Music
Today marks the beginning of the Know’s stacked Memorial Week series, which will find Portland’s punk hub hosting seven essential shows in as many days. Drafting a comprehensive rundown would have been a fool’s errand, but trust that you could throw a dart at the Know’s concert calendar this week and hit something you need to see. For the more discriminating among you, I’ve attempted a sketch of the best and/or most notable acts set to hold Alberta Street hostage for a spell. (All of these shows go down at the Know at 8pm. Cover. 21+.)
Thursday, May 24: Tragedy, Stoneburner, Spectral Tombs
I reviewed Tragedy’s towering new LP for this week’s paper, and you can read my glowing praise here. Short version: Darker Days Ahead is Tragedy’s best album yet, a dynamic and harrowing collection of top-notch contemporary crust. It’s really exciting to see a band stick around long enough to summon something so grand and expansive. This show is going to be packed; if you don’t get there early, you’re not getting in.
LISTEN!
Friday, May 25: The Estranged, Vanna Inget, Sundaze, Futility, DJ Unruly
There are bigger and more epoch-defining bands playing the Know this week, but it is Vanna Inget I’m most excited about seeing. This Swedish quartet’s straightforward melodic punk rock veers into saccharine pop-punk when it’s not flirting with classic UK sounds, and it’s all so incredibly polished and perfectly integrated that it makes me a little bit mad. I’m thinking this is what would happen to Arctic Flowers after a dose of happy pills. Consider this my Pick of the Week.
LISTEN!
Saturday, May 26: Effluxus, Bloodkrow Butcher, Silencer, DJ Skell
Bloodkrow Butcher and Effluxus both traffic in by-the-book D-beat that doesn’t add much to the inexplicably teeming realm of the punk world still smitten with Discharge, but both bands are very good at what they do, even if I’m not too keen on the splinter of punk they can’t seem to pluck from their heads.
LISTEN!
Sunday, May 27: Youthbitch, Cafeteria Dance Fever, The Shivas
The Know’s Memorial Week marathon catches its breath at the midpoint by taking a break from the crusty stuff and handing the stage over to some rather less pissed and considerably more hummable local garage rock. The stench of rotting Amebix patches will linger into Sunday evening, but by the time Youthbitch tears through a few of its swaggering pop-punk songs, plans for smashing the state will give way to thoughts of broken hearts.
LISTEN!
Monday, May 28: Weekend Nachos, Transient, Raw Nerves, Sidetracked
Do Portland crowds ever “go off”? Because I don’t see a lot of “going off” at shows. Which is weird, really, but refreshing too, because there’s little worse than a bunch of dudes “going off” when I’m trying to enjoy myself. The thrown elbows and sloppy karate kicks that define a session of “going off” have no place in the semi-adult world I try to live in, but I will make a rare allowance for this show, because Weekend Nachos is from Illinois, where I’m pretty sure there is a law against NOT “going off” when there is powerviolence in the vicinity, and Weekend Nachos is pretty damn good at the fast and tight and mean kind of hardcore that defined my teens, and yeah, I might “go off” with y’all if you’re game.
LISTEN!
Tuesday, May 29: Antisect, Deathcharge, Vicious Pleasures
Crass and Subhumans were pretty much it for me in terms of classic anarcho punk when I was a lad spun on spiky things, so I didn’t delve into Antisect’s gnarled noise until fairly recently, when a late night that ended with a Crass tattoo on my ankle led me to do some panicked research of the “money where your mouth is” variety. Which means I haven’t been anticipating this Antisect reunion for more than a few months, while some have waited a lifetime to see this legend in the flesh. Whatever your level of investment in this slice of punk history, the mere fact of Antisect’s presence in such a humble venue should be enough to get your body into what will surely be a very long queue on Alberta.
LISTEN!
Wednesday, May 30: Unnatural Helpers, Divers, Sick Secrets, Tensions, DJ Ken Dirtnap
I’ve probably written more about Divers than any other Portland punk band in the past couple months. Its “Glass Chimes” single has been a constant companion this year, a much-needed reminder that punk rock is still capable of stirring up complex feelings in this husk of a man. It makes me want to cry; it makes me want to start a band; it makes me want to make out in the rain with someone pretty and kind; it makes me want to live the right way, whatever and wherever that right way might be.
