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Friday,
October 1
NXNW
'99 Daystage
Embassy Suites Hotel
Michael Denvir & The Ideal Chairs (12:15
pm)
Rika Shinohara (2 pm)
Steadman (3:45 pm)
Tracy & the Hindenburg Ground
Crew (5:30 pm)
8
PM
The Dolomites
Kelly's Olympian
Three mysteries of the universe
continue to befuddle me: (1) Is time travel possible? (2)
Why hasn't someone shot Celine Dion yet? (3) Why aren't
the Dolomites the most popular band in Portland? These fresh-faced
lads sound more like the old Pogues than the Pogues themselves,
and their debut album, A Hogshead of Whiskey, is
so overflowing with drunken, punkified Irish anthems that
you may wonder if Shane MacGowan somehow regrew all his
teeth and regained the youthful vigor of his Red Roses
for Me days. But I'm pretty certain time travel isn't
possible, so it must be something more logical--like the
Dolomites have such an immense talent for imitation they're
nearly as good as the real thing. When e'er they're going
where streams of whiskey are flowing, you're advised to
sail along with 'em. (JG)
The Distance Formula
Paris Theater
No information available at press
time.
doubleDrive
Roseland Upstairs
If grunge is truly dead, the
fellas in doubleDrive forgot to read the obit. Greasy flankcuts
of guitar pile up on top of cannonballing drums while vocals
try to untie the knot of rage inside us all. Cold and grim,
doubleDrive remembers the days of recession and black coffee
before the boom, and the band revels in the knowledge that
the harsh times will come again. (ZD)
Tiny Giants
Seges ArtBar
These Seattle funk lads bring expansive horns, suave
vocals and a syncopated, reggae-flavored backbeat to the
party. And, of course, if there is no party to speak of,
they're perfectly capable of creating one on their own.
Perfect music to lay back and have a few nice drinks to
as you scan the dance floor for hotties. (ZD)
9
PM
Steamroller
Ash Street Saloon
No information available at
press time.
for Stars
Berbati's Pan
Everyone seems to think this San
Francisco band is one of the saddest things they've ever
heard. "California feel-bad music," some have called it.
To my ears, though, the swaying lilt of for Stars is sweet
relief. A little spacy, a little countrified, the band's
spare instrumentation perfectly complements singer Carlos
Forster's high lonesome odes to the rough edges of life.
(ZD)
The Gun & Doll Show
Club 21
This San Francisco band plays uncategorizable
guitar rock, an anarchic blend of punk, pop and whatever
else comes to hand. Fine. But from the sounds of things,
that's only half the story. There are reports of 30 guitarists
playing with the band at once at the Fillmore Auditorium.
There are reports of band members quitting mid-set. There
are reports of giant pies. What's one to make of it all?
Well, all we can say for sure is that the G&D Show has
risen to the top of SF's musical pyramid (not to be confused
with that thing at the border of North Beach and the Financial
District) without being corralled by the majors. From the
sounds of things, the big boys are probably scared to play
on this bed of nails. (ZD)
The Brainwashers
Cobalt Lounge
Eugene may seem an unlikely breeding
ground for surf rock, but the Brainwashers prove that our
friends down there get up to more than anarchist rioting
and weaving hemp. Eschewing the hassle of singing, the three
'Washers crank the reverb and blast out to the beach. (ZD)
Asthma Hounds
EJ's
Raucous rockabilly hellcats with little to
lose and a world to gain. Always a formula for trouble,
particularly when these hoarse-voiced uncaged dawgs bred
and brewed in Eugene take the field. (ZD)
The Rolls
Golden Crust Pavilion
The venerated name of the
dBs seems to leap to everyone's tongue on hearing this Chicago
band. With energy to spare and an infectious never-say-die
spirit, the Rolls do indeed recall some fine moments of
early-'80s college rock. They're ready for the bar, the
corner pizza shop or the late-night drive home. With a song
called "Salinger," they're obviously not afraid to let their
inner brooder speak. (ZD)
The Gone Orchestra
Green Onion
A lifetime of living for noise has
done strange things for this boho collective, which harnesses
the energies of up to a dozen musical wanderers to power
jams sans frontieres. In an age when much of jazz's
wild spirit has been drained to appease middle-aged white
people who drive Lexuses, the Gone provides a needed reminder
of the music's Pan-like properties of glorious chaos. (ZD)
Wolf Colonel
Ground Kontrol
Gearing up for its early-2000 full-length
debut on Olympia's K Records, this Portland power-pop quintet
recently said goodbye to drummer Adam Forkner, with Marianna
Ritchey taking over full-time. Ranges from buzzing, fuzzing
artsiness to goofy glory. (BL)
Aiko Shimada
Jimmy Mak's
This Seattleite mingles herky-jerky
jazz with smooth New Age singing, pacific imagery and folky
flavors drawn from the coffeehouse and cabaret. (ZD)
The Owl 'n Thistle Band
Kelly's Olympian
I'm all for originality and innovation.
