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Other
noteworthy shows:
Birdy
Num Num, the new pop band fronted by Disc Jockey
Gregarious, debuted with practically virulent enthusiasm
and more hooks than a meat packing plant.
Rollerball
failed to achieve the ambient heights and depths it reaches
on disc.
Scared
of Chaka delivered a harsh midnight wake-up call to
its new hometown at EJ's, soon to be Portland's most-mourned
venue.
Braille
Stars kicked a reportedly gorgeous new CD into the world
with a glimmering Satyricon set.
The
Natrons torched Jimmy Mak's (I mean figuratively, but
it was almost literally--the bass amp blew up in spectacular
fashion) with an unhinged offering of blues/punk aggression.
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"The music business is a cruel and shallow money trench,
a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and
good men die like dogs. There's also a negative side."
--Hunter S. Thompson
The Russian in white shook like a seizure victim, vibrating
in place on the Green Onion's stage. Tall, ostrich-thin and
awkward, he sometimes leaned to the microphone to flap his
tongue and hiss. Mostly, he let the off-the-rails momentum
of Auktyon, his eight-member post-sane carnival from
St. Petersburg, drive him further into the quivers.
Auktyon's music put a hot iron to most of the hundred or
so crowded into the narrow Persian-themed club as the final
witching hour of North by Northwest 2000 passed.
Spirals of maniacal horns, a thunder of drums and guttural
vocals spun from the stage. Auktyon first formed in the
days when deviant music was anathema to the rusting Empire
that still believed it was Building Socialism. After decades
of fighting like blood-hungry pitbulls for the right to
shriek, these eight guys turned everything loose in a cacophonous
victory rite.
If Auktyon's ecstatic, volcanic Saturday night coup
de grâce captured everything right with the annual
gathering of bands and music industry types, it was because
it was far, far removed from the shop-talk and schmooze
that mars the festival. While this year's conclave at the
Embassy Suites offered a few moments of genuine insight
into an industry that currently has its collective panties
in a twist over technology, it mostly provided a reminder
that the music business crawls with glad-handers, gizmo
merchants and ten-percenters eager to squeeze a living out
of other people's art.
But it's just like anything--it's all in how you look at
it. Every day of trade-show hawkery and meandering talk
evaporated into a night of music, and in just enough cases,
the music was good enough to redeem the whole affair.
I began my NXNW immersion Wednesday night at Berbati's,
in the fierce barrage of scattergun emo-agitation of At
the Drive-In. The Texans survived the curse of "industry
buzz," blistering an opening-night crowd with a display
of unfeigned intensity. I could have done without lead singer
Cedric Bixler's silly between-songs poetry--though
not without his throat-ravaging fire. Careening around the
stage with animal abandon, ATDI spared no quarter in a show
that was clearly too over-the-top for some in attendance,
but just fine by me.
Thursday night at Ground Kontrol, I caught the precocious
yearlings of Seattle's The Vogue dealing a hard-to-swallow
set of stripped-down, glam-filtered rock to a half-befuddled
crowd. I went back and forth between loving and hating these
ambitious kids about six times, which is probably just how
they planned it. Their songs radiate a cold and mysterious
menace, and lead singer Johnny Whitney is a one-man
spectacle, vamping and preening as he spits his upper-register
venom. At the same time, their studied preciousness can
get annoying--and as for the reedy back-up vocalist occupying
space at the back of the stage, well, he must be toting
an awful lot of gear to justify his presence. Still, by
the time the last wiry guitar line and poisonous keyboard
crash went down, I was converted by their inventiveness
and aggression. Yes, they're young--but so what? Pete
Townshend did some of his best work before he hit 22,
and while I wouldn't want to curse the Vogue with that fate,
they carry promise beyond their years.
It took a sweat-box set at Meow Meow by Olympia's The
Gossip to really set the festival rolling, though. With
the fresh-faced indie-rocker crowd fervently clapping along,
the three transplanted Arkansans hammered out an authoritatively
vicious fusion of blues, punk and soul. By the end of their
all-too-short Friday set, the stage was crowded with revelers
dancing and grabbing a few seconds of mic time apiece. In
a weekend overflowing with soulless industry jockeying and
talk, it was a moment of pure pleasure, the kind that can't
be packaged for sale.
Saturday night came Auktyon's uprising, along with a gorgeous
set by Portland's Braille Stars. The Vue,
a shaggy San Francisco contingent, were completely unchained
at Berbati's, nearly hitting the feral energy levels of
At the Drive-In. They do need to lose the boring retro fashion
and fourth-hand Stones hooks and really live a little,
but anyone looking for a cleansing jolt of passion got it.
Finally, I ducked out of the Green Onion in time to finish
the night with Black Angel at Dante's. The soul band
practically owns that stage, and it defended its claim with
a set as smooth as it was steeled.
As this year's NXNW faded into gilded memory, it's safe
to say that it changed very few lives. From some angles,
it showcased all that is and will continue to be warped
and wrong with the music industry. But from others, it proved
that music is often where the last fragment of our cultural
Id not yet annihilated by focus groups, therapy, pharmaceuticals
and television comes out to play rough.
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