiders of the Lost Ark, but I discovered the actual quote from that movie is “Throw me the idol.” It turns out TMTS threw a bunch of magnetic words onto a fridge and took their name from the random assortment of words that stuck. At any rate, the origin of their name is apt for a collagist style that takes canned drumbeats, guitars, and percussion and puts them through a giddy, infectious pop filter. Their super-catchy tunes sound like colorful scrapbooks where every corner of the page is covered with some souvenir or remembrance. In a live setting, their set seemed speedy—over too quickly—but a satisfying, bubbly comedown after a long tour.

The only language more foreign to me than French, is the language of the dance.

Sure, much like I can order a baguette on a bustling rue in Paris, I can (almost) hold my own on the dance floor by bobbing my head back and forth (somewhat) in rhythm and occasionally uncrossing my arms from time to time. But, really, it’s not a natural fit. It doesn’t look right. I don’t get it. I don’t want to get it. I’m happy with the way things are.

Besides, if I’m on the dancefloor, who is going to hold up the walls by leaning against them?

Yet there I was, on the dancefloor at Rotture, doing my best not to dance to the bumping French disco-pop of Yelle. Fleshed out by a keyboardist and excellent drummer, Yelle was just what you expected her to be; downright adorable, a restless ball of energy, very French. Her between-song banter was extremely polite, but during the songs themselves (primarily from Pop-Up, although there was some other material I didn’t recognize) she jittered about, happily beaming with pride as she tore through “Dans Ta Vraie Vie” and feeding off the energy of the eager crowd—many of which I spotted earlier at Hot Chip. I have a feeling that the next time she comes through town, the venue (and crowd) will be a whole lot larger.

Also, if you need proof that most mashups are the work of the devil, please take a listen to this Yelle meets Weezer mashup. Seriously. Somehow the genius behind this war crime of an MP3 ruined not only my favorite Yelle track (“Ce Jeu”), but my favorite Weezer song (“Jamie”) as well. Thanks for nothing.

MP3:
Yelle + Weezer - Jeumie

The above live photo was taken from her MySpace page and, judging from the Knitting Factory banner in the background, was not from last night.

Photos courtesy of Minh Tran, there are more after the jump.

There’s something disarming about embracing—or perhaps even reveling in—one’s own nerdyness. Hot Chip do just that. Far from cool guys, the London five-some are anti-hipsters. They are unabashedly white—in the way the dress, sing and dance (the diminutive lead-singer has “white guy” dance, complete with knee-bobbs, static arms, and cemented hips down pat—so much so, it should be a joke). But it’s not.

But therein lies the draw. By just embracing their geeky tendencies, like dancehall inflected mini-raps, khaki soul, and pseudo Afro-beats, Hot Chip head straight for the pleasure center. The notably young crowd is all smiles, basking in the sunny pop. It’s feel-good music if there ever were. And if it’s cheesy enough to laugh at—which at times it is—that’s OK. The band is laughing too (at least, they better be).

Last night, after checking out Thurston Moore’s perfunctory set and stomaching as much of Girl Talk’s mash-up madness as we could at the Wonder Ballroom (where, incidentally, we also stomached a couple $4 Pabsts—which just ain’t right), we decided to jump ship and cruise on over to the Someday Lounge to see Thao & the Get Down Stay Down. This was the right decision: The corporate Nike party started to feel like the wedding of someone you barely remember from college, complete with crazy DJ and awkward onstage dancing. I wasn’t nearly drunk on super-expensive Pabsts to begin to enjoy it.

So, onward and upward, and Thao was the perfect antidote. She’s a remarkably charming live performer, modest and gracious, especially when the music gets the best of her and she starts kicking to the beat. “Geography” and “Feet Asleep” were definitely highlights, as was set opener “Big Kid Table” and single “Bag of Hammers.”

As announced, it was just Thao and drummer Willis Thompson. Regarding the two absent members of the Get Down Stay Down, she kidded, “Well, we’ve reached the end of a very long tour, and we just got sick of them. I think we left them in Nebraska somewhere.” The stripped-down line up really let the songs breathe, and Thompson was given the opportunity to fill up more space with his strong, swinging drumming. He’s a very melodic drummer, and a perfect counterpoint to Thao’s breezy style. They’ve been playing together since college, and their chemistry was evident. Thao was in incredible voice, too. She has been on the road with Xiu Xiu for a while, and her singing has definitely been toned by the experience, sounding stronger and clearer than on record. While her voice is always appealing, it can sometimes sound a little puckered (as she notes in the lyrics to “Bag of Hammers”: “As sharp as I sing…”). Last night she sounded marvelous.

