Local News & Reviews

[March 7th, 2007]

Small Sails

Similar Anniversaries (Other Electricities)

[AMBIENT POP] Small Sails has at least come close on Similar Anniversaries—the quartet's first release with label support—to bridging the gap between its roots in gallery-style A-V art and record-store appeal. You see, Anniversaries includes a key element of the band's live show that's been missing thus far on its recordings—the filmwork of Ryan Jeffery.

But, unfortunately, Jeffery's contribution is limited to this enhanced CD's opener, "Sonambulist" (which was included sans visuals on Small Sails' prior release, Hunter, Gatherer). Jeffery's film—blue-hued overlays of fences and flowers—synchs perfectly with the track, visually echoing what's, in the immediate, a tight pop song. But the visuals—which, in the live setting, Jeffery manipulates in real-time to the band's music—also step in for something of a solo after some drawn-out guitar atmospherics and Ethan Rose's "e-la-la-la-la-laaaa" refrains. During that sonically sparse span, "Sonambulist" swaps its musical dynamic for a visual one.

The remainder of the record goes without visual enhancement and proves to be Small Sails' most poppy effort to date, abounding with guitar hooks (however drawn out) and fairly standard indie-meets-electronica drumming. Rose and Jeffery—the only original members, now with drummer Gary Jimmerson and multi-instrumentalist Adam Porterfield—have almost completely stuffed the subtle instrumental ambience of Adelaide, their previous incarnation. But, given that Rose is getting plenty of ambient kicks with his own New York Times-lauded solo project, the shift makes perfect sense.

Immediately following "Sonambulist" comes "Aftershocks and Earthquakes," which could well be considered Small Sails' pop manifesto: As soporific as the song's delayed, soft-edged guitars and wordless vocal shapes are, it still holds a quick tempo, and the disco-fied synth echoing at the fore of the mix makes it almost a dance number. Likewise, the sharp, syncopated drum hits and "da-da-da-da-da"s of "Earthbound with Parents" and the repeating, somewhat neutered funk guitar of "Backside of a Magnet" are plenty easy to get hooked on.

The album reverts, lovingly, to something close to ambience on both "Farewell Weird Owl," with its otherworldly reversal effects and drowsy pace, and "House on Home," which beautifully draws Rose's hymnlike voice across a barely defined, sad melody. Yet, even on this fine track, a beat kicks in and the guitar melody eventually becomes a hook. And Rose's vocals, forming from more wordless vocal repetition, become the words "Oh, yeah" at the close: Lyrics don't get much more pop, even if the music is still finding its way there. MICHAEL BYRNE. Small Sails celebrates the release of Similar Anniversaries on Friday, March 9, with Blitzen Trapper and Gingerbread Patriots at Holocene. 9 pm. $6. 21+.

my life in black and white

Bottles, Our Breakdowns (Self-released)

[HARDASS COUNTRY-ROCK] I spent a good portion of my life drinking whiskey to songs much like those on My Life in Black and White's sophomore release, Bottles, Our Breakdowns. You know, raspy-voiced, punk-country songs that make it OK for tough guys to get sensitive. Songs like Social Distortion's "Story of My Life" or Against Me!'s "Sink, Florida, Sink." Songs that inspire hugging as much as punching.

Unfortunately, Bottles also leans toward that brand of predictable, heavy, dude-rock that's made modern rock radio unlistenable for years, if only on a couple tracks: namely, "Dear Friends:," which gets a little thrashy/screamo at times, and occasionally on "Good Night Gracie." Though vocalist and main six-string wielder Dylan Summers comes off a tad contrived at times, he certainly has a penchant for Mike Ness-ish gnarling, which is hard not to find endearing. When Summers applies his tough-guy stylings to stripped-down, acoustic-guitar-based ballads like "Bury Me at Sea"—which begins with Summers's gravelly voice declaring, "Bloody and on my knees/ Is a bad place to be/ But I'd find my way to heaven/ Just to fall down at your feet"—he takes on that sort of been-through-some-shit-and-survived quality that makes Lucero frontman Ben Nichols so freakin' awesome. "Cork City," likewise, is a rollicking, Pogues-ish number led by plenty o' picking and Summers beckoning listeners to sing along—classic rabble-rousing, beer-swilling behavior.

The aptly titled Bottles, Our Breakdowns offers a few surprises, as well: "Gunslinger" starts with snappy, almost ska, drumming and launches into a super-fast, Irish folk-tinged rock jig that rescues itself from redundancy with the slowed-down, punchy delivery of "'Cause there's a/ gun-slinger/ in the hall-way" at the lead of each chorus. Sure, the themes on Bottles—drinking, travel, drinking, odes to dead friends, drinking—are par for the course, but damn if "Like a Soldier" (with its constant, unexpectedly shrill electric guitar part and gratifying brotherhood-themed and power-chord-fueled chorus) couldn't inspire impassioned group yelling.

