God Bless the NorthWest.

So, it’s been some week. For starters, I am now gainfully employed, at least by PDX standards. Woo-Hoo! Now I can start to focus my mental energies on the more fulfilling parts of life. Of course, now I have to start spending time and energy doing stuff, like going to work, but it seems that this will be the least soul-crushing regular work I have had for some time. Plus, I can now afford to go to shows. That is crucial concerning my abilities as an observer of music happening in my town.

But really, let us get on to the music, because I am feeling rather self conscious about the long rant of personal detail I went into not long ago to an audience looking for show reviews and band/venue information. But hey, sometimes you just got to say some shit.

One week ago tonight, I accompanied a friend to a little, unpromoted, house show in a basement in the far West portion of Northeast Portland. I have yet to give the necessary geography breakdown, for those readers who are not familiar with Portland as a city in a practical way. But I am not in that space right now, so I am instead going to just get on with details of the event. The house was small and unassuming, and though the basement was really a remarkable acoustic space for loud music, I definitely got the impression that it is not at all a regularly practicing venue. But there was a keg of beer in an ice filled bathtub in the corner and a surprising amount of talent I’d never really heard of.

The band I was drawn to see was Knox Harrington (no relevant info available, sorry), a band that my friend had recorded the demo for. Knox Harrington is an ironic butt-rock band in terms of sound and homoerotic antics, though not so much in personal appearance. They play loud, cheesy hard rock music through expensive half-stacks, but they play it well and with a great sense of humor and performance. The highlight of their set, to me, was a cover of Bon Jovi’s Living on a Prayer, to which I believe they paid proper respect. Their act seemed far more suited to a dive bar on SE 170^th (for those not familiar with the location, picture anywhere in America that is not metropolitan or distinctively Northwest), or some such place, than it did to a well lit, unsmokey, carpeted basement in inner-Northeast. The music felt like it should have been accompanied by the drunken cheers and breast baring of aging, All-American women; and the beer should have been cheap, foul smelling domestic instead of a microbrew produced less than two miles away. But outside of the mismatch between setting and set, I enjoyed the band and would highly recommend them to any booking agents at outskirt dive bars, or any group of aging rockers seeking some live entertainment to fuel some good old fashioned beer-guzzling, tit-showing fun.

After Knox Harrington’s set, came a totally different kind of musical entertainment. A rap act/collective (I’m not actually sure what to categorize them as) by the name of Salmon River Project (www.myspace.com/salmonriverproject) teamed up with an unnamed, but very talented jazz-funk quartet. The result was a long running freestyle jam, reminiscent of early and mid 90’s Beastie Boys instrumentals, but with rap styling’s which made me think of Zach de la Rocha. Granted, I was fairly drunk from the potent contents of cooled keg, and stoned from the continuously circulating joints, but I must say that I could not help but get down to this act. When I inquired as to the title of the band, I was informed that it wasn’t really a band. The group had never played together before that very performance. Wow! If they can recreate that energy, refine their sound a bit and perhaps acquire a more enticing name, I think they could totally be one of those bands to ride the party circuit to great deal of notoriety, and possibly even wealth. Hippies and stoners across America would cough back into their bongs if they caught a set like that in their basement, living room or backyard.

Yeah, it was a weirdly paired evening in a most unexpected setting, for sure. But it had been a good long while since I had gone to a show and it was just a jumble of talent ranging through a vast array of taste demographics (if not so much cultural ones). Things get pigeonholed very easily in Portland. Because there are just so many different bands in any given style/genre, it easy to book a whole show for one taste. It’s not to say that in a smaller community, such as Olympia, that you don’t get a lot of hand picked nights with a continuous sound, but you also get a lot of grab bag nights where friends’ bands’ are just called in randomly to fill the bill. You really get exposed to a lot of different shit that way.

The next show I went to was the previously mentioned (see my last two posts) Explodeintocolors show. Dekum Manor, and the show I witnessed inside are the most picturesque Northwest things I could imagine. I was in a house I’d never been to, seeing bands I’d never heard, surrounded, primarily, by people I’d never met. But I can tell you that I’d been there and done that more times than I can count. It was like I had been transported back to my early 20’s. That’s not to say the music inside was all unoriginal and done-before however. Explodeintocolors really surprised me with their set. It was an interesting, well crafted, expertly played set of original music. That didn’t surprise me one bit. What surprised me was the nature of the sound itself. I went in expecting a huge sound, where every beat was filled with more beats and twisting harmonics than a person can really process, though with an uncanny pop-sensibility to match its uber-arty veneer. For that is really the only common ground that I tend to find in the projects and playing of guitarist Claudia Meza and drummer Lisa Schonberg. I don’t know much about the third member, Heather Treadway, except that she is apparently a local fashion designer under the name Paper Doll. The last part of my expectations about the set were definitely fulfilled. However, I was amazed at the relatively stripped down nature of the sound. I say relatively because, don’t get me wrong, it was fairly busy stuff indeed. But in truth, there was an almost garagy touch to the aethstetic. Certainly good stuff, but not at all what I expected. I imagine there was a bit of spill over in influence from some more recent projects these ladies have been involved in.