But it's a fact--traditional Irish bands can be judged by
how close they can get to the soul of a few standards. This
slick ensemble based at the eponymous downtown Seattle pub
is a little too smooth for my tastes on "Danny Boy," but
nails the hopeless rabblerouser's anthem "Whiskey in the
Jar." Not a bad batting average. Have a few pints and the
rest will take care of itself. (ZD)
Experimental Aircraft
Paris Theater
These Austin-nauts drift through
the ether with beautifully fuzzy guitars and lush girl vocals.
The odd Moog and organ slinks through as spaced-out hooks
expand into Sonic Youth-style jams. Shimmering moments of
quiet provide valleys to match the band's loudest peaks.
(ZD)
Minor Effects
Rocco's
They may be a little wet behind the ears
(they're all still in high school), but the Newport, Ore.,
boys in Minor Effects know where it's at. With rugged metal/punk/hip-hop
fusion and lyrics about, in their words, "women and partying,"
they're poised to set their Gen-Y confreres ablaze. (ZD)
Vegas DeMilo
Roseland Downstairs
Tuning into the same generational
zeitgeist that propelled phenomena ranging from Reality
Bites to the last few Violent Femmes albums, VDM offers
steady-rocking meditation on love, loss and debauchery in
the '90s. "Met her at the sit-in/Wondered how I fit in."
And like that. (ZD)
No. 2
Roseland Upstairs
What came first? The chicken
or the egg? Neil Gust's No. 2 at times bursts forth with
the kind of full-frontal rockage the Portlander was known
to create with the dearly departed powerhouse Heatmiser.
Certain songs are bittersweet ballads more reminiscent of
Gust's Heatmiser mate Elliott Smith, who mixed most of the
songs on No. 2's debut recording, No Memory. File
No. 2 under intimate, well-crafted pop/rock. (CBB)
J. Hell
Satyricon
J. Hell is a record store co-owner by
day (at Portland's Ozone) and a pensive one-woman-with-guitar
goddess by night. She plays churning melodies that might
work well in duet with the ladies of Heart busking alongside
Mary Lou Lord down by the fountain at the City of Roses'
Waterfront Park. Ah, one can only dream of such a day. (CBB)
Groove Revelation
Seges ArtBar
This is music to sip cocktails by--and
no, it's not watered-down, jock-rockin' neo-swing. Instead,
Portland's own GR offers swanky, funk-heavy jazz with plenty
of smooth keyboards, boho flutes and clarinets and a few
wicked guitar crashes. Did I just say wicked? My God, I
guess I did. Must be the sonic martini I just sucked down,
courtesy of Groove Revelation. (ZD)
Smokelahoma
The Spot
Car's broke, rent's late, woman's pissed
and you're drunk at noon again. What a little clutch of
surprises. The Seattle twang-slangers of Smokelahoma understand
the life of das Volk, the great unwashed that form
the backbone of country music's fan base. Though they've
been painted with that pesky "alt-country" whitewash--seriously,
is that only way a country band can get some credibility
in this day and age?--they sound rock-ribbed and traditional
to me. And that, my friends, is a fine thing. (ZD)
Cole Marquis
Tonic Lounge
Strumming his way through the mist,
Cole Marquis jams together images of hanging gardens, crystal
palaces and garbage bags stuffed with mary-hooch. It's a
concoction brewed in the American Babylon, a draught of
exotica that, paradoxically, could only come from home.
