What a Weird Weekend!

Holy Shit! Ok, so it has been a crazy weekend. Yesterday, I woke to my phone ringing at 9 in the morning. No one calls me at nine in the morning but debt collectors and other businesses I’d rather not speak with; or so I thought. As it happens, it was a former lover, in tears from the weight of her anxieties. Her (ex-con) husband, it seems, had just recently been kicked out of methadone treatment for an altercation he had with some woman in the parking lot of the clinic, and the treatment center would not take him in because of the incredibly high dosage the clinic had him on due to his two decade stint as an addict. At the time of the call, he was on route to Tacoma. It’s possible a resident of Thurston County would be going to Tacoma at nine in the morning on a Saturday if they wanted to get first dibs on the weekend’s knick-knack, antique and record shopping. None of those are amongst his hobbies. Too boot, she was having to cope with life as the parent of a first grader in a society where such little emphasis is put on developmental education that any reasonably intelligent person has to question whether the school system is going to help or hurt their child more. She was finishing her internship phase for a steady state job which would enable her (the definite breadwinner in her family) to bring her family’s socio-economic status up above the poverty level, and the crippling emotional/psychological issues she has dealt with for much longer than I have known her were bringing the burden of stress to a crushing point. She needed a release. So of course she called me. We hadn’t spoken in I don’t know how long, and I don’t think we’d seen each other in person since I moved to Portland several years ago. We talked for three quarters of an hour, and then, once we were both laughing and jovial, she let me go and try to get a tiny bit more sleep before I had to begin running the hustle of interviews and job hunting which I am hoping will enable me to avoid a return to the state of destitute homelessness in a city which has lost the magical glamour of newness for me. Whenever I think of this former lover, my first real one in the developed romantic sense of two persons emotionally mature enough to have a real adult relationship, part of me thinks of pain. The anguish of the dark times in the cold, grey, strip-mall covered hell that is Lacey, Washington. Lacey is really a place more fit to be a prison for politicians, meter maids and other reprehensible folk than it is to be a working/middle class suburb of the little bubble of arts, politics and utopic, progressive culture that is Olympia. The most pain I have ever endured I felt in that dark and torturous place, but for some reason the fates kept leading me back for more (and I kept following). A lot of people would be upset to hear from a person who plays so heavily in such memories in a time of their own need and emotional crisis. As it happens, I smile in a way my face could never really express, and feel warmth deep in my heart. For there are other memories which this woman conjures in me as well. Those of one of the strongest, most noble people I have ever had the honor of knowing, whose strength of both spirit and conviction, depth of loyalty and love, warmth and purity of heart can’t help but enchant and inspire those few individuals who posses both the opportunity to experience and wisdom to perceive them. The poetic beauty of the fact that she lives a life of all-American obscurity with the little ragtag family she has built for herself in a grubby little apartment right next to I-5 transcends the expressive capability of any artist I have ever known the work of. The fact that I can do her any good deed is one of the things that prove to me that I will always have a vital role in this world. As I hang up the phone and lie down to attempt (unsuccessfully) grab another three quarters of an hour of sleep before I have to rush out, I am not dwelling on the impending bummer of being back on the streets without access to the resources I have come to rely on in my relative comfort. No, I am smiling deep inside, and thanking the cosmos for my favorite facet of the Pacific Northwest, its women. The quantity of transcendent beauty, not just of body, but also of mind soul, is the number one reason I find myself still here, struggling to find the higher ground in the flooded valley of wonders. Be they artsy or all-American, indigenous or imported, so many women possessed of such wondrous magic are to be found here. So this little block of sentimentality is, I guess, a shout out to all those marvelous creatures who reside here and remind me that there truly are great things in this world, which make it all worth doing, and inspire me to be the best I can so as to do such wonder what justice I might.

On that note, it has come to my attention very recently, that there is actually a notable readership of this blog in Portland. I swear that the timing of my reception of this information and the urge to expound upon the notion of the preceding paragraph are (at least mostly) coincidental. But I mention the former because, well, frankly I had imagine any readers that I might have to be suburban highschoolers, college kids and young adults in various mid-Atlantic states either wanting to learn about the artistic trends in far off progressive places or dreaming of picking up and moving in search of utopic idealism and an environment full of creative energy. The thought that this might not be the case raises in me an instinct to become extremely self conscious about the content of my writing on here. A bunch of folks reading this in far off lands don’t have much personal stake in what I have to say, nor a close physical proximity to myself. If those reading this are actually in Portland and knowledgeable about/attached to any particular parts, it could be that someone could actually desire to hold me accountable for what I say. Not that it is likely but my (some would say, inflated) sense of self importance makes me paranoid like that; like what I say and do actually affects people. Should anybody actually take offense to my loose language, it’s not like there is any direct link to who I am upon this blog site, but any resourceful, net-culturally savvy person, or maybe just someone who does the footwork of tracking my interests could probably discover my identity rather easily. There is also of course the risk that circulation of the information I disclose could increase local interest in particular pockets of local arts scene faster than the general culture can progress, bringing undesirable energy into what I find to be sacred space. Does that make me an elitist asshole in this regard? Probably. But let’s face it: live music is an experience of and for everyone involved, the performers and the audience have an important part to play, and the energy of the crowd can have as much effect as the mood of the performers on the quality of the experience. I shudder to think that I could be responsible for the desiccation of the only oasis’s I currently know how to find in the desolation of the desert that is the world I must reside in. But oh well. I have agreed to do my part to report on my experiences in this precious little meadow of magic in the big, scary forest of life. Besides, if I can possibly benefit the artists I write about by increasing their fan base and potentially the earnings their art brings them, well then I am doing my part to support the culture, since I have done very little of a tangible nature in recent years.