LISTEN!
Music
If there's one thing I get all blustery about on a regular basis when it comes to the Portland music scene, it's that we have plenty of great singers and rappers—but very few great storytellers.
And now here comes a 21-year-old kid to blow that thesis away [TRUST ME: STREAM OR DOWNLOAD CASTAWAY NOW]. North Portland MC Vinnie Dewayne, currently living in Chicago where he's attending college, is a master-in-the-making. On his second full-length mixtape, Castaway—it opens with a surprisingly poignant tribute to the Tom Hanks film of the same name—Dewayne proves he has both the technical skills and the wisdom of a much older MC. In fact, he has a skillset that's increasingly disappearing from hip-hop music altogether, replaced by the shock and swag that sell singles. That Dewayne was able to find his voice—reasoned, analytical, earnest—among the candy-coated, manufactured fare that swamps the airwaves is a testament to his commitment to his craft.
Dewayne, like Rakim and Nas before him, has an uncanny knack for describing the brutality and hopelessness of the inner-city (or, in this case, St. Johns) experience while maintaining an emotional depth that less skilled MCs tend to front right past. On "Can't Lie," he's essentially speaking from two perspectives at once: That of the streets and that of a good kid the streets are actively trying to destroy. To be able to balance those viewpoints—to be both narrator and protaganist in one effortless-sounding swoop—is a hell of a feat for any songwriter. To do it with the high level of self-awareness and clarity of detail that Dewayne does here is downright mind-bending. And "Can't Lie," while one of Castaway's most linear songs, isn't the exception—it's the rule. Dewayne is a very special talent, and he's in possession of a sincerity and easiness that most MC would buy at a premium if they could. (In fact, now that Brandon Roy is retired, maybe The Natural isn't a bad nickname for Vinnie.)
You can't really walk up to a teenager and say "tell me about your experience being black and poor" any more than you can ask Paris Hilton what it's like to be rich and famous (it's "hot," I'd imagine). That's why popular music is so important. It gives young people like Dewayne an avenue to lay everything out on the track—he explains the process beautifully on "Pour it Out"—until your questions are answered. At least it used to. Storytelling isn't just a lost art in Portland, it's a lost art period. That makes Castaway all the more profound. It's a heavy, impressive document not just of a place and time, but of a make-or-break time in a young man's life. It's a disheartening work in that it paints a bleak but believable picture of life for a young black kid in a thoroughly gentrified city; It's inspiring because great storytellers like Dewayne still come around every once in a while to relate their experience.
My only job is to tell you how important a voice this kid could be, for himself and for Portland. But Vinnie really does that better than I can. Elsewhere on the album, Dewayne explains his commitment to keeping it real thusly:
This a story I ain't never left alone
Cuz I never felt the life of a man steppin' on the gas pedal of a Porsche with a million records sold
My arm reaching for the torch, I need my mom a better home
How do I feel free in a system where they throw us in a pot filled with pot and lock us up for selling tree in the system?
What it mean to live a dream when your brother been shot and stopped breathing and your mother feelin' pain they not treating?
See I'm living on the edge, I'm spittin' for my niggas up in jail
I'm speaking to my niggas that we lost
I know y'all hear me from this hell, I'm repairing the trail
Them leaders mislead us, they all want us to fail
Look into my eyes, do they tell you I'm aware?
Well, shit. If you have any interest in hip-hop, in wordplay, in social critique, in children being the future...just go download Dewayne's free mixtape now. It's fantastic.
Who's behind the project? Longtime WW favorites and the best damn pig-based hip-hop group around, The Chicharones.
Why do they want your money? The kids have been asked to headline the "Bring It Back" stage on this year's Warped Tour. The whole tour, all summer. But because the bands like Chicharones don't get paid to be on the tour, they need some cash to help get a full band from one end of the U.S. to the next.