(ZD)
Tiana Gregg
Tugboat Brewpub
Spokane, Wash., is hardly a place
for delicacy. Singer/songwriter Tiana Gregg looks to reflect
the rusted edges of the so-called "Inland Empire" with songs
that stray from the playhouse toughness of the Lilith crowd
into the realm of the real thing. Noted for her muscular
voice and quaking themes, Gregg demands respect on her own
terms instead of marching with the gossamer-clad clones
of the songster world. (ZD)
The Diablotones
Zoot Suite
Pick it up! Pick it up! Put it over there! No, over
there! This Seattle gang ranks with the rudeboys, kicking
ska in the patented punked-up style favored by Fourth Wave
Americans. With energy to spare, the Diablotones rage through
songs praising Bob Marley, a ska incarnation of Mexico's
legendary monster The Goat Sucker and other facets of a
zany modern rudie's life. Boots, braces and suits all around,
please. (ZD)
9:30
PM
Riko Shinohara
Tugboat Brewpub
With a gale-force voice and choppy acoustic strumming,
Shinohara translates the American singer-songwriter tradition
into Japanese. (ZD)
10
PM
Kitty Gordon
Ash Street Saloon
This Austin duo rolls through
Southern-fried pop about musicians' struggles, wardrobe
battles, romantic skirmishes and other standbys of the songwriter's
world. (ZD)
Yume Bitsu
Berbati's Pan
No information available at press
time.
Magnified
Club 21
Barely a year after every hack critic
was penciling in the relevant stats on rock 'n' roll's toe
tag, a generation of guit-wielding tough guys has breathed
life into the music's 50-year-old body. Though you'd never
confuse San Francisco's Magnified with its big-shorted contemporaries
in the NuMetal camp, its slamming crisp drums and outsized
guitars put it squarely on the side of revivers. (ZD)
Bughouse Five
Cobalt Lounge
Vancouver, B.C.'s "local favourites,"
to use the spelling customs of our northern neighbors. Canadians
playing twangy, balls-out rockabilly and honkytonk? Whatever,
man--music totally knows no borders. The Bughouse boys salt
their sound with lots of lip-curling attitude, assured swing
burbling from below and rich reverb soaking guitars and
vox. With confidence and élan, they pop ex-lovers'
balloons, smack around charlatans and look to shake whatever
shack they're in down to rubble. The slow-burning anthem
"Bad Seed" is a particular favorite--a raw shot straight-up
from the land of rye whiskey. (ZD)
Dart
Golden Crust Pavilion
Dart hails from the Bay
Area. The fog probably suits the band fine, but its gloomy
oeuvre makes a persuasive argument for a relocation to the
north: This is rainy-streets, gray-lives, Northwest music.
Singer Rick Stone has a touching voice, one of those disarming
indie-boy croons that digs in close to the heart. Sparse
beats crackle beneath meticulously arranged washes of strings
and horns to create a lulling sound, something to wake up
to on the morning after a high-impact night. (ZD)
Maya Unsemble
Green Onion
Uptight Cincinnati does not seem like
it'd be a particularly conducive stomping grounds for an
experimental improv group, but the Maya Unsemble's making
a go of it. Spooky continental drift prevails, as the Unsemble
alternately calls to mind smoking jungles and fog-bound
tundra with its undulating guitars, flutes, bells, whistles,
synths, organs, drums and non-standard percussion. (ZD)
Tagging Satellites
Ground Kontrol
While some bands are on the run
from the modern age's informational chaos, Tagging Satellites
dive right into the electronic broth. Like a radio jammed
between stations, their music spits out chewed-up static,
echo-laden voices of black holy rollers and mysteriously
melodic hiss. Gorgeous, ethereal female vox holds down the
eye of this storm, creating a compelling tension. Modern
life may be rubbish, but Tagging Satellites have found some
flowers in the dustbin. (ZD)
Doug Hoekstra
Jimmy Mak's
Hoekstra hails from Nashville, and
you can tell. His fusion of gospel harmony, Dylan-esque
harmonica honk and courtly guitar--all of which surround
a wizened, wry voice--sound like the product of a painstaking
search of every inch of his hometown. Hoekstra's trying
to draw it all together, and even though such efforts always
have their rough spots, his is a particularly strong stab.
