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Saturday,
October 2
NXNW
'99 Daystage
Embassy Suites Hotel
Siobhan O'Brien (12:15 pm)
G-Notes (2 pm)
8
PM
Lady Speed
EJ's
Lead singer Lisa Lea drives a fast and furious
ride through songs about drinking, smoking and cussing--all
your greater rock 'n' roll themes, basically. Her deep voice
keeps up with the screech of guitar and rapid-fire drumming
that combine punk, rock and rockabilly into a life-threatening
road trip. Plus, the group's mostly female makeup is an
invigorating reminder that women don't need to be cheerleaders
to be in bands. (KL)
Bossa Nova 2600
Kelly's Olympian
The Millennium is party time for these post-smash-up
pop balladeers. Coolly detached vocals recall the heyday
of New Wave with their sensitive-yet-sardonic bite. Meanwhile,
in the background, hundreds of machines lose their minds
in a brilliant cacophony of computer squeaks, rapid-fire
beats and stray electric buzzes. Music to conga through
the Apocalypse by. (ZD)
9
PM
Sindacato
Ash Street Saloon
The authentic sound of the heartland
pours out of these Indianapolis boys, who know how to wring
the sweet juices out of guitars, fiddles and banjos. We've
been playing this music on these shores since before the
Civil War, and Sindacato represents the tradition well.
(ZD)
Tim Easton
Berbati's Pan
Back in the bad old days of the
'80s, things were very good for at least one wing of grassroots
rock. Bands like the Replacements and the dBs rehabilitated
the time-honored bar-band tradition. In the wake of ultra-arty
New Wave, these rugged outfits made it cool to kick out
loud, midtempo, cheap-beer rock--so long as you had a heart
and a mind to speak it with. Tim Easton, a refugee from
Columbus, Ohio's Haynes Brothers, understands. A test of
his solo work shows rock and roll running through his veins.
It's loud, it reeks of booze and heartbreak. Best of all,
it hides gallons of country moonshine underneath its hollowed-out
floorboards, just as it should. God bless America, and turn
up the amps. (ZD)
The Viles
Club 21
A sonic suckerpunch. That's what the Viles
delivered unto the gut of Portland's music scene when they
popped up like a malevolent Jack-in-the-Box a few months
ago. Erupting with a fully realized vision, the Viles took
to the stage with a simple goal: Grind out great punk rock'n'roll
as if Portland were the sixth borough of New York City.
They stumbled upon a star-in-the-making with magnificent
raspy-brat singer Genny Genocide, the kind of give-no-quarter,
take-no-shit woman this town has been recently craving like
a nicotine fix; with her tooth-gnashing, throat-thrashing
vocals leading the way, the Viles' urban rock may be just
the thing to convince you Portland is finally outgrowing
its backwoods status. (JG)
Robot
Cobalt Lounge
Did you know that the word "robot"
derives from a Czech root? Strange but true. What's it got
to do with Robot, the band from L.A.? Very little, except
these four strapping young men seem to be in tune with their
romantic side, definitely something our brothers and sisters
in Prague could appreciate. Melodramatic vocals recall the
Cure's Robert Smith and Bono before those insufferable sunglasses
were permanently attached to his face. The music's tense,
always seeming to be on its way to an emotional crescendo
it never reaches. In some cases that could be a drawback,
but with Robot, I get a heavy vibe that that's the point.
(ZD)
Tongue
EJ's
Last year, Tongue twisted what could have
been a credibility-destroying catastrophe--missing its official
NXNW showcase due to traveling woes--into a miniature PR
coup. In an attempt to make amends, the cathartic Cali punk
band dropped by Club 21 the night following its aborted
performance for a free gig that bowled over the less-than-prepared
crowd--not to mention a few unsuspecting tables. But then
Tongue isn't a band that likes to sit still when there's
action to be had. It can't stay immobile musically, either:
Lead screecher Liz Terine can warble like a female Jello
Biafra or wail like Theo from the Lunachicks, while the
band continually time-warps from '80s hardcore to '60s surf
to '90s art-metal and even tosses in musical references
to the Cure. It's all a bit odd, that's true. But isn't
that true of everything worth investigating? (JG)
Fez Fatale
Golden Crust Pavilion
It's all about quirky with
this Portland band. Harmony vocals ride a bucking electric
guitar. From rock to swinging jazz with neck-cracking speed,
the Fez ladles out a little something for everyone. (ZD)
Nevada Bachelors
Ground Kontrol
A Seattle trio drops Brit Invasion
pop bombs on an unsuspecting public. Kudos flow from all
quarters. Fans swoon. Journos spill copious ink over the
darling triad, spitting comparisons to the Beatles' White
Album and the risen masters of guilty-pleasure snarl-pop,
the one and only Oasis. Portland music editor feels intrigued,
beguiled, charmed. (ZD)
Paul Brasch
Jimmy Mak's
This Burnside Records recording artist
sings the blues--and if there was ever a city where that
was appropriate, it's Spokane, Wash., Brasch's rusted-out
hometown. Though his immediate inspiration may come from
his surroundings, Brasch touches on the blood-stained and
beautiful heritage of Delta masters Charlie Patton, Robert
Johnson and Son House. (ZD)
Captain vs. Crew
Kelly's Olympian
Hit the basement, turn it up,
let loose. Captain vs. Crew, featuring the guitar and vocals
of Portland's Rob Jones, the indie impresario behind Jealous
Butcher Records, falls in the tradition of earnest and muscular
bands retrofitting punk for their own needs. The days of
spiked jackets and simulated anarchy are deep in the past
for CvC. Instead, they lay it on the line for our millennial
times, producing ragged and squalling anthems to their own
anguish and power. (ZD)
Tenpin
Rocco's
You can almost describe Portland punk
bands by their hygiene habits, of which there are two primary
types: dirty (the great unwashed) and clean (the bright
and shiny). The former favors greasy hair and gruff vocals
and expects imperfection in a live performance setting.
