10
Things I Love About NXNW
BY BILL
SMITH
243-2122
ext. 310
To music lovers, the business side of music is as boring
as a convention of Bible salesmen. So is there a point to
the business-burdened NXNW extravaganza? Yeah.
Ten, in fact:
ONE: Discovering the old in the new. I never got
to hear the Rev. Al Green or Marvin Gaye testify to the
masses in their "Stay Together" or "What's Going On" heydays,
but I got taken to the river by Seattle's real-deal Maktub
and vocalist Reggie Watts' versatile falsetto Thursday at
Berbati's.
TWO: Discovering the new at the old. John Fahey's
street-flooding show Friday at the Green Onion was a puzzler--not
for Fahey's ambient, hyper-tuned blues variations, which
sounded as quirky and spacey as always, but for the hipper-than-thou
scenesters hushed into submission in the tiny joint. Where
were all these folks at the Scott Fields show a couple months
back?
THREE: ...and the old at the old. Ex-X fans filled
Jimmy Mak's to the brim for axeman Tony Gilkyson's
punkabilly runthrough Friday. Though Gilkyson proved that
he's no frontman, his strings still carry sound and fury.
FOUR: Rediscovering the tried and true. Sure, some
of these bands you could see any week here in town. Do you?
Lisa Miller & the Trailer Park Honeys forced
me to buy three beers to cry in at the Tugboat on Thursday
so that I never even made it to the waning notes of 3
Leg Torso. But the Torso disc sounded good at home
at 3 am.
FIVE: Heartless gluttony. There was a certain satisfaction
to be found in walking out of WACO's abysmal Procol
Harum-cum-ELO wank, only to be lifted high by the pure country
of the Bellyachers just steps away, then higher still
by Maktub.
SIX: Witnessing terror-stricken faces. Stupefied
Jimmy Mak's patrons froze in fright when the
Natrons launched their helium-screeching punk-blues
into hyperdrive Friday. One late-night diner lost his plate
of calamari in the ensuing melee.
SEVEN: Window shopping. If the sidewalk sight lines
were right--like at Rocco's and the Green Onion--you actually
could be part of the band!
EIGHT: Remembering what it's like to be a musician
in the headlights. Cherub-faced accordionist Ida Nilson
of Vancouver's Radiogram looked like she was going
to lose her lunch as she prepared for her sole trumpet solo
of the evening.
NINE: Cleaning out the closet. Exhibit A: '20s-style
Scottish plaid swimsuit, black bra, fish-nets, stilettos
and Saran Wrap neck-to-knee rain garb. Exhibit B: Seven-months-pregnant
hard body with a half-shirt.
TEN: Portland. No other event brings such disparate
waves of the city's humanity together in one (or many) room(s)
at the same time without a judge getting
involved.
BXBW:
Booze by Booze West
Music + Alcohol
= L.U.V.
BY
JOHN GRAHAM
jgraham@wweek.com
As you drive through a bleary-eyed and blister-toed safari
such as North by Northwest, the mental gears occasionally
need some extra lubrication to keep moving smoothly. Here
are one man's highlights of the weekend's activities, in
terms of sound and swill.
AT THE DRIVE-IN
Beverage: Strongbow cider
The payoff: The cider's carbonated, high alcohol-content
kick was well suited for At the Drive-In's potent (yet sweet)
agit-rock. As the band screamed, swung and flailed through
a sweaty, afro-drenching set of serrated post-punk, the
cider rose to meet the swelling anthemic choruses, then
faded with dignity into the mellower buzz of At the Drive-In's
more melodic verses. Rating: B+.
THE ICARUS LINE
Beverage: Bud
(24 oz. bazooka can)
The payoff: Paint the town red, mein Sohn!
Not only did Bud's crimson container match the band's bloody
choice of neckties, but both had a no-bullshit attitude
that cut through any pretense and aimed straight at the
throat. Musically, the Icarus Line spasmed as if trapped
in a defibrillation machine, psychotically slicing up the
Jesus Lizard's murderous slash attack with the Birthday
Party's confrontational mania; the Bud, meanwhile, helped
cool nerves electrified by the glorious sonic destruction.
Rating: A- (Icarus Line); B- (Bud, though by that time it
was fine enough).
THE DOLOMITES
Beverage: Chernobyl Stout
The payoff: If it's Irish punk, you gotta have stout--even
if the Tugboat's toxically strong version is only served
by the half pint. The Dolomites, however, were a full bucket
of trouble as always, smashing prop bottles over people's
heads, throwing CDs like shuriken into the packed house
and generally swaggering through their set of boisterous
Oirish drinking songs. Adorably intoxicated banjo man Max
is moving to the Emerald Isle, though, so future changes
may dictate a different booze/music complement. Rating:
B+.
TWO TON BOA
Beverage: Hamm's
The payoff: Shoulda chosen Oly instead, as Two Ton
Boa's sad-clown vision of carnivalesque indie-goth is custom
made for Washington's state capital and its over-achieving
hipsterati. Sherry Fraser's pained, powerful wails easily
stomped any "cute little girl" expectations based on her
diminutive size or doll-face makeup, while the band's two-basses-no-guitar
arrangements rumbled stomachs even during the slow-waltzing
ballads. Rating: B.