If you missed Thao, she’s off to do a large tour of Europe, so you can either jump on a plane OR you can check her out, along with the complete Get Down Stay Down, at the Sasquatch Festival at the Gorge Amphitheater on Monday May 26th.

How do you even review a show at a place like the Roseland? It’s almost as though there are two different shows to discuss—there’s Cat Power, and then there’s Cat Power At the Roseland. I never saw Ms. Marshall in the heyday of her mumbling, stage-abandoning shenanigans, but I have seen her perform multiple times over the last three years, including a jaw-dropping, career spanning, 2-plus hour show at the Aladdin last year. Her shows are, nowadays, pretty spectacular. But Cat Power At the Roseland is another issue entirely…

Here (after the jump!), in an attempt to cover “both shows,” are the things I’ve noticed over the last few years…

( It’s worth mentioning, too, that I have no idea how Liza Lubell’s pictures came out so wonderfully, given the lighting situation in that place. Good grief!)

Image not from Friday’s show

31 Knots @ Doug Fir, Friday April 11

It’s been a bit since Portland’s snarling stalwarts 31 Knots took the stage. Frontman Joe Hague has been dabbling in Tu Fawning, a infinitely more mellow project with his girlfriend Corrina Repp. But that time away from 31 Knots hasn’t slowed or dulled their attack. In fact, it may have helped fill the Doug Fir this Friday night — it wasn’t a sellout, but certainly well attended.

Hague began in the audience, perched atop the log railing in a dark room, shining his own light. A laptop intro played as he wove through the crowd to the stage. The band crashed in as Hague maniacally flailed back and forth across the stage, mic in hand. He bumped and shook guitarist/bassist Jay Winebrenner hard, making sure to share the energy, a jumpstart for the adrenal glands.

They charged through a few songs before Hague took the guitar and Winebrenner picked up the bass. It was with this configuration 31 Knots most effectively swung around their full weight. A product of some 10 years together, the angular interplay between Hague and Winebrenner is fierce. (The history must also explain the group’s ability to stay sharp despite having just “seven practices a year,” as Hague told the audience). Winebrenner’s punchy, rapid-fire basslines are at times quite technical, but mostly avoid going over the top and remain in the pocket.

(It would also be unfair for me to go further without mentioning drummer Jay Pellicci, who rips. Let’s just say this: I brought a drummer friend with me who is fucking unbelievable, and made a point of praising Pellicci. He usually doesn’t.)

Changing jackets and ties and hats throughout the set while the band played, Hague strutted like a maniacal preacher either performing—or perhaps receiving—an exorcism. But when the music stops, so does the persona. In-between songs Hague’s deranged focus flips off like a switch. He is humble and shy and makes silly jokes to the audience.

The trio then rumble through three new songs in a row. Hague apologizes for it, but the new cuts are easily the strongest of the set, and they highlight the band’s progression.

Compartmentally, in the amount layers and technicality of the riffs, 31 Knots have grown more complex. There are lots going on. But as a whole, the songs have become more accessible, immediate and catchy—a perfect delivery vehicle for vehement rants on consumerism, the nature of man and God knows what else.

Hauge moved back into the crowd for the show’s emotional high. He stripped down to his white-fronts all while creating a small mosh pit, shouting and playing and sweating. Shortly after, the band left the stage but the crowd stayed—pleading with an encore that must have lasted two or three minutes.

When the band came back, it was clear why the took the time. Hague had donned a magnificent pseudo marching band uniform, complete with a very tall, very furry hat. It was light for a minute, but what the show really offered that night was cathartic, loud, and frantic—Friday night, rock and roll church.

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.

I’ve been spoiled.

Last night’s show at Holocene, featuring The Ruby Suns, Le Loup, and Loch Lomond, was good. Not “Bastards of Young” good, but good. So why I have been spoiled? I’ve seen the Arcade Fire live.

Photo by Minh Tran.