What are they offering in return? Small dollar donors will pick up an advance copy of the group's new album Swine Flew before the release date. Midlevel donors get signed copies of all the Chicharones albums, a t-shirt, and a special video shout out. And for the big ticket donors (we're talking $350 - $3,000), the group with either cover a song of your choosing, give you a signed pig mask worn by DJ Zone, write you an original song, or perform at a house party for you and your posse.
How much are they asking for? $10,000
Will they be fully funded? With 20 days to go and only $1,100 picked up as of this writing, the odds aren't necessarily looking too hot. But, that's still nearly three more weeks to get the word out and raise the scratch.
Our final assessment: If you've seen the group perform, you know there is no doubt that the Chicharones can bring it on stage. And goodness knows they have done their time in the hip-hop trenches. This could be a huge break for Sleep, Zone, Josh Martinez, and the whole crew. A captive audience of teens, tweens, and their handlers night after night...not to mention the networking possibilities of getting in good with the rest of the emo/punk/metalcore contingent? That could do wonders for these guys. Do as we likely to do and dig deep to help make this incredible opportunity a reality.
I interviewed San Diego-based musician-writer-entrepreneur-provocateur Justin Pearson last year, when I profiled Retox, the band with whom he is currently raising a glorious racket. Since then I’ve been wanting to put together a little Pearson primer, because getting a grasp on Pearson’s contributions to punk rock is an essential project for anyone interested in extreme sounds of the 21st century.
And I finally have an excuse for such a sketch, as Retox returns to Portland on May 22, when it will wreck Rotture with its tornadic take on abrasive hardcore.
This short study doesn’t come close to being comprehensive, because there is only so much time in the day, and we are not all as tireless as my subject seems to be. I have skipped over Pearson’s early stuff (the seminal Struggle and Swing Kids), which is probably criminal to some of you, and the rundown also neglects to mention a handful of attention-worthy bands, but this column is partly a work of personal obsession, and the stuff mentioned below happens to be the stuff I think about when I think about Justin Pearson.
Retox
This sneering, leering quartet is Pearson’s present-day concern and the pretext for gathering here today to celebrate his accomplishments. Far from a mid-career cakewalk through the hardcore motions, Retox puts “the Pearson sound” into a centrifuge and isolates the essential spirit and aggression that fuels all of this guy’s work. Last year’s Ugly Animals LP is a perfect punk record: short as fuck, fast as fuck, loud as fuck, pissed as fuck, fucking fucked as fuck. An instant classic.
LISTEN:
The Locust
No précis necessary here, I imagine, but okay, real quick: Pearson’s best-known band is simply one of the greatest bands of the last fifteen years, and definitely one of the most influential and exciting punk acts of all time. The insect costumes, the long and absurd song titles, the synth-punk incursions into powerviolence toughness, the savvy branding and merchandising--everything invented and/or refined by the Locust continues to infuriate, inspire and infect bands who wanna break bones with sound. I sometimes feel like the Locust was/is so good that people either take the band for granted or resent its majestic supremacy. But whatever. The self-titled debut LP is up there with the Minor Threat discography, Operation Ivy’s Energy and the first four Ramones albums on my list of shit every kid needs to hear ASAP. LISTEN:
Holy Molar
A punning lark starring Pearson, two Locust compatriots (Gabe Serbian, Bobby Bray) and Charles Bronson’s Mark McCoy, Holy Molar didn’t do much to mess with the Locust-derived prog-violence formula, but since when was more of the Locust a bad thing?
LISTEN:
Head Wound City
Pearson teamed with Nick Zinner (Yeah Yeah Yeahs), two Blood Brothers and fellow Locust dude Gabe Serbian in the mid-aughts to ever-too-briefly thrash and rage in glorious supergroup style as Head Wound City. The band stuck around just long enough to release a seven-song EP, and it is a sidewinding skullcrusher of a record (the band name could not be more apt). Like the Locust, Head Wound City was capable of cramming an album’s worth of vicious scheming into a one-minute song; the result produces a feeling of simultaneous expansion and contraction, as if you are being stretched to infinity and compacted into a block of concrete.