I saw another band’s set that night at Dekum Manor, but honestly, I don’t know who it was. I know it wasn’t Fist Fite (www.myspace.com/fistfitefistfite) because I saw them drinking in the kitchen when the other band was playing. Besides, I am pretty sure I would recognize their sound, even if I’m not that familiar with their music. Whoever they were, they had a tight set and a fairly grooving garage-pop sound. But my partner in misadventure and myself had a set to check out elsewhere that night.

π-Rem (433 NW 4th Avenue*) is a little underground (literally) club in what I guess is Chinatown. Whatever the case, it is by the train station and has gone through a cycle of names of late, coming back eventually to the first name that I knew it by. The ambiance is generally enjoyable, with comfy furniture and well placed lighting of appropriate brightness for such a setting. The music is often pretty good, always at least decent, in my experience. I think that it is perhaps a club specifically for electronic music, for I haven’t seen anything else there ever. π-Rem’s biggest problem, as far as I can tell, is that they rarely, if ever, pack the house with sufficient people to sustain requisite energy for a hot dance floor. There could be numerous reasons for this. One might be the location, it is certainly not the kind of place one is likely to just stumble into. One could be that the electronic music scene in this town is just not big enough to support the amount of venues there are for it. My personal theory has to do more with drink selection. π-Rem, thus far has opted for an extensive selection of high-end, high alcohol content (which is listed on the menu next to price and size of bottle) primarily imported (Belgium, etc.) beers, and a few wines rather than a full liquor bar. A tasteful choice to be sure, and one that almost certainly makes life quite a bit easier for the bar staff, especially in terms of the type of clientele and how drunk they are likely to get. However, I believe it probably hurts their business as a venue. People, in my experience, when going out to see music, tend to want either the non-filling, high alcohol content of liquor drinks, or the cheap, drink all-night eir business as a venue. y are likely to get. asier for ly imported (Belgium, etc.) for itqualities of domestic and lower end microbrew beers. $9 for 12 oz. of 9% beer is not really a shake your shit till the DJ runs out of steam tonic. None the less, on the third Saturday of every month, Zentz (again, I could find no info), one of the better techno DJs to spin regularly in this town, has a set at π-Rem. As is often the case, a quorum was not met on the dance floor, and thus the energy was generally well below the heat of the set. I was turned onto Zentz when he subbed for a sick M-Quiet one night at Kulturszene. However, in spite of the disappointing turnout for his set, there were cues pointing to a possibly brighter future for this talented spinmeister. Several faces, including other prominent local DJs, that I presume to be far more in the know concerning this aspect of Portland culture than myself, made appearances at π-Rem on Saturday. You’d have to be dead to deny the heat of Zentz set, though he does not make himself a slave to the beat. He takes it where ever he feels like taking it, but it seems to work for him. Whatever the case, perhaps these new faces at this site are just the leaders of a new train of fan base. Let’s hope, because I’d hate to see a talented DJ stop spinning his night because no one ever showed.

Last night was a surprise kicker to finish off the long week. I got off work at 11 PM, and saw that I’d missed a call from my social companion extraordinaire. As it turned out, there was a sold out show at Holocene (1001 SE Morrison Street), and my boy had checked out the music, approved and believed that despite the sold out status we could get in, and that due to the sold out status we could do it on the cheap. I guess that’s just how we roll, because we actually run that play fairly often, and it tends to work. The difference this time, was that I’d never heard of the band and had no idea the show was going on. Holocene is not a small place, and selling it out on a Monday night is no small feet. The band we went to see was Phosphorescent (www.myspace.com/phosphorescent), a band from Brooklyn. As it happens, Phosphorescent had a break down of vehicular transport in the distant city of San Francisco, and just the lead singer Matthew Houck was present to perform his set. So I can’t speak to the quality of the band, but for having been stripped of all but the bare essentials, Mr. Houck certainly gave an enthralling performance. His raspy, folky vocals were nothing new to me stylistically, and his songwriting seemed familiar. But he played with a passion and poise that a great deal of like performers lack. I was particularly moved by his rendition of Dire Straits So Far Away From Me, and I was most impressed by his creative use of vocal harmonies and a loop pedal to create a growing chorus of one, which stood as a towering wall of quite musical sound.

Well, that’s about all that I have to report for this week. I can’t think of any must see shows in coming to town, except to say that I’d really LOVE to check out Bruce Springsteen’s set when he come here in the very near future. I don’t know if that is going to be a realistic possibility for me though. Well, until next I have something to report, later.

_{*{I think, their front door has moved, so I don’t know if the address is still accurate, because the entrance is no longer on 4th}}

Update!

OK, so I didn’t have the specs on the Explodeintocolors show on the 22nd, but now I do, so here you are:

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…