The latter loves sharp pop hooks and discernible lyrics
and may even have working equipment. Tenpin fits best under
this last category. With an ear for catchy choruses and
happily melodic guitar lines, Tenpin is the punk-rock equivalent
of a Hippity-Hop--colorful, fun, and bouncy. Just make sure
you don't bounce your front teeth out. (JG)
The Riptones
Satyricon
The Riptones fuse the rugged tough times
of the rural heartland with the grit-chomping work ethic
of Chicago, their hometown. Unfaithful love, bar-room revenge
and small-town hellraising are the topics at hand, and singer
Jeb Bonansinga's ripe twang does 'em all justice. (ZD)
Ris-K
Seges ArtBar
This trio of Canadian cuties catches
a smooth R&B wave outta Vancouver, determined to get
it bumpin'. Fans of urban hit radio will find it buttery.
(ZD)
Abigail Grush and the Phantom Beat
The Spot
Cabaret music from the seedier bohemian
neighborhoods of the Lunar Colony. Grush and her spectral
Beat tangle with a menagerie of instruments, from plain-old
guitars to fiddles to bodhran drums to jawharps. Off-balance
sexiness wrestles avant garde leanings for control of the
mix. The battle never ends, but it makes a compelling show.
(ZD)
Tarkio
Tonic Lounge
The hamlet of Tarkio lies in the
mountains of western Montana, near the Idaho border and
many, many truck stops. (Don't blink--you'll miss the Tarkio
metro area's numerous charms.) The musical Tarkio, on the
other hand, hails from the leafy National Public Radio outpost
of Missoula ("The Southeast Portland of Montana") and offers
heartfelt, gorgeous music cobbled together from scraps of
pop, grange rock and alt-country. Capturing something of
its namesake 'burg's lonesomeness, Tarkio nonetheless brings
you home to world of love and tenderness by night's end.
(ZD)
Brady Harris
Tugboat Brewpub
Somewhere along the way, mainstream
country stopped fearing for its heart and started worrying
more about its wallet, but some true believers still remember
sadness. Brady Harris, a Texan marinated in that state's
tradition of hard-bitten songwriting, keeps desolation close
at hand. A youth spent listening to Waylon and Willie left
a country bedrock that not even prolonged wanders in Europe
and America could cloak. When Harris runs down the hopelessness
of a small-town dead-end in his song "Houston," the boom
is softened by his sweet style, but it descends all the
same. (ZD)
Pushy
Zoot Suite
The first time I heard the phrase "poptronica," my whole
being briefly became a fist looking for something to hit.
But when a fairly credible group like San Francisco's Pushy
titles a whole album Poptronica, I guess there's
nothing to do but run with it. With a crossover-ready handle
like that and a self-promotion machine that reportedly must
be seen to be believed (they flooded SXSW with "Eat Pushy"
stickers--can you believe these crazy kids these days?),
it'd be easy to write Pushy off as a lo-com-denom waste.
The aforementioned album, though, hides some doughty challenges:
disconnected horns, electronic surges that sound like a
robot's cry for help and loads of sexy vocals by Madeline
Minx. Turns out, Pushy's not as easy to swallow as it sounds.
(ZD)
9:30
PM
Joules Graves
Tugboat Brewpub
A soldier in Ani's army, Graves brings her full-voiced
ruminations on corporate control, environmentalism and girl-on-girl
loving down from the San Juan Islands, where the 25-year-old
Chicagoan moved to take refuge from the depredations of
the Man. Mixing in smooth funk and earthy djembe drum, Joules
keeps it all the way live for the rougher edge of the Lilith
Nation. (ZD)
10
PM
Bonkers
Ash Street Saloon
No information available at
press time.
12 Volt Sex
Berbati's Pan
Lustrous alt-rockers 12 Volt Sex
have a sound that wouldn't have been out of place on MTV's
120 Minutes circa 1991. Harmonies like caramel candies
swirl and stick in your mind, while the guitars, pushed
to the max in the mix, alternately stab and sooth, sometimes
piercing but often slippery-smooth. One could even argue
that the quartet is too smooth, but since it's from
Vegas (America's unofficial Home of Slick), that's not particularly
surprising. Live performances should sharpen the music's
edges for increased eardrum-cutting potential. (JG)
The Spitfires
Club 21
The name could be a reference to
the vintage British warplane, but it's also possible this
retro-rawk band's giving a subliminal tip of the hat to
Gene Simmons' flaming stage act. The Spitfires have a predilection
for classic rock posturing and a songwriting style that
keeps it simple, stupid--two hints that Detroit may be the
only rock city that truly warms their steel hearts. Or maybe
the moniker really does refer to the World War II fighter,
in which case the metaphor would have to be stretched as
follows: "The Spitfires strafe unsuspecting people with
machine-gun drums, divebomb them with big-rock barre-chord
payloads and shriek down the town's Main Street with vocals
that both rip and roar." Or maybe not. Hey, it's filthy
rock'n'roll, and words only get in the way of the fun. (JG)
Stradhoughton Echo
Cobalt Lounge
With a name this elegant, it's got
to be emo. Even though Tacoma's Stradhoughton Echo would
probably run in terror from the dreaded "e" word, the fact
is it embodies that largely bankrupt and boring punk subgenre's
finer points. Wandering dirges of infinite sad slowness
map out blissfully messed-up lives. (ZD)
The Valentine Killers
EJ's
With a name like this, you can assume the
Valentine Killers aren't pretty-boy sentimentalists, poetic
Lotharios or polite ladies' men. They're punks, not pundits.
