Spring may be the fairest of them all, but there's no disputing
that summer is the season of Rock. And, praise be, summer
has arrived--as I sit here rattling the keys, Portland idles
under blue skies at last. A palpable sense of relief suffuses
the streets, as if everyone in the city just loosened their
belts three notches.
The deep-dyed angst of most American music seems designed
for summer, when the lava of primal energy simmering beneath
humanity's civilized veneer percolates. The days stretch.
People sweat. Even white-collar types, whose main occupational
hazard is mouse-click-related carpal tunnel, feel gritty.
Sometimes it seems like it would only take one really loud
Sly and the Family Stone song to set off chaos in the streets.
Fortunately for the civil peace, most people seek out music
as a release for their seasonal hormone buildup, not as
a riot catalyst. Summer's torrent of live music works in
perfect sync with the ruling passions of the season. In
fact, when the touring bands really start rolling in and
the locals get their thing together, the schedule of a restless
noise addict can start to resemble a sonic decathlon.
So it was last week, as the hopping Millennium Summer hinted
at by promising spring shows like the Miss-U's Rock
'n' Roll Circus rave-up at Berbati's in May and the strictly
off-the-hook Hungry Mob CD release party at the 1201
Lounge at the end of June began to bloom.
I launched my campaign Wednesday, when a pair of pop darlings
from the vaunted Elephant 6 Collective rolled into
17 Nautical Miles, the refreshingly stripped-down all-ages
club that hides in deepest Woodstock. Denver seems like
an unlikely hotbed for dreamy neo-psychedelia, but both
Dressy Bessy and Apples in Stereo hail from
the Mile High City. And indeed, that seems an appropriate
altitude for the Brian Wilson-impacted aesthetic of Apples
leader Robert Schneider. On record, Schneider's dark
lyrics can weigh his band down a little, but live, the Apples
are pure, caramel-fuelled energy. The sweaty crush in 17's
close quarters muffled the sound a little but lent the night
an unmediated, fleshy immediacy that more polished shows
lack.
The next night, a mixup about every journalist's God-given
right to free access everywhere forever dissuaded me from
checking out Portland surf-rockers Satan's Pilgrims
at the Crystal Ballroom. I ended up at the Mad Hatter Lounge
slurping asparagus soup and soaking up the heartfelt acoustic
Lilith-isms of Ashleigh Flynn. Both broth and song
were serviceable enough, but neither really set my world
on fire.
Friday brought some freshly scrubbed electronica to the
Crystal, as Olympia's IQU and Scotland's Looper
broke out artsy dance music so precocious and cute you wanted
to pinch its blessed little cheeks. IQU served up exuberance
to spare, overdoing it a little when leader K.O.
wore out his welcome on the Theremin. Looper, meanwhile,
opted for a sound more understated and, yep, more British
than that of their confreres in IQU--plenty of spoken word
over beats mellowed for a rainy world of pastures and antique
buildings. Nice.
After class was dismissed at the Ballroom, I managed to
catch a few songs by Will Oldham at Berbati's. Oldham,
better known under his various pseudonyms beginning with
the word Palace, towed along a full band and cranked
out '70s grange rock that put me in mind of my dad's record
collection. Solid, but a bit jarring after the oh-so-'90s
Looper-IQU sets.
Saturday had me back at the Crystal again. Say what you
will about the Ballroom's echo-laden sound and less-than-perfect
layout--the McMenamin's franchise is nailing the big shows.
And to judge by the heady mix of demographics milling around,
Saturday's Sleater-Kinney/Bratmobile/The
Need throwdown was a big show indeed. Bratmobile, the
reunited riot grrl rebels, blasted me back to circa '93
with their unkempt, ultra-lo-fi collision of guitar, drums
and voice. Of course, half the Johnny-and-Janey-come-lately
hipsters in the room had next to zero inkling how much their
S-K heroines owe Bratmobile, but lead singer Allison
Wolfe's karate kicks and frenetic shrieks showed just
who begat who.
Not to say that Sleater-Kinney didn't step up to prove
themselves worthy of their inheritance. I'd only heard them
on record before, and I just didn't believe the hype. Okay,
now I been told--Corin Tucker's vast, almost operatic
singing lays down the law, Carrie Brownstein may
be a female Pete Townshend for the 21st century, and drummer
Janet Weiss flat-out levels every village in her
path. You can all quit bugging me about it.
The mercury's rising. Ready for the Make-Up, Foxy Brown
and Cassius, everyone?
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Willamette Week | originally
published July 14, 1999
|