(ZD)
Rook
Kelly's Olympian
On a chess set, the rook can
move in four different directions. Similarly, this Tacoma
band has incorporated a multitude of varied influences.
Forwarding an eclectic sound by looking back to Celtic and
bluegrass sources, Rook leaves little out of the mix (augmenting
the conventional rock lineup with bagpipes, fiddle, banjo
and whistles) and combines its plethora of musical talents
to form a cohesive whole. (JS)
Fourth Prize
Paris Theater
This Portland band calls up the
grainy brutality of early Sonic Youth. Slowly marching guitar
hooks crawl up your spine like a legion of spiders. Sound
pleasant? Well, unless you're one of those schnooks who
demands that music cater to every mushy need, it's actually
quite a ride. (ZD)
The Imps
Rocco's
Sprightly crash-pop from Chico. Shiny,
happy, sauced with just a slight whiff of venom. The Imps
come off sounding like guys who'd be fun to hang with--so
long as you never crossed 'em. (ZD)
Jackpot
Roseland Downstairs
This band's advance propaganda--which
declared that if Willie Nelson, Angus Young and Bob Dylan
formed a band, sure enough, it'd be just like Jackpot--was
not particularly hopeful. Nothing sucks harder than forced
eclecticism, after all. But Jackpot pulled an unexpected
(welcome) trump card from its three-man sleeve, providing
numerous lo-fi treats on the longplayer Boneville.
Recorded on four-track in a cabin somewhere in California,
the album is a gamey and rough-housing affair, reflecting
all the name-checked influences without falling into slavish
imitation. (ZD)
American Girls
Roseland Upstairs
Yes, the kids in American Girls
are American (as far as we know), but girls? No. The band
comprises five boys from Eugene who have been wowing Northwest
audiences for nearly five years with their carefully crafted
pop songs. After three releases on local labels, the Girls
are slated to make the big move to Trauma Records for the
imminent release of Like Movies, Only Slower. Expect
big things to happen with the American Girls. (AI)
Mandarin
Satyricon
Harkening back to the mid-'90s glory
days of Portland post-punk, members of the titanic Pond
have united under this fresh banner. Appearances at the
reborn Alternative Independent Music Festival and in clubland's
hotspots have injected faith in a new day's dawn into a
scene grown cynical and defeatist with early middle age.
God bless 'em. (ZD)
Hanuman Trio
Seges ArtBar
These Seattleites are nominally a
jazz outfit in the dance-inspiring tradition of Medeski,
Martin and Wood. When they're deep in this vein, it's hard
to separate the acid from the jazz, and their club-moving
abilities reportedly assure them packed houses in Jet City.
They're more than a groove, though, because they trip from
funky jazz into bluegrass and thence into psychedelic meanderings
at the drop of a beret. (ZD)
Marc Olsen
The Spot
Didn't Ever...Hasn't Since finds
ex-Sky Cries Mary and -Sage guitar hero Olsen back on his
electric high horse after a period of deliberate acoustic
self-denial. Anyone who likes to hear six-strings and amps
scream for mercy in the hands of a master should be grateful.
Olsen's stark, harrowing bouts with his own internal darkness
retain the propulsive power of guy+guitar meditations, but
they also reach out to grab the backup band's full range
of noise. This is rock 'n' roll at its most emotional and
white-knuckled. (ZD)
Fiver
Tonic Lounge
No information available at press
time.
Shed
Tugboat Brewpub
With full-throated macho vocals
and stabbing Delta-style blues guitar poking out of a country
wash, this Portland quartet never fails to surprise. Just
when you think it's settled into a comfortable alt-country
furrow, it stabs you in the back like an old-time barroom
cheat. These qualities might not make the best of friends,
but for honkytonk hellion rock, it's just fine. (ZD)
Monkey
Zoot Suite
You won't catch San Jose's Monkey watering down its
ska with punk, hip-hop or any of the other additives currently
in vogue with its brethren on the latter-day rude-boy scene.