Friday night was my first time seeing the Boss in concert, and I felt pretty certain what to expect. I grew up on the East Coast, where Bruce has literally been deified, and the devotion he commands over there has actually made me feel unworthy of trying to see him. New York area fans are SERIOUS about Bruce. I mean, sure, I’ve owned every album he’s ever made, but I got most of them for a buck at Amoeba. So am I devoted enough to be considered a fan? Do I have BSS4VR on my license plate? Did I freak out when he played SNL without the E Street Band? And honestly, have I listened to every track on The River? Alas, the answer to each of these questions is No.

Photos courtesy of Minh Tran, there are more after the jump.

So, how was Bruce Springsteen?

Exactly how we expected him to be.

Seeing Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band live in an arena is exactly that. It’s a big ‘ole space with a big ‘ole band, all the songs you want, a few you don’t, and hoards of drunken old folks who are letting themselves go in a way that is both inspiring, and a bit frightening. There was drunken binoculars man (a great combo, really), the sloshed woman (who looked like my 9th grade Spanish teacher) who got tossed by security, and the short gentleman with the feathered gray hair behind me, who loudly complained about the “tall person conspiracy” that prevented him from seeing Aerosmith “that one time.”

The Boss is enigmatic and charming—you just want to be him—while the band is the same lovable ensemble of Jersey characters (sans his better half, Patti Scialfa, who was back home policing their teenage kids who, as the Boss admitted, have a fondness for pot cookies) that you’ve come to love.

Photo actually is from this show! By Ned Lannamann

JUSTICE - Wednesday, March 26 @ Roseland

Besides their single, “D.A.N.C.E.”, I hadn’t heard much from Justice, and what I had, I didn’t really care for. Still, the hype—and more-so the live photographs—spoke of insane, righteous dance parties. I had to see up close what this thing was all about.

Honestly, I didn’t expect much, especially after my dance partner flaked out. Fuck, was I surprised.

Photo: not from Portland

…and we just keep stomping along.

JENS LEKMAN - Berbati’s Pan, March 24th.

As previously noted lots of great shows keep stacking up on the same nights. Sometimes you’re forced to choose, and sometimes you run like hell from one to the next.

Mick Jones ended on the early side on Monday and it left me in a good mood. I wanted more. Thankfully, another European had taken to the stage a bit later. When I arrived the doorman told me the Swedish pop-sweetheart Jens Lekman was only three or four songs into his set.

Picture not from this show

CARBON/SILICON - Lola’s Room, March 24.

Something tells me I’m late. It’s about 11pm, or a little before. There’s a sign on the door of Lola’s Room that says “No Smoking, by request of the band.” I can dig it, but it also gives me the fear—this show’s not going to go deep into the night.

Former Clash member and living-legend Mick Jones, along with Generation X’s Tony James have entered their formative years. Not a big surprise they don’t want any smoke, or might jump onstage before midnight.

The Doug Fir was crammed to capacity for last night’s Vampire Weekend show. I thought it would be a crowd of college-age indie music lovers, up to see the latest blog phenomenon from NYC. But the average age of the audience was surprisingly old, and the house was filled with scenesters who were curious about all the hype, rather than fans there to see the music.

Lots has been said about the Vamps; they’re Northeastern prep-school Topsiders wearers, making Afro-tinged pop music. It’s Paul Simon’s Graceland updated for a simple four-piece rock band. And to their credit, there’s not much conceit or trickery in what they’re doing. It’s four guys with bad haircuts and lame clothes, playing their instruments without any effects or distortion, singing carefree songs with pretty stupid lyrics. While it’s marginal fun, it’s also surprisingly lacking in substance.

Then I looked over at the bald guy in his late 40s who was standing next to me. With pressed, striped shirt tucked neatly into a clean pair of jeans (his after-hours casual wear, no doubt), he was loving every second. He danced like the whitest guy at your white cousin’s white wedding. He raised his fists in the air, did some pelvic thrusting, screamed “Woooo!” at appropriate intervals. This guy was a FAN.

And all of a sudden, I got it. Vampire Weekend is like Jimmy Buffett. The tropical-tinged happy goodtime music reminds people of spring break. It’s sunny, cloudless, warm music. It’s like a trip to Margaritaville, and on a chilly, damp March evening, it was pure escapism.

So, I foresee one of the following three futures for Vampire Weekend (which you can read after the jump).

There have been so many good shows in the past week. Shit—the past few days even. The only problem is that they keep stacking up on the same nights and you can’t be everywhere at once. That said, I want to empty out the remaining pockets of my recent memory. Over the next few days I’m going to do that. Here’s the first:

SCHOOL OF LANGUAGE – Thursday, March 20 @ Towne Lounge

Sea From Shore is a terrific album. Front to back there isn’t a weak minute. If I owned the copy on record, it’d probably have worn out by now. David Brewis is an auteur in total control—he wrote and recorded all the parts himself.