If they wear any hearts on their sleeves, it's probably
ones they gouged out of someone else's chest with splintered
old guitars. They also wield said weapons for their more
standard purpose--spitting out barely controlled bursts
of lo-fi punk rock'n'roll, like explosive, hollow-tip bullets
shot with sheer force of attitude. They're not handsome.
They're not cool. And they're not nice. But the Valentine
Killers are very rock'n'roll. That may be something you
love--but don't get too sentimental about it, because these
bad-ass bastards don't care if you like 'em or not. (JG)
Pedro Luz
Golden Crust Pavilion
It's a blessing that could
be a curse. Pedro Luz has a talent for subtlety and restraint--and,
believe me, not beating people over the head is most
definitely a skill worth having--but the band's ability
to pen simple, subdued pop songs limits it to a lower profile
than it deserves. Perhaps that's because its British-sounding
ditties (depending on the song, I hear everything from James
to Blur to New Order) seem a bit alien to Pacific Northwesterners.
There's no doubt, however, that they have a wry, winsome
charm, and anyone who appreciates patience and wile will
find themselves smiling more than once during a Pedro Luz
performance. (JG)
hEEnd
Green Onion
This cleverly capitalized Seattle
band first uncorked its bent improv rock in Olympia before
relocating to Jet City in search of greener fields for its
homemade instruments and bizarro jams. Filtering funk through
a gauzy rock 'n' roll aesthetic, hEEnd conjures visions
of some whacked-out Haight-Ashbury jam in early '67, before
things went sour and stupid in the free-livin' underground.
I'll bet dollars against donuts that a raid of these boys'
vinyl piles would yield copious harvests of Hendrix and
Miles. (ZD)
From Bubble Gum to Sky
Ground Kontrol
A lesson you can learn from this
quizzically named San Fran band: If you're going to do indie
pop, go all out. Chase that big, full-bodied guitar sound.
Find out what that bass amp can do. Get a drummer who's
not afraid of a dramatic fill here and there. Write lyrics
about confused love. Follow the shining path into the kingdom
of catchiness, where you'll find FBG2S waiting for you.
(ZD)
Rudy "Tutti" Grayzell
Jimmy Mak's
Grayzell--wild man, party animal,
rockabilly godfather--normally presides over the feral good
times at his own juke joint, Rudy Tutti's out on Northeast
Sandy Boulevard. Tonight, though, this king among hellions
comes into the heart of old town to teach young cats and
seasoned pros a few moves from the pompadoured old school.
(ZD)
Rally Boy
Kelly's Olympian
A Portland band offers an ebullient
tour of the remains of the '80s. Crooning vocals pop along
the top of swaying New Wave drums and Pixies-ish guitar.
(ZD)
Settle for Enemy
Paris Theater
I bet there are plenty of Metallica
albums in the personal music stashes of the members of Settle
for Enemy. Who wants a piece of the action? I'll give you
good odds, because the Texas band's bludgeoning rawk attack
and bad-man-howls-at-moon vocals carry a strong whiff of
Hetfield and the lads. If you miss the neck-straining fun
of ...And Justice for All (and don't mind a few quieter
digressions), queue up here. (ZD)
Chad
Rocco's
No information available at press time.
Fluke Starbucker
Roseland Downstairs
Boys, after this write-up's over with, we're gonna sit
down and have a little talk about choosing good band names.
But in the meantime, I'll gladly sing the praises of Hooker
at Sea, this Oakland-by-way-of-the-Midwest band's gloriously
polluted theme-album ode to women and water. Zeroing their
raw and diffuse energy in on these particular topics has
done a world of good for a band occasionally accused of
being terminally unfocused in the past. On Hooker,
flails of guitar and shrieks still peel out of the center
of the sound, but a foundation of gritty, narrative vocals
and rock-solid rhythm underlies the strum und drang.
Washed up on the rocks of life, F.S. (I can't quite bear
to spell out the full name) keeps its chin up and its head
in the game. (ZD)
Rico Bell and the Snake Handlers
Satyricon
At last--skiffle revival! Rico serves
up alt-country, only in his case the country in question
is England. The Snake Handlers hail from Leeds in Merry
Olde's gritty north, a region where the ancient strains
of the island's native music mingle with a rock heritage
of amphetamized mod and Teddy Boy Elvis-love. These days,
of course, there's the ubiquitous thump of techno, but that
electronic pummeling is absent from Rico's heartfelt fiddle-accordion-and-guitar.
His sad tales of love, loss and working-town nights make
a solid bet for Pogues fans and others with a yen for big-shouldered,
blue-eyed balladry. (ZD)
G-Notes
Seges ArtBar
These days, what passes for rhythm
and blues often sounds like the kind of music Oscar Meyer
would make if he bailed on the potted meats business, i.e.,
stale, processed and composed of a somewhat dubious mishmash
of constituent bits. The G-Notes, a youngish family vocal
group out of Cottonwood, Calif., surprise with their genuine
hominy harmonies. They're hardly a retro act, but they have
a sense of timing and style way beyond their years. (ZD)
Little Champions
The Spot
I'm hearing everyone from the Who to
Sleater-Kinney in the amiably mop-topping, way-post-punk
Little Champions. The Seattle band mines a vein of the Northwestern
rock tradition that the blundering big-money prospectors
of the grunge rush missed: ramshackle pop that knows how
to rave it up even when broken hearts are pinned to all
the band members' sleeves. (ZD)
UHF
Tonic Lounge
The ambitious Portland lads of UHF
slam raucous slabs of Who-inspired mod upside the heads
of the watching world. Though UHF's recorded output has
yet to capture the band's essential fire, the live show
promises to be a guitar-smashing good time. (ZD)
Halou
Zoot Suite
The great thing about good electronica is that it infuses
the picayune events of daily life with a cinematic grandeur.
