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The
Dickel Brothers' stomp at the Medicine Hat celebrated the
release of Hot Pinball Rock Vol. 1, a compilation
of greasy flame-outs inspired and collected by multiball.
The comp, which draws on the series of
7" singles that accompanies the Portland-based "flipper
action
culture" 'zine, includes tracks by the Dickels, The Pills
and Fireballs of Freedom.
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Mel
Brown Quintet
Jimmy
Mak's
Thursday,
April 27
Pedro
the Lion, Ida
Meow
Meow
Friday,
April 28
Wayne
Kramer, Streetwalkin' Cheetahs
EJ's
Friday,
April 28
Dickel
Brothers, Kent 3
Medicine
Hat
Saturday,
April 29
When he sits behind his drum kit, Mel Brown shines
with the innate royalty of a gleeful Buddha. The magnetic
ebb and flow of his playing--sometimes a precise hail of
beats, sometimes a bare count on his hi-hat cymbal--make
him master of all he surveys. And yet he is most serene.
Just as the occasional Christmas or Easter church visit
reassures a sinner as to his ultimate place in the flock,
a spell at Jimmy Mak's last Thursday was enough to bolster
the faith of the most jaded lamb in music's congregation.
Brown and his comrades don't have time for any of the thug-rock
posturing, fake-ass booty-calling, scenester back-biting
or cyber-phile hawking that often combine to make music
feel suspiciously like a grind. When Brown lets an avalanche
of snare loose behind Renato Caranto's venomous saxophone,
it's as though the air might suddenly ignite.
You could argue that straight jazz is as outmoded as a
Dutch master these days. Like, where's the art, man?
Thank God, Brown's quintet travels without the dismal freight
of postmodern cleverness that now seems mandatory for musicians
aspiring to anything more lofty than Total Request Live.
As Brown furiously minds his kit, it feels alarmingly like
something actually, verifiably real is happening. And it
feels pretty damn good.
Meow Meow, the new all-ages club on Southeast Pine
Street, debuted Friday night with an indie-pop triple bill,
and the Kids duly showed up for the christening of Todd
Fadel and Amy Glenn's baby.
Meow Meow has a decent sound system and a very cool soda
lounge/make-out room tricked out in pink. If Glenn and Fadel
can harness half the energy that oozed through the place
Friday on a regular basis, they'll be set. Powered by word
of mouth, Meow Meow is already booked deep into summer with
touring bands and locals. Can you say "godsend"? Good.
I missed the ever-charming local ladies and lad of Dear
Nora, arriving just in time to hear Ida whisper
a few sweet nothings about something. Then, Pedro the
Lion tiptoed to the stage. The only thing even mildly
exciting about these sensitive Seattleites is leader David
Bazan's unnerving Mennonite-style beard. Introspection
can be nice--and, to judge by the sympathetic head-nodding
of the crowd, many find PTL's navel-gazing quite nice indeed.
I just found this sleepytime music a rough fit with Meow
Meow's straight shot of young vinegar.
Still, Friday night's most somnabulent show slumbered at
EJ's. Apparently, the Swingin' Neckbreakers' appearance
at Satyricon stole most of Portland's le's jus' fuggin'
rawk!!! crew, because even MC5 icon Wayne
Kramer couldn't fill the room. Just as well, as it turned
out.
The warm-up set by L.A.'s Streetwalkin' Cheetahs--who
take their name from an Iggy Pop song, just in case
you can't figure out their schtick on your own--was a suitably
beer-spattered orgy of full-test rock. Still, they sounded
better when they had the guts to imitate the Smithereens'
power-pop instead of plowing the same low-com-denom
retro-metal cultivated by Nashville Pussy et al.
Compared with Kramer's leaden fusion of wanky guitar and
desiccated right-on-brother politics, though, the Cheetahs'
revivalist antics were grand.
Capping a five-way orgy of brain-tilting rock at the Medicine
Hat on Saturday, Seattle's Kent 3 slapped a boozy
crowd awake with its prickly, springloaded mod vampire act.
Singer and guitarist Viv Halogen looks like a hipster
ghoul and sings like a frantic friend of Lord Byron.
After stinging often and stinging hard, Kent 3 turned the
increasingly sodden room over to the ministry of The
Dickel Brothers. Of all the bands that nod to bygone
eras, Portland's riotous channelers of Appalachian angst
do the best job of making the past sound like the future.
Though reduced to a four-man set-up from their usual quintet
and, thus, sounding a little (more) ragged around the seams,
the Dickels' unamplified rave-up provoked hammering footstomps
and bleary yodels as late night twisted into early morning.
Hands slapped, bodies swayed and nearly toppled. It was
lots of things, but nostalgia wasn't one of them.
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Willamette Week | originally
published April 26,
2000
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