That being the case, I entered the stuffy Towne Lounge wondering what I’d be in for. Would he have a band? Would they be up to it?

Bon Iver. Picture not from last night.

A highly-anticipated double bill resulted in a sold out show at Holocene last night. Much of the crowd was there to pay homage to Bon Iver, the hipster’s folksinger of choice at the moment, due to a remarkably good album he recorded in the dead of winter of Wisconsin, in between chopping down trees and skinning bear carcasses. Phosphorescent, meanwhile, has acquired the mantle of songwriter savant, with dedicated fans eagerly anticipating his powerful, emotional songs. It was an eventful, nourishing night of music.

Lots, lots more after the jump.

My blogging train derailed after, oh, a day. But hey, I was on borrowed computer time, and there were both copious amounts of bands to see, tacos to eat, and hangovers to cure. Can you really blame me?

So, instead of doing a day by day thing as was probably my original intention, may I just offer you both my stats, highlights, and low-lights:

Total Number of Tacos Consumed: Ten (had I not had to come home on Saturday afternoon, that taco crown would have been mine!)
Total Number of Beers Consumed: Too many for one liver.
Total Number of Bands Seen: Somewhere in the fifty range, or, in other words, a freaking ton.
Total Number of Bands Seen Twice: Three (Jens Lekman, Born Ruffians, Be Your Own Pet)
Total Number of Bands Seen Three Times: One (Bodies of Water)
Total Number of Bands Not Seen But Wanted To See: Four (Neon Neon, Wye Oak, Black Moth Super Rainbow, Okkervil River)
Total Number of Man-Crushes I Finally Admitted To Myself of Having: One (Jens Lekman!! SWOON!)

Continue after the jump for all my post-drunken insight on the insanity that was SXSW.

Well, there’s not much I can add to Ezra’s wonderful post about Day One at SXSW.

I also ate two delicious, delicious tacos.

My wrist also looks like it survived some freak accident with a clown.

However, one thing Ezra did miss that proved to be the highlight of my night was Cut Copy. Oh my god these guys killed. Maybe it was the eight Shiners in my belly, but they had me dancing so much by the end of their set that I was officially drenched. Judging by how amped the crowd was, I wasn’t the only one.

Oh, and again, with that whole Shiners thing: not only did I end up standing directly next to Jens Lekman for quite sometime at The Tough Alliance, I managed to say hello to him without peeing myself from excitement. I’m not starstruck very easily, but Jesus that man is pretty.

My goal for today: see ROBYN!!!

Judging by those crisp and captivating photos, it’s pretty obvious that I was there for last night’s “secret” MySpace Malkmus (MalkSpace™) show at Satyricon.

Starting around 9pm (a blatant disregard for the thrilling end of the Blazers game, which was going on at the exact same time), Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks took the tiny stage and blazed through Real Emotional Trash, sounding like a band that is relieved to finally have their record out, and at the same time, eager to share these sprawling new tunes with the masses. The jamming guitar haze of “Baltimore” hung in the thick air for what felt like an eternity, “Gardenia” was bouncy and energetic, and the sleepy rumble of “Out Of Reaches,” the album’s finest track, was the evening’s true highlight. Plus the impromptu Pavement reunion, where they played all your favorite songs, ended world hunger, and got mom and dad back together, was great too relaxed atmosphere of Malkmus and company made it seem more like a casual concert for friends of the band, instead of a promotion by a corporate social networking website.

Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks - Baltimore (live in Portland, but not from last night. It’s from a January 20th show, available here)

Live Review: British Sea Power, Colormusic, Monday March 3rd @ Doug Fir

Jesus… This one’s a rambler… here you go:

I’m standing outside the Doug Fir, making sure this jackass who just rear-ended a parked motorcycle does the right thing. Two men dressed in completely white, matching tracksuits walk by. Who are those fucking guys?

They better have an ass-load of coke or be in a band.

(Photo by Ryan Muir)

Well, this is a day late, but only because I had to get up at 6:30am on Sunday to catch my flight home, leaving me brain dead for the rest of the day. Note to self: never fly that early again. Oh, what’s that? My flight for SXSW leaves at 6:30am? Damn!