You're riding the bus? Big deal. Got a volcanic track on
your headphones? Now we're talking drama. Halou, a dynamic
and smooth-edged group from the great metropolitan coffeeshop
that is San Francisco, makes songs to accompany long, sad
walks home through gray dawns. Burbling beats pluck at a
slipping consciousness while womanly vox lullaby away. (ZD)
11
PM
Jim Lauderdale
Ash Street Saloon
If you wander down to Ash Street
for Lauderdale's set, see if you can nail a lengthy stretch
of the bar for yourself. Ask the bartender for three or
four shots of your most fancied poison with Budweiser backs.
When this Nashville-seasoned owner of a lonely heart, purveyor
of smooth country with one foot in the alt camp and one
in the commercial realm, kicks up his honkytonk storm, you'll
need it all. (ZD)
Fireball Ministry
Berbati's Pan
The growing popularity of bands
like Fu Manchu, Nebula and Queens of the Stone Age proves
that stoner rock is making a comeback. (Isn't it about time?
And, like, what is time, really, dude?) L.A's Fireball Ministry
fits as snugly as a worn Sabbath concert tee into that category.
The goofy name and references to demons, magic and bong
loads on the band's web site seem a little silly, but the
heavy grooves and periodically Ozzy-inspired vocals make
Fireball Ministry worth checking out. It's hard to gauge
the band's musical prowess based on brief song snippets
á la MP3 (no sooner do you start headbanging and
extending your arm in a salute to rock than the song ends),
but this show is likely to be a respite for those who like
their rock dark and dirgy, regardless. (LB)
New Wave Hookers
Club 21
It would be cool if the New Wave Hookers
were, like the porno film series from which they derive
their name, trashy sluts in horrendous '80s spandex outfits.
But settling for a gang of equally trashy guys isn't too
bad a deal, especially if they're sleazing out the kind
of gutter-happy glam-punk these Portlanders have been playing
for years. To help separate them from the dozens of other
NY Dolls wannabes, the New Wave Hookers add elements forgotten
by their Thunders- and Johansen-inspired peers (such as
piano and guilt-free pop hooks). But if you want to know
just how Dolls-y they can be, check out the cover of their
Junk Records debut album; their red-leather "Communist"
phase can't be far behind. (JG)
A.M. Gold
Cobalt Lounge
A.M. Gold's stop-start, quiet-LOUD
sound and artsy, downcast aesthetic might suggest an address
in the nation's capital, but this baroque outfit hails from
exotic Southeast Portland. Back-breaking drums, croony,
otherworldly vocals and meditative guitars recall Fugazi
or later D.C. emoters like Hoover, but A.M. Gold has incorporated
just enough Northwest rain into its sound stand apart. (ZD)
Frampton Brothers
EJ's
Kitsch-loving Pittsburgh homeboys the Frampton
Brothers' latest and greatest release File Under F (For
Failure) slams on the brakes at the crossroads where
Camper Van Beethoven and the Mr. T Experience meet up. Over
the familiar punk-rock riffs, lead singer Ed Masley's nasal
voice is full of sarcasm, spite and spirit. The 14 songs
on File Under shake, rattle and roll along. Stand-out
tracks include the opener, "Dressing Room," the dark and
bouncy "The Man Who Should Be King" and the bona fide hard-livin'
and hard-drinkin' country number "Drunk." (AI)
Tracy and the Hindenberg
Ground Crew
Golden Crust Pavilion
Tracy and the Hindenberg
Ground Crew's warped conception of rock 'n' roll involves
a sordid mishmash of material and Tracy's hilariously sardonic
delivery. More than a mere novelty act, the group mines
similar territory as fellow pranksters They Might Be Giants
and the Dead Milkmen. Tracy's astute observations are paired
with quirky and upbeat music that has no problem varying
its mood as the material requires. (JS)
Kissing Book
Ground Kontrol
Portland's Kissing Book has clearly
studied its pop songwriting handbook and history. On its
1999 Magic Marker release, Lines & Color, the
band put hand claps, crisp guit cords, horns and an upright
bass to good use in drawing on a legacy of jaunty pop that
touches on everyone from the Beatles and Nick Lowe to early
R.E.M, the Feelies and Belle & Sebastian. Kissing Book's
sound will surely have you wishing for the distant days
of sweetly melancholic college rock, before the nerds joined
frats and began dating porn stars. (MM)
44 Long
Jimmy Mak's
Singer/songwriter Brian Berg's beautifully
wistful outfit finds fragments of folk, rock, blues and
pop in the Portland gutters and glues them back together.
With Berg's plaintive vox front-and-center, the band alternates
between delicacy and barroom toughness. 44 Long's careful
alchemy has made fans out of Rolling Stone (Greil
Marcus loves 'em), The Rocket and, of course, WW.
(ZD)
Gift Horse
Kelly's Olympian
Last year, mixed among the blindingly
puerile power-pop retreads, trendy alt-country twangers
and dozy folk-meisters in the mountainous pile of North
by Northwest applicants, I happened upon a CD by Gift Horse.