This septet pays strict attention to the music's original
governing precepts, as mapped by Jamaican forefathers the
Skatalites. Echoing horns get free rein, no over-zealous
muscle boys get to "go off" on the mic and the rhythm section
assiduously holds the back-breaking offbeat without showing
off. It's all damned refreshing, isn't it? (ZD)
10:30
PM
Corrina Repp
Tugboat Brewpub
Portland songstress Corrina Repp titled her last release
A Boat Called Hope; now, she's on to The Other
Side is Mud. Though she hasn't traded in optimism for
absolute darkness, there is a distinct shift toward the
bleak as she details the age-old theme of relationships
ending. Repp's deep, textured voice rings with honesty as
she stretches her style, proving herself an artist who has
only just begun to explore life's varied, rugged shores.
(Jamie S. Rich)
11
PM
Cadillac Voodoo Choir
Ash Street Saloon
You know those beer commercials
shot out in the desert, where the sweat-dewed bad boy in
a convertible roars up to a grungy roadhouse in the middle
of nowhere, and there happens to be a nubile, oppressed
barmaid on the porch, cooling her felicitous neckline with
an ice-cold domestic bottle? And she's just dreaming of
getting out of that one-horse town? And all he needs is
a woman who can handle his reckless ways? Well, if that
world really existed, Cadillac Voodoo Choir would play the
soundtrack. Bluesy, loud and unapologetic, they come to
rock and nothing else. (ZD)
Snowmen
Berbati's Pan
Judging by the childlike drawing
of a snowman on this San Francisco band's logo, you might
expect its sound to be simplistic. On closer inspection,
however, you realize the frozen figure's eyes are a bit
askew and the stick arms jut out awkwardly, like the off-kilter
guitar lines and strange tunings spiking Cole Marquis' relatively
grounded pop melodies. The smooth spheres of the snowman's
torso and head balance the form, like vocals often soft
and dreamy layered with rich slide guitar and Farfisa nuances.
Sonic Youth and My Bloody Valentine helped pat some discordance,
fuzz and experimental touches onto the solid sculpture,
but the Snowmen are, ultimately, their own ambitious creators.
(LB)
The Fingers
Club 21
No information available at press time.
Jesus Presley
Cobalt Lounge
Jesus Presley isn't a man (though
if you pronounced the first word "hey Zeus," it could become
El Vez's new persona), but a swingin' lounge band led by
the Reverend Tony Hughes. Tony's gospel-tinted vocals have
got a soul-glow grooviness that molds Motown, cocktail croons
and classic rock'n'roll to a broad instrumental backdrop
to create the Ultimate Bar Band--Jesus Presley could play
anywhere from the world's most ostentatious Holiday Inn
to an old-man hole-in-the-wall. Teetotalers are advised
to seek musical distraction elsewhere. (JG)
Hell Caminos
EJ's
Long-time wrestling fans, the Hell Caminos
crank out fast and loud rock you can pound, push and stomp
to, as proven by their requested appearance at Rage in the
Cage, an international championship wrestling match held
in their hometown of Cloverdale, British Columbia. A perfect
venue, especially considering they are banned from playing
all-ages shows at any of the town's community centers. Expect
rapid guitar and bass attack songs like "Drunk All Weekend"
and "Woke Up on the Floor." Get ready for a crushing hangover.
(KL)
Niven
Golden Crust Pavilion
Thinking man's rock from
a local gang. Melding the clear, organic rock of your standard
Dave Matthewses, Niven gives the groove a twist with smart-guy
lyrics and a focus on the rhythmic bottom line. (ZD)
Tin Hat Trio
Green Onion
No information available at press
time.
Mel
Ground Kontrol
No information available at press
time.
Stand
Jimmy Mak's
No information available at press
time.
The Lash
Kelly's Olympian
No information available at press
time.