Of course, there comes a time in one's life when trashing hotel rooms and guzzling Jim Beam becomes—what's that word?—immature. But My Life in Black and White's latest actually makes me want to sink to old levels. And I'm guessing that if Bottles can do that, this quintet's live show just might have enough black-wearing, grimace-making charm to strip Portland of a little of its cool—or at least get it drunk enough to spill some whiskey and punch a few best friends. AMY MCCULLOUGH. My Life in Black and White celebrates the release of Bottles, Our Breakdowns on Friday, March 9, with Fistful of Cash and Sadly Mistaken at Berbati's Pan. 9:30 pm. Cover. 21+.

Jon Itkin

Big Gold Guitar In The Sky (Self-released)

[AMERICANA] Jon Itkin is from New York state, but you'd never know it by the 10-gallon-hat kind of drawl he employs on the first word of his sophomore release, Big Gold Guitar In the Sky. The scruffy, 24-year-old blond drops his voice way down and twists it up with a twang that would fit right in on modern country radio when he sings the word: "halfway."

But Itkin saves the track (called, fittingly, "Halfway"), which could be perceived as hokey, with his earnest charm and a sweet, bar-rock inspired organ part courtesy of Rich Landar (Richmond Fontaine, Floater). Elsewhere on the album—which is far more fleshed out than Itkin's self-produced debut, Oregon (self-released in 2005)—Chet Lyster (Eels) and Paul Brainard (The Sadies, M. Ward) infuse Itkin's tracks with spirited electric guitar and confettilike speckles of lap steel and dobro, respectively. The song "10 Pack of Years"—a perceptive take on faded love in which Itkin sorrowfully sings, "We used to make love/ Out in the back lawn/ Now we're eatin' dinner/ With the TV on"—is made all the more poignant thanks to Brainard's haunting lap steel and earthy backing vocals by Annalisa Tornfelt.

But it's just this kind of perfectly executed mellow Americana that makes Big Gold Guitar's more rockin' tracks a little disappointing. Like the perfect Itkin gateway drug, a song from Oregon titled "My Work Is Never Done," the most lovely tracks on Big Gold Guitar are also its most gentle. "Sing Rosetta," a beautiful ballad lifted by Tornfelt's echo, and "Patience (All We Ever Do Is Wait)," a driving, creepy rumination on our numbered days, simply blow away the album's more straightforward country-rock numbers. Though Itkin—who's clearly stoked to be playing with a full band—delivers the blues-riff-fueled "American Blood" and upbeat, bluegrass-tinged "Emerald Valley Song" with fervor and heart, his craftsmanship as a songwriter shines brightest when he takes it slow.

The crown jewel of Big Gold Guitar is, without a doubt, the bluesy and wicked "Devil In Another Man's Hell," which addresses both war and infidelity by way of slinky, sexy instrumentation and hushed vocals. Despite the timeless examinations of human nature offered up on Big Gold Guitar, Itkin says the album's central image—which came to him while watching the Townes Van Zandt documentary Be Here to Love Me—represents both the power and transience of music. "It's the fantasy that we're all chasing," he explains. "It's the soul-wrenching, greasy goodness that comes from self-expression, but it's fleeting and mercurial." On the last line of the title track, Itkin sings, "Good songs make fast friends/ But they don't stick around when all the singing's done." In the wake of Big Gold Guitar, he may be eating his words. amy mccullough. Itkin celebrates the release of Big Gold Guitar In the Sky Friday, March 9, with Old Boy at LaurelThirst Public House. 9 pm. $5. 21+.

mena & Aizlynn

Saturday, March 10

[HOUSE] A two-by-four set is pretty much what it sounds like: two DJs playing records at the same time, two mixers, four turntables. DJ Heather Walters knows all about it: "[Mena and I] played this one party two-by-four, and everybody was like, 'That's the bomb,' so we started doing it more. Then people just started booking us together—always." Walters—who goes by Aizlynn behind the decks—says she and fellow house DJ Mena Franz have chemistry. Sitting outside local nightclub Pala, Mena confidently agrees: "You've either got it with someone or you don't." And, whether performing a two-by-four set or tagging (as they will be on Saturday), these ladies have it.