It was good--not a supernova explosion of creativity or
life-changing epiphany, by any means, but good enough that
it stirred my tired ears awake with a jolt. So this year
I checked out the band again. Fortunately, songwriter Bret
Levick still knows how to stitch David Bowie's glittery
pop of excess onto John Lennon's rougher tapestries of sound
without seeming like a chintzy rip-off artist. Lenny Kravitz
had better keep an eye over his fashionably-clad shoulder,
'cause given the proper publicity, Levick could overtake
him on the dark-horse track. (JG)
Fuckpriest Fantastic
Paris Theater
Put this boisterous Portland band's
initials in lowercase and you get "ff"--which means "fortissimo"
in musical terms and "kick ass" in layman's speak. Fuckpriest
Fantastic is the only band in town whose singer, Trevor,
is as viciously unpredictable as David Yow, and whose guitarist,
Christian, can cut a jagged swath from Scratch Acid-inspired
post-punk scrapes to lurching Jesus Lizard funkiness. But
don't let those comparisons fool you into thinking the foursome
is some half-hearted copy; on the contrary, it's a blazing
maelstrom of sound and fury that annihilates apathy on its
own unstoppable terms. (JG)
CXQ5
Rocco's
This tough, hard-rocking band from Seattle
lost a drummer in a fatal car crash but still managed to
persevere. Muscular power chords, tough-guy drumming and
stick-it-to-'em vocals result. (ZD)
Stonepony
Roseland Downstairs
These Aussies may hail from
some town called Cooma (throw another freakin' shrimp on
the barbie, people of Cooma), but they sound like a product
of the American heartland, circa 1984. Stonepony's solid
John Cougar beats and clean guitars had me rummaging through
the fridge for a Budweiser and checking my wallet for Farm
Aid tics. I guess they've got small town Saturday nights
Down Under, too, because these good, hearty songs must,
simply must, be the product of such an environment. (ZD)
Rex Hobart & The Misery Boys
Satyricon
Based in Kansas City, Mo., Hobart and
his crew play twangy alt-country honkytonk that draws from
classic sources such as Buck Owens and Marty Robbins. Hobart's
nasally vocals have also drawn comparisons to the master
himself, George Jones. With a debut (Forever Always Ends)
featuring such titles as "I Walked In While He Was Changing
Your Mind" and "Make Me Hate You Before I Go," Hobart has
obviously been influenced by more than Jones' voice. (DM)
Chin
Seges ArtBar
Vancouver must be a very kick-back
place to live, because this glossy pop band has "Daydreamin'"
on its mind. In a relentlessly spit-shined single about
those sweet times when the mind wanders over the primary
selling points of a lust object, Chin shows off massed harmony
chops that could land it on MTV (or at least Much Music)
along with musical production just quirky enough to set
the group apart from the crowded pop-group field. (ZD)
This Busy Monster
The Spot
Everything written about This Busy Monster
frontman Chris Possanza suggests that maybe, just maybe,
he's a few ornaments short of a Christmas tree. Alternative
Press posited that he finds consensual reality a little
disorienting. While a personality like that can be a detriment
to 9-to-5 careers, it's a definite plus in the rock game.
Possanza's warped-but-festive runs through the jungle of
his own consciousness make This Busy Monster much more than
the party-time alt-rock band it sounds like. Just goes to
show the power of obtuse thinking. (ZD)
Rilo Kiley
Tonic Lounge
This delicate L.A. pop band caught
the eye of director Morgan J. Freeman, scoring three songs
on the new feature flick Desert Blue. Strains of
jazz and shimmering, Mazzy Star-ish country bleed through
the loping rock and roll. (ZD)
Sean Hayes
Tugboat Brewpub
This San Francisco singer/songwriter
rolls through anthems of love and fragmentation. He himself
will tell you that he sounds a bit like a white, skinny,
male Tracy Chapman, and he does indeed aim for some of the
same emotional highs and lows sought by T.C. in her prime.
(ZD)
vhs or beta
Zoot Suite
Typically, my problem with techno is that it...just...isn't...funky.
But while no one's going to confuse vhs or beta with James
Brown anytime soon, these Louisville beatnauts manage to
fulfill one of the f-word's alternative definitions. In
other words, they're weird as hell. But while many of their
electronic confreres pass off thin basement experiments
as new dimensions in sound, vhs or beta manage to find a
true frontier. Steady beats surge out of a vaguely menacing
melange of electro-noise, echoing guitar and keyboard wash--a
treat for those who, like me, find electronica a lot more
intellectually interesting than rump-shaking. (ZD)
MIDNIGHT
Michael Shuler
Ash Street Saloon
No information available at
press time.
Poolside
Berbati's Pan
Reverential whispers about some
new-wavey indie-rock band called Sidecar once circulated
through Portland. No more--but not because the quartet parted
ways. Now Sidecar is called Poolside, and its electronically-juiced
pop remains an indie-hipster's guilty pleasure, like a warped
old Cars single spun during a college-radio DJ's morning
show. (On an interesting side note, the Cars were from L.A.,
and Poolside is one of the few non-L.A. bands on Bong Load
Records; for a greater taste of Poolside's synthetic indie-rock,
refer to its recent Indyglow release.) (JG)
The RC5
Club 21
The influence of the Motor City on Seattle's
RC5 would be obvious even if the band's chosen name weren't
such a direct cop of the MC5's moniker. With its hot-rodded
and hoarse-throated punk firing on all eight cylinders,
the RC5 sound like they don't care if music ever evolved
beyond the Stooges' beautifully simplistic three-chord chaos.
("Electronica? What's that?") But that's a pretty good thing.