Soul-Junk
Paris Theater
The best efforts of Stryper, the
Danielson Famille and Tooth & Nail Records aside, Christianity
has never mixed comfortably with rock 'n' roll. That's probably
because most rock fans (and bands) hunt cheap thrills at
the expense of much deeper spiritual analysis and tend to
run screaming for the nearest copy of Black Sabbath's
Greatest Hits as soon as Jesus enters the mix. Soul-Junk,
a faithful San Diego band, may win more converts, though.
Shirking the usual plastic sounds of X-tian rock, these
guys go for the jugular (lovingly) with discordant, aggressively
off-kilter indie rock. The lyrics make no bones about their
religious stance, but most listeners will be too busy dodging
fist-sized chunks of molten guitar to notice. (ZD)
Xing
Rocco's
High drama from a Portland band that seems
to be writing rock inspired by James Bond. Tense tangles
of guitars and drums surge beneath manful vocals--and the
whole thing echoes with reverb and ominous keyboards, lending
that faint whiff of espionage until huge, radio-ready choruses
erupt out of nowhere. (ZD)
Convoy
Roseland Downstairs
Calendar check--it is 1999,
right? OK, but don't tell the dudes in Convoy. The San Diego
band rollicks in the half-country, half-rock hellion style
popular circa '74. People had mustaches. People had guns.
The '60s were over but the druggy fun was not. With their
sweet-but-manly harmonies and slow-ridin' rock, Convoy could
have nailed a house-band gig at 10,000 roadhouses during
the Ford administration. (ZD)
Chevelle
Roseland Upstairs
This Chicago trio, powered by
brothers Sam, Pete and Joe Loeffler, offers an angry, muscular
brand of garage punk that has earned nationwide attention
after the band scored a slot on MTV's 120 Minutes.
Point #1, Chevelle's Squint Entertainment debut,
was produced by indie regular Steve Albini, known for his
work with the Pixies and Nirvana. (BL)
Pete Krebs and the Gossamer Wings
Satyricon
The hardest-working man in Portland's
music scene--he can be found strumming his guitar in some
watering hole nearly every night when he's in town--Krebs
boasts an untouchable punk-rock pedigree. He fronted the
seminal group Hazel and highlighted Portland's foray into
alt-country with Golden Delicious. Now, although he most
often fends for himself with just a six-string on his back,
he occasionally breaks out his band, the Gossamer Wings,
for full-on earthy explorations of the heart. (ZD)
Marco de Carvalho
Seges ArtBar
This Brazilian-Seattleite smoothed
his guitar skills in the clubs of Rio. Now, splitting his
time between his homeland and Jet City, he's a consummate
band leader, taking his intimate ensembles down a silky
path. Bossa nova, samba, jazz and the demanding classical
chops de Carvalho picked up in a hard-studying youth join
in a subtle, sexy union. (ZD)
Red Meat
The Spot
Some folks in San Francisco buy gigantic
pants and puffy shoes and rave 'til dawn. Others stick all
manner of metal through their faces and join Marxist splinter
groups. And then there's Red Meat, a gang of born-again
country boys (and girl) who sing Johnny Horton tunes when
they're not busy writing their own drink 'n' dance anthems.
Now, of all that bustling bayside humanity, who would you
rather hang with? (ZD)
Zmrzlina with DJ Dom
Tonic Lounge
"Zmrzlina" means "ice cream" in Czech.
If these guys are a flavor, I'm thinking Chunky Monkey.
Made up of former members of Crucifucks and Bakamono, this
SF quintet rattles and roams like the sum of its influences:
the Velvets, Can, Stereolab, the Pixies. Vocalist Jeff Ray
is a chameleon offering a fitting stand-in for Frank Black's
distorted yelp one minute and a dead ringer drawl a la Green
On Red's Dan Stuart the next. At times sounding like Sonic
Youth meets the Klezmatics, at others like Lou Reed fronting
the Plastic People of the Universe, Zmrzlina is anything
but the flavor of the month. There's so much going on here,
it's kinda like your cone runneth over. (BS)
Wendie Colter
Tugboat Brewpub
It'd be easy enough for L.A. singer/songwriter
Colter to slip into the faceless power-pop crowd. She's
got a great voice, serviceable writing skills and a taste
for the sort of hook that seems catchy as hell as it plays
and then fades away. But as her band, formerly known as
Box the Walls, barrels through her songs, strange sounds--twanging
guitar, darkly vibrating bass--rush through the mix to save
the day. And when Colter pares away everything but voice
and guitar, she's a warm, affecting and immediate presence.