LISTEN:
All Leather
This sexed-up electro transgression is the only Pearson project I’ve never been able to get down with. I do appreciate the attempt to hijack a sex-shy scene with unabashed perversion and drippy prickishness, but All Leather falls just short of getting me off. That said, if I ever realize my dream of rebooting Red Shoe Diaries as hardcore amateur porn, I’ll have a soundtrack at the ready.
LISTEN:
Three One G Records
Dude runs a record label as well, and it just might constitute his greatest contribution to the world of music. Just peep a few of the artists Pearson has poisoned the well with: Arab on Radar, Get Hustle, Das Oath, Jenny Piccolo, Chinese Stars, Cattle Decapitation. Straight up ridiculous, this guy. Take a nap, man!
From the Graveyard of the Arousal Industry
And oh yeah, Pearson also wrote a book. I have yet to read this autobiographical volume. Not because I’m uninterested, but because Pearson’s ceaseless, consistently impressive creative output is, at this point, like an admonition aimed squarely at my lazy shape: Chris, it says, you are not doing nearly enough, buddy. I know, Justin. I know. Pick up my slack, please.
SEE HIM: Retox plays Rotture on Tuesday, May 22 with Narrows, Blowupnihilist and Bronson Arm. 9pm. $10. 21+.
Music
Already a great song, Nick Delffs' "Water in the Eyes of Man" takes on an epic, John Lennon quality in this live recording from Southeast Portland basement venue the Banana Stand. The Death Songiest of all Delffs' recordings under the Death Songs moniker, the tune makes some universal sentiments—about death, friendship and healing—sound fresh. At once gushing and heartbreakingly plainspoken, the former Shaky Hands frontman's words are on the brink of hysteria—they read like a fit of existential crisis on paper—but he's melodic and reassuring in his delivery.
Of course, I'd still play this on repeat a dozen times if Delffs was reciting his ABCs. His voice and phrasing are really something special here, and he remains one of the most compelling singer-songwriters in Portland. The stark musical setting (check out the excellent Death Songs EP for a speedy, guitar-driven rendition) only brings that to the fore.
This track will be on Banana Stand Media's forthcoming compilation, Live From the Banana Stand, Vol. 1. The fine folks at that studio/venue are throwing a big-ass free party on June 10 at the Hawthorne Theater to celebrate the release.
Turns out that this week is extremely late concert review week. My bad. It was worth the wait, though. -Ed.
Impassioned critiques of dubstep invariably come across as either
crotchety or insufferable, I know, but a ring of truth resonates
around complaints that electronic music dissolves the recognizably
organic from its most popular creations. There's something unsettling
about a subbish-culture (one that tops from the bottom, to be sure)
beloved of community and the liberating powers of dance still centered
about ruthlessly dehumanized soundscapes, but fear not, true believers, all such quibbling evaporates on the evening's first waft.
The
Bassnectar experience, if nothing else, certainly smells like people.
Throngs packed the well-sold-out Roseland to catch this latest tour by
the former Lorin Ashton, a DJ and EDM legend just this side of
mainstream success yet more than capable of attracting thousands to
various happenings. This evening's affair lay safely in the hundreds,
skewing younger and monied with the children of privilege outfitted to
look like rave-ready Bruno Mars action figures. They continually
glanced back at one another as if to confirm this was indeed the shit,
lips ever poised between sneer and smirk, while girl counterparts hid
behind everpresent black handkerchiefs, escaping the aroma as others
would evade tear gas. Occupy signifiers were as inexplicably common
as hippie garb and the weirdly ubiquitous sombreros—headgear, one
suspects, gifted from Ashton's heavenly host, the famed amBASSadors on
hand to cool off the crowd and aid family portrait—that suggested a
Cinco de Mayo party bus permanently derailed.