The band's multiple-Marshall onslaught is relentless, continually
charging your headspace in sonic waves of force, and the
voice of Robb Clarke (ex-Zipgun frontman and the "RC" in
the band's name) slips so easily into its rough rasp you'd
think he was born with a pack of Camels in his crib. Check
your road map--just how close is Seattle to Detroit anyway?
The RC5 make it seem like a quick jog down the block. (JG)
The Vogue
Cobalt Lounge
With a name like the Vogue, one
would expect this young Seattle band (the members are all
recent high-school graduates) to be quite fashionable--and
indeed, the quintet is quite chic with its herky jerky rhythms,
vintage synthesizers, boxy structures and guttural vocalizing.
The band recently released a seven-inch on Made In Mexico
Records and is currently at work writing songs for its debut
album. (AI)
The Cuckoos
EJ's
The Cuckoos, a font of undiluted rock sass
from Seattle, come equipped with a bleeding logo, a cross-dressing
singer and a repertoire of glammy punk. Sometimes they suggest
the Stones, at other times the Stooges. Throughout, their
full-out, playin'-on-their-knees style scratches the rock
and roll itch that bugs you right there, just past where
you can reach. (ZD)
Joaquina
Golden Crust Pavilion
God, I really like this
band. Why dress it up? Joaquina certainly doesn't sugarcoat
its bony tales of small-town suffocation, sagas drawn from
the members' Central Valley, Calif., heritage. These are
songs about the wearing, slo-mo terror of being just as
old as the Superbowl and without prospects. Joaquina pushes
past the pain and stands proud and tall in the ruins. (ZD)
The Helio Sequence
Green Onion
The trippy lyrics of the Helio Sequence
recall those of the Beatles in full acid drive, but there's
more to the Portland duo than passing references to retro
psychedelia. From the opening track on the EP Accelerated
Slow-Motion Cinema, it's clear that the '80s and '90s
haven't slipped by these boys. With its shifting guitar
riffs complemented by layers of sequenced keyboards and
eclectic percussion, the Helio Sequence will be a godsend
to those who have longed for a collaboration of the Kinks,
Leisure-era Blur and Stereolab. (JM)
Lunchbox
Ground Kontrol
This band set down stakes in Oakland--probably
a compromise between the members who felt more at home in
the U.K. and those who wanted to settle on Mars. Jangly
pop competes with sound effects suggesting descending video-game
spacecraft. Very appropriate for Ground Kontrol, to be sure.
Lunchbox's low-tech name belies its futuristic sensibility
and the occasional aristocratic tones highlighting their
vocals. A challenge for the pop-nauts of Portlandia. (ZD)
Tommy Womack
Jimmy Mak's
"Sometimes a little bit of sex ruins
everything." Words of wisdom from a Nashville renegade.
Womack comes off like the spawn of some brutal union between
a lean carnival worker and a nicotine-stained barmaid raised
somewhere between Miles City and Corpus Christi. Womack
has little time for the pablum served up by the soulless
corporate dons of Music City, but his raucous country anthems
to bad love and outsider living attest to a genuine love
of the music. And that's what lasts, anyway--when the instant
carcasses off the latest Garth album are long buried, Womack's
prickly classics will still have a pulse. (ZD)
Shapeshifter
Kelly's Olympian
With their debut for Pinch Hit
Records, Opiate Sea, this Portland-based alt-rock
band is generating great buzz after a successful Los Angeles
gig at the Indie Explosion. If they're anything like most
of their labelmates, this should be a spunky good time live.
(BL)
400 Blows
Paris Theater
They may be named after a Truffaut
movie, but there's little Francophilia to be found in the
brutally heartless industrial rock peddled by these Angelinos.
Compacting walls of serrated guitar press in on mechanistic
drums and vocals marked by a serial killer's hysterical
calm. Not happy fun time music--but then, it's not a happy
fun time world, is it? (ZD)
the herkemer
Rocco's
In some alternate reality where such things
are possible, Ric Ocasek and Kurt Cobain have paired up
and given birth to quadruplets. Cute little fellas, they've
grown up and formed a band, keeping their fathers' tradition
of dodgy spellings alive with an all-lower-case moniker.
Bright and bouncy, they weld all of of Ric's crispness and
many of Kurt's chord changes into a satisfying whole. (ZD)
Paradise Now!
Roseland Downstairs
Huge, hungry rock from Austria,
with over-saturated guitars, hard computer-driven beats
and heroic vocals in the heavy-metal-quester tradition.
The '70s and the '90s smash headlong into each other. (ZD)
The Blacks
Satyricon
These Chicago rebels hum with downcountry
meanness and big-city sex. Grimy country blues is wrung
from the crisp guitar lines and steady-pulling rhythm section,
while randy hick vocals obsess over demonic possession,
murder and the Nasty. Tough and raw, the Blacks inject the
sass and blood back into alt-country. (ZD)
Maroon Colony
Seges ArtBar
Seattle may be known for its bone-chilling
rains and mind-lulling greys, but Maroon Colony rejects
'em both in favor of picante-hot slow jazzy groove and firewired
rhymes. Maroon Colony grabs the region's tiller out of the
hands of the hard-bragging stuck-in-'91 types. Somewhere
along the line, these young turks from the Central District
learned to love Thelonius and Miles just as much as they
dig their mic-controlling contemporaries. The result is
a gorgeous realization of the subterranean web that links
hip-hop and jazz, street-corner hard and nightclub cool.
(ZD)
Death Cab for Cutie
The Spot
Don't hate them because they're beautiful.