SCARED OF CHAKA
Beverage: Pabst
The payoff: This gig's theme: old friends reuniting.
Half of Albuquerque seemed to show up to witness their old
homeys buzzing up a storm of grin-inducing garage. Though
no one was drunk enough to get too crazy, good ol'
Pabst tasted as amiable as the band, and everything went
down smoothly. Hi-fives for all. Rating: B+.
VUE
Beverage: Water
The payoff: Water?!? What the...? Yes, it's true.
By this time, saturation point had almost been reached.
And let's be honest: Vue's Stones-jonesing and Stooges-duplicating
retro rock'n'roll isn't as debauched as they'd like to think.
Energetic, entropic and damn entertaining, sure. But these
fashionable kids are too young to pull off the slutty innuendo
and nutso insanity their chosen rock style requires. Check
the IDs at the door, then pour another glass of H20.
When they reach the appropriate age, though, look the fuck
out.
AUKTYON
Beverage: Full Sail amber ale
The payoff: You're right--vodka would've been far
more appropriate for these freak-rockin' Russkies. But Full
Sail's warm glow was heavy enough to march alongside Auktyon's
staccato rhythms, yet light enough to bounce with the band's
poppier swing. Regardless, as the reed player squealed out
liquid-rubber runs on a variety of saxophones and the drummer
drilled out machine-gun rat-a-tat fills, anything would've
tasted good. Simple rule of thumb: Unique music requires
no added input of the liquid sort. Rating: A
Get
on the Bus
BY CARYN
B. BROOKS
cbrooks@wweek.com
My posse and I were thinking of going into Dante's on Friday
night, but the crowd seemed unbearable. All of a sudden
this yellow too-cool-for-school bus pulled up. It was the
NXNW shuttle tram and it was ready for action. In a moment
of whimsy, we climbed aboard with no destination in mind.
The volunteers manning the bus played strange musical implements
and threw bags of Kettle Chips at us as we climbed the steps.
Good/bad classic rock boomed from a radio. When we got to
the Tonic Lounge, the bus driver told us she had a 10-minute
layover and urged us to pop inside for a quick snort of
whiskey. We timed our drinking and when we got back, none
other than local music-booking impresario Tres Shannon climbed
on board, more than impressed with the realness of the school
bus, playing with the windows to make that long forgotten
sound. At an intersection, I threw a bag of chips out the
window to one of our charming local hoboes, and he did a
jig for us. Eric Clapton's "Cocaine" played on the radio,
we munched on our chips, and life was good.
Through
Being Cool
The music
industry is sick of indie rock. Many indie rockers couldn't
be happier.
BY
MARTY L. SMITH
243-2122
My working hypothesis going into this year's North by Northwest:
As the music industry's A & R daydreams of finding the
next Nirvana gradually gave way to more practical speculations
about how to create the next N'Sync, commercial interest
in so-called "indie rock" as a whole would wane. Those who
pursued this music for reasons of fame and glory, seeing
no likely payoff, would lose interest, and only those who
did it for the sheer joy of the thing would remain. Thus
would independent music be wrested from the jaws of corporate
rock, and a fairytale ending would be enjoyed by all.
A nice story, but is it true? Departing from my customary
journalistic practice, I decided to actually do a little
research during NXNW. In the wake of these efforts, the
answer appears to be an unqualified "Maybe!" While there
are still plenty of putatively independent acts who have
no interest in being wrested from the jaws of corporate
rock (some going so far as to wallow in béarnaise
sauce prefatory to arranging themselves fetchingly on a
bed of rice), I found a widespread acknowledgement of the
fact the industry has largely moved on, and many musicians
at least claim eagerness to get back to the business of
making music without the distractions of the music business.
The lead singer of Portland band Man of the Year,
who gave his name as Todd Morrissey even though I know damned
well it's not, boasted that he wasn't even carrying a demo
tape on him this year. "As a musician you never know what
people are going to think anyway, so you don't care," he
said. "Early on, I gave up on what people are going to think.
You've gotta go down in your little fucking basement, and
you just make something that sounds cool. It's not a new
story."
Daniel Riddle of King Black Acid concurs. "Everbody's
going back into the basement. Why else would they be selling
so many four-tracks and eight-tracks and 16-tracks? It's
because rock and roll is back in the hands of the musicians."
Of course, all this noble asceticism begs the question
of why so many bands are playing a festival that's essentially
designed as an industry showcase. Are we sure that even
the most avowedly artistically motivated bands aren't secretly
dreaming of Getting Signed?
"No, they just want attention," says Riddle. "That's all
that any of us wants. Love me, Daddy; love me, Mommy. What
more is there?"
Nate Fasold of the Natrons professed to be enjoying
the music but was more cynical about the motivations of
the organizers. "It's like one of those modeling schools
where they say, 'Come to us, we'll make you a model!' And
then you have to pay a hundred dollars and you have to travel
to L.A. or someplace, drive a couple hours to the hotel,
and then you find yourself sitting with 500 other people
all wanting to be supermodels, and they give lectures and
workshops on how to get rid of your zits with toothpaste
and eat apples to stay skinny."