Saturday was, well….Saturday was pretty meh. Actually, Monotonix basically blew my mind, and everything that Andrew previously said about the band is completely true. They played the floor and tore shit up like I was hoping and expecting. My friend Michael even had to sit on the bass drum for about half the set, which proved to be a lot more fun for me than I think it was for him. Hey, you can even play Where’s Waldo? with bearded-hipsters from Portland in the above picture. I’ll give you a hint: I’m not from Israel.

Other than that, I wasn’t too impressed with what I saw on Saturday. I headed to Bottom of the Hill to catch British Sea Power, and both the openers (Colour Music and 20 Minute Loop) left me running for the smoking patio a song into their respective sets, and I don’t even smoke. Even British Sea Power, who I was pretty excited to see, was boring.

Oh, and I tried to see MSTRKRFT, but getting into that proved to be pretty ridiculous and definitely not worth the hassle.

And that was it. Now I’m home and nursing my liver until next week when I head out to Austin for plenty more hi-jinx.

Continuing on with my Noise Pop reviews, can I just first ask all of San Francisco to shrink down by about three inches? I’m 6’2”, and Friday’s shows proved to be another convention of tall people, all obstructing my view for most notably A Place to Bury Strangers. It’s cool though: by then end of the night I had eaten two great burritos, so everything is more than good.

Here is, if anyone cares, my thoughts on the evening:

1) The Builders and the Butchers - Sure, they’re from Portland, and sure, I’ve seen them a half dozen times, but it doesn’t matter: this is the next Portland band to make it big. If you don’t think so, you’re insane. It’s one thing to watch them in their home town with a bunch of rabid fans who are most likely their friends, but it’s a whole different beast to watch them completely win over a crowd of people who have never seen them before. I recommend trying the latter: it’ll make their greatness all that more prevalent.

2) A Place to Bury Strangers - Believe the hype! Noise, noise, and more noise, but done so in the most pop sense of the term. Their ear-shattering, mind-blowing set was pretty phenomenal. They managed to clear the uncomfortably-packed room both during and after their set, proving they are both too abrasive for the casual listener yet great enough to make people leave before the almighty Holy Fuck.

3) Holy Fuck - The band has played Portland twice in the last month, and if you haven’t managed to catch either show, I’m sorry. Seriously, this is a freaking live band. Quasi-dancey, yet totally experimental, they managed to recreate their record pretty true to form, which for a band with that much going on is no small feat. I’m always impressed with people doing live sound manipulation though, and these guys have it locked down. Hopefully they’ll be back soon, and hopefully you won’t miss it (like I had managed to do thus far) this time around.

4) Wale - Every time I think I like hip hop again, I see a live show and realize that I’m actually over it. I’m not super familiar with Wale’s material, but he had a DJ that pressed play on a laptop and then he managed to rap over what was clearly his own album, vocal parts and all. Even karaoke nuts perform more than this. Granted, I only caught a song and a half, but that was more than enough for me to not care.

Video not from last night…

As I mentioned earlier, I’m down in San Francisco at the Noise Pop music festival. There’s a ton of stuff going on, but I wanted to give you the rundown of what I managed to catch last night.

1) Throw Me the Statue - I was really excited to see these guys, especailly since they won’t be playing Portland any time soon. However, while the Great American Music Hall is a pretty venue, it wasn’t the right setting for the band. The space was too big and their sound echoed quite a bit, and it really didn’t do their electro-pop any favors, which is too bad because their new record, Moonbeams, is incredible. Might I suggest the Doug Fir, guys? You would kill there.

2) Bodies of Water - Without a doubt, these guys were the best of the night. The above video is of them performing live, just so you can try and get a taste of what they’re like in person. Stripped down to a four-piece of bass, drums, guitar and keys, all four members sang and often all harmonized together. Occasionally they didn’t hit the notes, or had to stretch outside of their range, but it didnt’ matter at all because they just passionately went for it. You’re going to be hearing a ton more about these guys post-SXSW and once their new record comes out, for sure.

3) Or, the Whale - Totally great Americana band from San Francisco. With seven people on stage they fell somewhere between Ryan Adams and Drive-By Truckers, and with a bit more experience under their belts, they’ll definitely be blowing the hell up.

4) The Dodos - By far the show I was most excited about, and by far the biggest let down. Not to say that the band was bad: they just weren’t great. On record, it’s