One striking older gent whom I'll continue to believe Jon Hamm danced
resplendent in 70s cabana wear while fiddling with outsized ear plugs
that may have also been disco era, but ear plugs, of any vintage,
weren't such a bad idea. The very threat of Bassnectar's relentless
lower register had forced cancellation of at least one stop along the
west leg of his tour—a homecoming for USCS alum Ashton at the
metal-friendly Santa Cruz Civic Auditorium, no less—and the reality
was deafening. The hair on the side of my neck quivered as if the
lightbank-decorated stage would soon take orbit and spiral the nearby
spindly club kid casualty (dressed for some reason as Loverboy,
possibly by accident) over the balcony railing.
Bassnectar does not sound like people, fair enough, but, for all the
digital wizardry, neither does it tend robotic: more like a futuristic
tickle fight or the Starchild's first make out. There were cheers for
the more obvious turntablist power moves and confused murmurs whenever
the mix grew too complex or the melodic elements less familiar.
Middle eastern strains proved especially off putting, while “Ping
Pong” (a track off just released album Vava Voom which employs table
tennis samples above metronome-busting BPMs) flooded the floor.
Some, the most beautiful, glided through it all with a luminous
majesty suggesting a properly loved-up intake or sufficient experience
to pantomime the effects. The bikini-clad knock-outs seemed most
comfortable by some measure. It did not, as well, feel like a place
for people. Pity the kids stuffed to animal heads, doff a neon beanie
to the plushie enthusiasts that refused to check their furs at the
door, but stifling temperatures rendered the average concertgoer's
beach ensemble fundamentally practical, however far from swimsuit
season some figures appeared.
And, lo, they danced, endlessly, frenetically, despite the DJs
oft-curious approach. During final stretch, the undimmed throngs
pogoed madly to the strains of a relatively unmolested “Song 2” until
the rock dissipated to whibbly bits and the crowd ebbed accordingly.
They'd resume jumping as the Whoo-hoo-laden chorus sounded and again
fade to confusion as anthemic turned abstract. Ashton repeatedly
teased the opening just enough to lure forward momentum only to leave
the churning bodies adrift, as if dangling a mouse hat from a string.
The effect, perhaps, was of a benevolent but playful god. Eventually,
most would surrender, save those few beatific souls that continued to
wave their arms like they had all the cares in the world suddenly
intensified. Nobody said rapture should be pleasant.
1. Jack White — Blunderbuss
2. Alabama Shakes — Boys & Girls
3. Santigold — Master of My Make Believe
4. Marilyn Manson — Born Villain
5. E-40 — Block Brochure
Music Millenniun
1. Silversun Pickups — Neck of the Woods
2. Mickey Hart — Mysterium Tremendum
3. Bonnie Raitt — Slipstream
4. Jack White — Blunderbuss
5. Alabama Shakes — Boys & Girls
Jackpot Records
1. OFF! — OFF! 2. The Funkees — Dancing Time 3. White Fence — Family Perfume Vol. 1 and 2
4. Screaming Females — Ugly
5. Sanitgold — Master of My Make-Believe
Top 10 tracks streamed on Rhapsody in Portland
1. Gotye — "Somebody That I Used To Know" featuring Kimbra
2. Carly Rae Jepsen — "Call Me Maybe"
3. Kid Ink — "Time Of Your Life"
4. Fun.— "We Are Young" (feat. Janelle Monáe)
5. Train — "Drive By"
6. Justin Bieber — "Boyfriend"
7. One Direction — "What Makes You Beautiful"
8. The Wanted — "Glad You Came"
9. Maroon 5 — "Payphone" featuring Wiz Khalifa
10. Adele — "Someone Like You"
Video roundup time! Get yer popcorn out and enjoy these fine Portland videos!
Strangled Darlings, "Snake and the Girl"
In tomorrow's paper, we review some recent albums with a "weirdness scale." Strangled Darlings' new album, Red Yellow & Blue, ranks pretty high. But I think we're going to have to give the band some bonus points for this one...
The Prime, "A Bit Different"
New Band Alert! (Wait, is that a Mercury thing?) Sandpeople's Sapient and Living Legends' Luckyiam have a new group, and they show it off here. Man, I can spot a Sape beat from miles away. They're a real kick to the nuts/ovaries.