Don't even hate them because they're young. Hate them because
they look like they're having so much fun playing churning
charm-rock and they're so cute and young doing it. This
fearless foursome from Bellingham, Wash., will rock your
socks off and take your girl. Last seen charming the daylights
out of Seattle and the rest of the Pacific seaboard. (CBB)
Little Red Rocket
Tonic Lounge
When Geffen Records was swallowed
in the tectonic Seagram/Polygram merger last year, a massacre
of innocents ensued. Hundreds of bands and thousands of
employees went from the warm blanket of major-label security
to the pavement in the blink of an eye. Little Red Rocket,
a spry band from Athens, Ga., continues the struggle despite
being caught up in this maelstrom. With trumpets and pianos
putting in quality cameos in a sweetly textured mix, these
Georgians look like survivors. (ZD)
Tim Andreae
Tugboat Brewpub
The truest bluesmen leave a trail
of blood in their wake, creating intimate and terrifying
music that makes you feel like a witness to some unspeakable
outback ritual. While Virginian-turned-Idahoan Tim Andreae
isn't in, say, Robert Johnson's league, he understands the
elemental crisis that's at the root of the music and doesn't
try to sugarcoat the bad, bad news. Mashing 1930s slide
and fingerstyle guit with droning rhythms inspired by East
Indian and African music, Andreae creates a herky-jerky
trance sound, a truly original rereading of America's most
primeval native sound. (ZD)
Angelique
Zoot Suite
A little bit industrial, a little bit goth, Angelique
brews a storm of moody guitars, angsty vocals and chilly
beats. Switches of direction as sudden as a channel-change
and disconcerting samples give the mix an iconoclastic edge.
(ZD)
12:30
AM
Eric Blakely
Tugboat Brewpub
"Grandma likes a tin roof/ So she can hear the rain/
And Daddy liked the bottle/ So he couldn't feel the pain."
Is Austin's Eric Blakely kickin' it old school, or what?
The quaver-voiced singer-songwriter wrestles with the ancient
evils of drunk dads, runaway kids, whoring moms and the
dirty legacies inherited by the children of the heartland.
This is music to ramble slowly down to the liquor store
by, following the windblown back streets past crumbling
porches and rusting Detroit iron. Echoes of Springsteen
and Austin's robust musical heritage abound--both very,
very good signs. (ZD)
1:00
AM
Walter Clevenger & the Dairy Kings
Ash Street Saloon
Clevenger and his Kings serve
up saddlesore alt-country perfect for the urban cowboys
who flock to the latter-day honky-tonks of hipster land.
Melt down essences of Johnny Cash, the Beatles and George
Jones, stir, bubble and distill, and you might get some
approximation of these guys' delightfully rancid milk. (ZD)
Dieselhed
Berbati's
Scene-defining alt-country 'zine No
Depression described Dieselhed as "a band that can do
anything." That refers, of course, not to superhero-worthy
abilities to leap buildings in a single bound but to the
band's jumpy unwillingness to limit itself to any one sound--yet
it's this mercurial tendency that allows it to escape the
usual alt-country trap of triteness. Whereas most of their
countrified contemporaries seem to think an affected twang
is all it takes to become the new Willie Nelson, Dieselhed
risks potential scene banishment by augmenting their backroads
pop with hard-rocking bits and the occasional world jaunt.
The drummer even moonlights with the notoriously volatile
Mr. Bungle. Expect a looseness and willingness to experiment
not often seen in the solemn alt-country ranks. (JG)
The Dragons
Club 21
If your last name is Escovedo--and for
Mario, lead singer of the Dragons, it is indeed--you've
got a legacy of music to live up to. Your brothers Alejandro
(The Nuns, Rank and File) and Javier (The Zeros) have been
on the receiving end of some major praise in the last 20
years, and the pressure's on to stake your own claim to
talent. The good news is, the Dragons give Mario a reason
to be proud. The roots-punk rockers drop the posturing so
many neo-glam fashion whores think compensates for bad songs;
instead, they focus on--radical idea here--good songwriting.
Escovedo's fluid vocals roll so mellifluously that it's
nearly a revelation: "Oh, that's right, before 1977 people
actually used to sing in punk groups. Where has my
head been?" In the gutter, probably. Remedy the situation
and remind yourself of a forgotten time in history by listening
to the Dragons' latest, R*L*F. (JG)
Pedro the Lion
Cobalt Lounge
Slow and steady like an old and
dependable workhorse, Pedro the Lion builds graceful indie
rock songs that owe as much to Sebadoh as the old adage
"a watched pot never boils." The Seattle band's first full-length
album, It's Hard To Find A Friend, came out last
fall and was lauded by Spin as one of the "Top 10
Records You Never Heard of." The quartet released a five-song
EP, The Only Reason I Feel Secure, last May, and
any day the band should be recording its second album on
Made In Mexico Records. (AI)
The Streetwalkin' Cheetahs
EJ's
This SoCal band almost singlehandedly made
last year's brain-frazzling North by Northwest enjoyable
(for this writer, anyway). Their festival-closing show at
EJ's was everything that rock 'n' roll should be and almost
never is: wild, primal, and more than a little insane. Beer
was chugged. Bottles (and, subsequently, skin) broken. Blood
spilled. And a pie-eyed audience rocked to a standstill.
The Cheetahs' influences are, admittedly, obvious--Iggy,
Dolls, Dictators--but at their most blistering moments ("Disease,"
"Thought That Crosses My Mind," "Built For Speed"), they
tap into a musical vein whose lifeblood will never be diluted
by time. That's when the Streetwalkin' Cheetahs do indeed
have hearts full of napalm. Burn, baby, burn. (JG)
Eureka Farm
Golden Crust Pavilion
Oh, warm water. Yes, sink
down in it, until it just barely laps up into the ear canal.