"Sometimes [Mena] will be mixing, and I'll just be throwing in vocals or a capellas or spoken word," explains Aizlynn, 29. "Or I could be playing just a drum track and she'll be playing a melodic track. [We try] to feed off each other...to keep it simple but bangin'." The women—who both have close to a decade of experience on rave and club circuits—met by chance when Aizlynn took over Mena's weekly spot at Ohm while Mena was living in Hawaii. Once Mena moved back, the two quickly became good friends and starting playing music together.

But while they've got chemistry as a duo, Mena and Aizlynn can also make a room move with solo styles that are as distinctive as they are compatible. "I would definitely say that everything's got a soul," says Mena, 25, of her taste in house music. Alternately, Aizlynn says, "I like more pumpin,' bangin,' but really deep, smooth bass lines. I like it to go all over the place." And while—as both explain—DJs rely on dancers, they both feel that their art goes deeper than just getting crowds to move. Aizlynn, a masseuse-in-training from Tennessee, continues, "I like a lot of spoken word. I [try] to inspire people to look deeper within themselves and forget about all the dumb, superficial shit that doesn't matter...but at the same time, I like to drop super-sexy, carnal material, too."

As it started to rain outside Pala before another tagging set, Mena expanded on Aizlynn's words: "[House] is like another sense. There's just something about it. You feel it or you don't—and you know when you feel it." And live, the girls feel it together; they thrive on each other's energy, switching back and forth on the decks seamlessly. In fact, their connection was striking even as they chatted casually outside the club. "I'll never turn down playing with Mena," Aizlynn says. "But I definitely like to play by myself sometimes. You can take it on a journey with no breaks. It's a journey when I play with her, too, but I'm only in control of half of it." JOSEY DUNCAN. Mena and Aizlynn perform Saturday, March 10, with Brett Johnson at Pala. 9 pm. $10. 21+.DEVIN PHILLIPS band AND HUNGRY MOB MARCH 2 AT THE DOUG FIR[JAZZ 'N' HIP-HOP] Despite the similarities between jazz and hip-hop (a shared lineage that stretches back to Africa, a common reliance on improvisation, etc.), jazz fans—even those who don't mind the funky, New Orleans stylings of an artist like Devin Phillips—usually have a hard time "getting" hip-hop. And Hungry Mob's Mic Crenshaw is about to drive the point home.

"This shit's about police brutality," Crenshaw says to a still-arriving crowd at the Doug Fir. Hungry Mob just wrapped up a modified cover of Steve Miller Band's "Fly Like an Eagle," and the MC is finally getting comfortable midway through the band's set—but his growing ease actually seems to discomfort a good portion of the diverse, age-spanning crowd. "It's a crazy world we live in...mo'fuckas really gotta stop trippin' in the first place, right?" he adds. But Crenshaw has to ask, "Y'all hear me?" and receives a somewhat awkward response of scattered applause.

Behind me at the bar, a small group of early-middle-aged women (ladies' night out, I presume) are quick to change the subject. Headliner Devin Phillips, a Portland transplant from Katrina-ravaged New Orleans, they all agree, is totally hot.

"He is such a hottie," one says. "Oh yeah, he's flat-out gorgeous," another chimes in, hesitating a second before adding thoughtfully, "and he has such a sexual energy." Later in the evening, Phillips stands bow-legged in the middle of the stage and plays the opening notes of a frustratingly familiar (if Cajun-spiced) latter-day standard on his sax. In the men's room, a dapper, middle-aged gentleman with a clean-shaven head dries his hands and hums along. "What's the name of that tune?" I ask. "I don't have a clue!" he replies. "I like it, though."

At the foot of the stage, the women from the bar receive Phillips' "sexual energy" with wide smiles, trying to catch the earnest musician's attention at every note. But Phillips—whose mastery is hard to reconcile with the fact that he's only in his mid-20s—maintains a workmanlike stance, his wide eyes fixed on some well-dusted corner of the Fir's architecture. He seems to have absorbed both the soul and musicianship of his former city, and now he's spreading both—like a sax-bearing Johnny Appleseed—across Portland. Phillips' keyboardist, Portland-based Ramsey Embick, also appears to have internalized the New Orleans spirit: He shakes frantically while hunched over his keyboards, his graying beard and shaggy hair obscuring his face in a manner remiscent of Bill Evans circa 1975.

Despite this energy, much of the audience receives Phillips and his band just as it received Hungry Mob: A few devotees listen while the rest of the crowd mingles. As Phillips hides a few bars from "When the Saints Come Marching In" in a deftly played solo, half the crowd swarms the bar, speaking loudly to hear over all that pesky music. No one told them, apparently, that Mardi Gras was last week. CASEY JARMAN.