And on that latter topic, at least, indie rockers generally
need no advice.
Music
for Nothing, Chicks for Free
BY PATRICK
BELL
243-2122
This being my first venture into the land of conventions,
I wasn't sure what to expect. But as the alcohol started
flowing freely, one conventioneer was polite enough to straighten
me out. "Hey, man, you gotta work it," he said. "That's
why we're here!"
And that's just what I set out to do. Realizing that I
would be competing against at least 1,000 other NXNW volunteers,
all brimming with an overwhelming drive for service to the
music community, I retied my shoelaces and braced myself
for the onslaught.
First, I picked up my all-access pass and my bag of goodies
provided by NXNW: a couple of magazines, some free CDs,
and a black stocking cap. I really wanted one of those neon-lime-green
volunteer T-shirts, but "the Man" refused to give me one.
I offered to trade him my newly acquired hat, but again
he refused. I made a note that bartering might not be the
best way to win over these "lords of all things free."
These people had figured out how to play the system like
Tiger Woods plays mini-golf. Most were in Portland on all-expenses-paid
business trips. They had access to company credit cards,
rental cars, gas money, lunch money and, of course, the
chance to relax in the opulent grandeur of the Embassy Suites
Hotel in downtown Portland. I checked out the scene but
thought it a little too high-class for my taste. Plus, the
noise and insincerity of it all was starting to get to me.
This was a music festival, after all. I needed something
more personal, something to get my motor running. I quickly
scanned the program for inspiration: At Union Jacks! Rock!
Nudity! Feminist protesters! This promised to be hot.
Sadly, by the time I arrived, the small contingent of protesters
had already split. Apparently, a rerun of the 7th Heaven
episode in which Stephen Collins catches one of his kids
smoking the Devil's Weed was coming on and no one from the
Revolutionary Purity Movement wanted to miss it. But hey,
how could I be disappointed? It was a wet dream come true:
downhome rock and nudity, all in the same room, and, aside
from obligatory tips, all free! Free, I tell you!
When I was passed an invitation for another Rock-and-Roll
Strip-athon at Doc's on Powell, it was a no-brainer. More
free rock, more free beer, more free graphic and explicit
nudity. What could be better? Again, I was not disappointed.
Free-flowing beer opened the wallets of partygoers, who
proceeded to litter the stage with an autumnal clutter of
worn dollar bills. While the beautiful girls pranced, Munkafust,
Shapeshifter, and Vegas De Milo (all part
of Pinch Hit Records) tore into a crazy concoction of pure,
overdriven sex-rock. But the craziest and most surprising
thing was, when the free beer ran out, people didn't leave.
They were having such a good time, they forgot the whole
purpose of this gathering--Music for Nothing and Chicks
for Free. You gotta work it.
Final Tally of Freebies:
1 crappy stocking cap
3 mediocre buffets
4 belly dancers
9 CDs by bands I will never
listen to
1 CD I will listen to
(Go Kart Go)
27 naked women
42 free drinks
(18 liquor and 24 beer)
Overall, I think I made out like a bandit.
Invitation
to a Hanging
Poster Show Review
BY
ZACH DUNDAS
zdundas@wweek.com
It would be easy to pity the North by Northwest Poster
Show, the annual one-man effort of Portland designer
Mike King to secure some respect (damn it) for an
art form crucial to music specifically and the aesthetics
of city streets in general. Almost lost amid the richly
amplified sweatfests, the amply stocked buffets and panel
discussions on gripping topics like Does Your Press Kit
Get The Job Done?, the Poster Show has sometimes seemed
like the festival's most benighted step-child.
This year, though, there was no need to shed a tear for
King's baby, because the Poster Show occupied the Johnny
Sole shoe emporium with the sassy self-assurance of an ice-decked
debutante. For anyone after a quick hit of eye-candy, the
2D display at the clog-shop beat the tame displays at Union
Jack's handily; for those with an unscratchable yen for
poster art, it provided a bracing--almost frightening--cross-section
of the talent currently bouncing around town.
In the midst of a few boring chicks/tits/cars Kozick knock-offs,
some truly luxe work from Portland designers stood out.
In addition to ultra-solid usual suspects like Guy Burwell
and King himself, relatively fresh forces made their
presence known. Brian Heileson struck off designs
for Sleater-Kinney and Modest Mouse that made
retro look stylish again. Jealous Butcher Records commandante
Rob Jones delivered some crisp, lighthearted flyers
for his often downcast
label kids.
Best-of-show has to go to the gorgeous density of Firefly
Press' work for 31 Knots and other bands and Carolina-to-Portland
transplant Eric Steven's lush spreads for bands from
back home. Firefly, the Portland offset and letterpress
house that keeps it real with vintage equipment and workmanlike
pride, united its old-school techniques with a refreshingly
anti-retro tension of colliding texts and
fractured graphics.
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