But enough of my indulgent mental masturbation in the mire of sentiment, prediction and fear. It is high time this longwinded rant come around to the reason anyone reads it: MUSIC! So it’s been a while since I have gone out to any event that I felt needed to be covered in here, more because I’m broke than because there weren’t any worthy occurrences. But Friday I had some bills to pay and knew of some shows that I felt should definitely receive my attention. So I pawned my prized guitar (the less prized ones of any financial value were already in hock) and with the little money left over after catching up a bit with my debtors, I bought myself a burrito and admission to two shows. It’s really the little things that make life livable. Friday night was Glass Candy (www.myspace.com/glasscandy), Chromatics (www.myspace.com/chromaticsmusics), Loose Control (www.myspace.com/itsalrightjusttripout), and DJ Beyonda (www.myspace.com/djbeyondadoubt) at Rotture (315 SE 3^rd Avenue). It was a night of 21^st century fashionistas and new wave. I can’t recall the last time I saw so many meticulously manicured bangs in one room. I wasn’t present for the first act, Loose Control, and thus cannot comment on their set, but I can say that hip and pretty Portland sure does give it up for Glass Candy and Chromatics. Chromatics are a dance-pop quartet reminiscent of Blondie in sound and presence. A mixture of punk and disco, glam and grit, they weave four on the floor beats with cool, ethereal vocals. Not the most original thing anyone has ever seen or heard, but they put on a good show and keep the crowd moving with their solid sound and performance. Glass Candy is definitely a closely related act. Both bands are on the Italians Do It Better (www.myspace.com/italiansdoitbetterrecords) label, and both seem to have a fairly large following locally, nationally and abroad, I’ve even been told Chromatics have had some success on the club charts. Glass Candy is a duo of producer Johnny Jewel (bassist for Chromatics) and singer Idano. Their set is a bit more energized, with slightly more complex sequenced and recorded beats (or so I presume) and livelier, dancier vocal stylings. Idano bounces and sways about the stage like a high-fashion elven priestess, and Johnny holds it down in an iconic posture of urban-hip. The result is a roomful of oh-so pretty people working up a sweat together. As far as I can tell, the frequency of shows these local bands play here in PDX is neither regular nor rare. Whatever the case, I find them worth checking out, and Rotture is perhaps the perfect venue for them. They certainly fill the place out, both in terms of people and energy, in a way I’ve never seen any other acts accomplish. I’ll be sure to check out their next sets here in Portland (they appear to be about to embark on a world tour), provided I have the cash in my pocket to get in the door.

Saturday was a much stranger day. It was the day whose beginning was detailed at the top of this entry, and though I shan’t go into all the details, it really just got weirder. The important part for my readers was definitely Starfucker at the Someday Lounge (125 NW 5^th Avenue). I have previously done a bit of detailing on the awesomeness that is Starfucker (see my entry: Gotta love PDX) and I mentioned that I had checked out the Someday Lounge (Wow!) and was curious to see it in full effect. Well I imagine that now I can say that I have. Starfucker’s well deserved local popularity was enough to pack the house with people on Saturday at the Someday. As always, their act was hot, but something is always lost when you take a band you are used to seeing in super intimate settings and put them up on a big-ass stage in a larger venue. The crowd was not so much the crowd I typically see at a Starfucker show, but then again I guess I have mostly seen them at all ages events. It is impressive when a fairly new band can pull in full crowds from completely separate demographics. After their set, a DJ came on, I didn’t catch their name, but they kept the people dancing at least until I left. My friend was curious about what he referred to as a “Burner” event (meaning geared towards the Burning Man crowd) at a joint that as far as I can tell was called Hippodrome. A search of the phonebook for a specific address has failed to yield results, but I can tell you that the back door is located under the door to Rotture, meaning that the front must be somewhere near Branx (320 SE 2^nd Avenue). However, the high cover and tapped status of our finances conspired with a few other factors I shan’t go into to lead us to the decision that it was not in our best interest to gain entrance. Thus that affair, the name of which I do not even know, garners only the briefest mention in this entry.

So that has been my weekend thus far. Nudity (www.myspace.com/nuditytheband), a psychedelic rock band from Olympia, with some of the town’s oldest and most established remaining talent, is playing tonight at Rotture. Unfortunately, I have no money for the door, and I’m too old to keep haggling my way into shows. Besides, this is Portland, not Olympia; bands need to make a dollar here. So I guess that pretty much ends this longwinded rant of a blog post. But before I go, I should address the fact that I now have knowledge of a local readership, and plug some shit. The next show that I know that I will do what I can to make it to is Explodeintocolors (www.myspace.com/explodeintocolors) the new project of Claudia Meza of Hornet Leg (www.myspace.com/hornetleg) fame (most recently), Lisa Schonberg of Kickball and Strangers fame and a bassist, Heather Treadway, who’s name I’m familiar with, if not specifically her work. They are playing on the 22^nd of March at Dekum Manor, a good old fashioned house show in NE Portland, the address of which I lack. I haven’t heard them yet, but knowing the musicians in the band, and recalling the now defunct Thunder! Thunder! Thunder! which comprised Claudia, Lisa and few other then stars of Oly talent (all have since moved to Portland), it is sure to be a damned hot set. Also, if any of you readers are or have peeps between PDX and Santa Rosa, CA, Starfucker embarks on a tour of that region on the 19^th of March, spread the word, see the show or whatever is applicable. They don’t, in my experience, disappoint. All right my incredibly patient patrons of words, herein lies the end of another post of Scenes From the Black Lodge (try to imagine it spoken aloud with lots of really spacious reverb, it sounds so much more dramatic that way). Hope you’ve found it informative, enlightening, entertaining, etc. Later…