That's the feeling of Eureka Farm, a Bellingham, Wash.,
band dead-set on replicating the amniotic pleasures of a
hot bathtub. Low-register rock, bass clarinet and various
other luded-out goodies instill a cough-syrup sway here.
At worst, it sounds a little too much like Alice in Chains
for comfort, but at best, it induces a trance state somewhere
between sci-fi reverie and country daydream. (ZD)
Poundsign
Ground Kontrol
Life would be simpler in a world
in which the tra-la-la-la fresh-faced innocence of first
loves, well-scrubbed autumn mornings and new-textbook smells
never ended. Alas, most of us have to live out here in dirty
reality. Only rare appearances by emissaries from that fantasy
land afford us glimpses of teenage bliss. Poundsign, a San
Fran band that issues sonic nods to bouncy New Wave and
poppy techno, serve as ambassadors this time around. Please,
welcome them to Earth. (ZD)
Kim Richey
Jimmy Mak's
After two decades of shameful whoredom,
Nashville slowly picks up the pieces of its shattered musical
credibility. Kim Richey, a glossy singer-songwriter, lends
a hand with her solid, soulful contributions to the Mercury
Records catalogue. No "insurgent country" rabble-rousing
here, but no lite-country swiz either. (ZD)
Munkafust
Kelly's Olympian
The groove-oriented band voted
Santa Barbara's favorite in 1994 brings its way-dancy sound
to PDX in search of new crowds of hormonal women to conquer.
A little bit blues, a whole lot rock, dig? (ZD)
Grindstone
Paris Theater
Don't believe the hype. As long
as bands like Portland's Grindstone have a little bit of
life in them, grunge will never die. With a swagger that
recalls Soundgarden and a united front of heavily distorted
rawk guitar that owes a debt to Alice in Chains, these Southeast
stalwarts come heavy and hard. (ZD)
The Cartels
Rocco's
Canada's a tough place to play punky rock
'n' roll. Mainstream media outlets like Much Music would
rather spin the latest Pursuit of Happiness video, and America
ignores anyone Canuck who's not Sarah McLachlan, Celine
Dion or Bryan Adams. So the Cartels keep plugging away,
hoping their infectious, sing-along drinking songs find
a reliable fanbase of rowdy outcasts. Fortunately, the rising
popularity of anthemic rawk gives their hopes a lift. If
the Cartels can catch a ride on that ballooning phenomenon,
borders may soon cease to be an issue for this likable crew
of retro punks. (JG)
Yellow Fever
Roseland Downstairs
Strange things happen to the
human mind in northern climes. Somewhere in a sunlit late
night, Sweden's Yellow Fever decided that spongey New Wave
salsa would be its entrée to the wonderful world
of rock. While the results are certainly marked by an odd
accent, they've also got quirk and charm to spare. (ZD)
Split Lip Rayfield
Satyricon
Wichita boys ain't nothin' to mess with,
as Split Lip Rayfield would no doubt tell you right quick
if you asked. With brave twang and lickety-split bluegrass
picking, this trio makes fast tracks for the mean frontier.
Eschewing both alt-country's indie-rock saturated sound
and the castrato overproduction of the mainstream, ol' Split
Lip kicks tales from the gritty outskirts of town over lean,
propulsive front-porch hick fire. (ZD)
Juno
The Spot
No further information available at press
time.
The Mades
Tonic Lounge
Gina Villalobos carries her vocals
off with sass and vigor, without a hint of the cloying faux-naiveté
that too often weighs down girlie-rock singers. No, this
is a woman singing, and with muscular rock 'n' roll backing
from the three lads of her band (including brother Rey),
she's going to teach a few lessons. If you don't mind. (ZD)
Leni Stern
Tugboat Brewpub
From under the unlikely trio of Joni Mitchell, Marlene
Dietrich and Billie Holiday comes one of jazz's most celebrated
guitarists, New York's Leni Stern. For over a decade now,
German-born Stern has been crafting for herself something
like "folk-jazz." With long-time friend and collaborator,
Bill Frisell, Leni has brought together an eclectic mix
of lilting instrumentals and sultry vocal stylings. (AD)
Fantastic Plastic Machine
Zoot Suite
Tomoyuki Tanaka is a man custom-built for the end of
the 20th century. A Tokyo-based jack of all trades, Tanaka
edits magazines, DJs off-the-hizzy parties, swirls up obscure
graphic design and '60s lounge pop into a uniquely swinging
cocktail and generally lives the life of a millennial pop-culture
vulture. His mixes gleefully munch down everything from
French easy-listening to American pimp funk, vibrating with
genuine love for life and all its attendant noise. While
he certainly has his artistic goals--a future collaboration
with alien lifeforms is on his to-do list--at heart Tanaka
just wants to give whatever room he's in a buzz. With party
credentials as long as your leg, he rarely has a problem
doing just that. (ZD)
1:30
AM
Margaret Slovak
Tugboat Brewery
Guitarist Margaret Slovak moved to Portland after a
five-year stint in New York. She's worked with such genre-straddling
princes as Fred Hersch, Michael Formanek, John Abercrombie
and Ralph Towner. That should give you an indication of
her stamina in trying to exhaust all the possibilities of
her six strings, but it doesn't come close to speaking to
the quiet elegance of her playing. Contemplative and melodically
adventurous, her music embraces the pulse and tone of Towner,
Egberto Gismonti and early Pat Metheny. (BS)
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Willamette Week | originally
published September 22,
1999
|