Illmaculate feat. Ness Lee, "Lost Our Soul"
I'm a little late putting this on the site, but I've been forwarding it around elsewhere. I think it's totally fucking amazing: Both the song and the video. Really, really impressed. Two regional stars making their grab for the national spotlight, and making quite a case for it...
Ozarks, "Pyramids of Love"
Musician/photographer/mood genius Robbie Augspurger's Ozarks made a video for his excellent tune, "Pyramids of Love." I love this one.
The Prids, "Sydney"
The Prids are looking real healthy and sounding real good...
And just in case you were wondering what happens at The Know every night...
Music
Co-founder of late-'70s Australian band the Go-Betweens, Robert Forster knows a thing or two about independent rock. Here is his description of UK breakout band Allo Darlin’, something I understand fully after seeing the quartet live:
“The music they make is indie pop, a simple label but one hard to pin down in an ever-expanding indie scene that gobbles up genres and spits out mutations at a furious, internet-geared rate.”
Yes, there’s a touch of cynicism here—that Baby Boomer skepticism of the speedy digital age. Yet, more than anything, it’s the perfectly reasonable, open-ended label for a band that’s pushing buttons and turning dials within the sprawling indie-pop genre.
Allo Darlin’ started with a girl on the ukulele. In many ways, that’s how they ended up, Elizabeth Morris still very much in the lead, crafting jangling, carefree, coastal rock ‘n’ roll that speaks to her Australian upbringing. In the last few years, Morris has built a sturdy quartet, culminating with the April release of Europe, a record flowery in sound but dusted with an appropriate amount of darker lyrical realism.
Live, Allo Darlin’ is the Cranberries on uppers, Morris’ thick accent coming through every song to the point of readjusting syllables to make them more melodic. Her words appeared before a sailing backdrop of polished post-punk guitar layers and antsy percussion. She swayed about, an airy presence that matched her band’s breezy presentation. Though I share Forster’s loss of words in classifying Allo Darlin’, I can’t help but chase that old music writer cliche and box the band up myself. Allo Darlin’ is kite-rock; nearly weightless with its grinning, wonderfully juvenile persona.
The four-piece’s Mississippi Studios show mirrored the bliss Portland was experiencing from unseasonably warm weather. Sunny tunes like “Capricornia” fit perfectly, before a reddened crowd dressed in shorts and sleeveless tees. The best in the set was “Europe,” an appropriate song to build an album around with its surfy nature and comforting, cold-side-of-the-pillow vocals.
“We went swimming in Lake Shasta on the way up,” Morris’ admitted, her bandmates already laughing. “Everybody complained about the cold except me.”
It was this a proper segue to “Let’s Go Swimming,” a fluid track built around surging, tidal gusts of steel guitar. It was also the analogy Forster may have been pining for in his description of Allo Darlin’.
I'm not usually one to play favorites (is that a funny thing for a
critic to say?), but this year's Best New Band showcase had to have
been my favorite of all-time. Maybe that's because I went into it not
having seen Onuinu or Pure Bathing Culture—both of whom were really,
really good—in concert. Or maybe it was because this bill, against all
odds, felt finely curated instead of thrown together. The awesome
abbreviated set from Mini Lost Lander; the absolutely stunning show-ending performance from Radiation City: These are moments I'm going to
remember for an awful long time.
Lucky for me, ace photographer Inger Klekacz was there to capture the
magic as it happened. She sent a handful of her finest shots our way
for posterity. I hope you were there to enjoy the show, but if not,
all of these bands will be performing at a club near you before you
know it.
I know it's cheesy, but really, thanks for the memories.
ONUINU - PHOTO Inger Klekacz
(MEMBERS OF) LOST LANDER - PHOTO Inger Klekacz
MERCH AND OTHER GOOD STUFF - PHOTO Inger Klekacz
PURE BATHING CULTURE - PHOTO Inger Klekacz
RADIATION CITY - PHOTO Inger Klekacz
RAD CITY AND THE SING-ALONG SET - PHOTO Inger Klekacz