(ZD)
The Sixty-Second Quickies
Zoot Suite
It must be the billions of acres of corn growing in
the Midwest--this South Bend, Ind., band seems to have raw
energy to spare. The Quickies' lickety-split ska, which
features massed horns and rambunctious rude-boy vocals,
isn't anything new, but it will work just fine for getting
the party started right. Watch out for the Blondie covers--they're
extra tight. (ZD)
11:30
PM
Michael Denvir and the Ideal Chairs
Tugboat Brewpub
Denvir kicks ragged folk tales of the grimy life in
New York City, where he apparently shot up in full view
of the Delancey Street police precinct, got it on with Gotham
hotties (see the anthemic "Fucking Angel") and soaked up
the rough-and-ready aesthetic of the city's boho anti-folk
scene. A little like Dylan, a little like Roger Manning
and a lot like that guy next to you at the old-man bar with
the improbably compelling stories, Denvir makes a solid
troubadour of late-century low-life. (ZD)
MIDNIGHT
Podunk
Ash Street Saloon
Port Arthur, Texas, raised these
boys on rock. That's one-two-three-four, make-sure-it's-good-and-loud,
seek-the-upper-vocal-register rock. Their recent Matchbox
Records release, Throwin' Bones, revels in their
escape from their dead-end hometown without losing touch
with the working-man grit that got 'em here. (ZD)
The Sensualists
Berbati's Pan
These mad scientists host raucous
celebrations of post-everything pop when they're not holed
up in deep Southeast Portland rummaging through the technological
detritus of 20th-century music in search of new wacked-out
sounds. Old keyboards, samplers, home-built bass machines
and lush songwriting sensibilities all go into a mix measured
to delight indie rockers and dance-heads alike. (ZD)
Bitesize
Club 21
Is it any wonder that Bitesize cooks up
tiny songs? Weighing in at 2:58 minutes, "I Forgot My Mantra"
is epic compared to the other morsels on The Best of
Bitesize. The song, like the rest of them on this fakie
Greatest Hits album, is a fluffy rant; silly lyrics such
as, "I'm a hermaphrodite/ But that's beside the point" (Bitesize
are quite the rhymers) indicate the trio's goofy irreverence.
Sounding a bit like Weezer plus one chick, this Bay Area
band is unrelenting in its stream of consciousness raving,
as in this line from "Cold Turkey": "She sat next to me
in the waiting room/ I had the common cold, she had a stomach
flu/ I was reading Time when she turned my way/ and
said that my breath smelled like an ashtray." Right. (CM)
The Nightcaps
Cobalt Lounge
OK, yes, the whole cocktail craze
now more or less makes us want to pitch full 16-ounce cans
of Pabst at the heads of young day-traders tricked out in
retro wear. But, admit it, for a shining moment circa '95,
the idea that you could dress up, drink patrician booze,
have a decent haircut and still be cool was a little liberating.
Seattle's Nightcaps, who no doubt run screaming from any
link with the bankrupt "Cocktail Nation," rekindle the magic.
Ex-Portlander Theresa Hannam has a sexy ease on the mic,
and the four-piece band swings without getting mixed up
in the stylistic inbreeding of Swing, if you see what I
mean. The establishment ought to lay in an extra supply
of vermouth for this one. (ZD)
JP5
EJ's
Mmmmm, raunchy punk-rock hotresses...rrrrowrrr....
Wait, what was I writing about again? Oh yeah--the JP5.
You don't have to be Stephen Hawking to know that beautiful
scenester babes playing pulse-racing hot-rod pop adds up
to instant coolness. (I think the mathematical formula is
x(sex) + y(punk) = Yes! YES! YES!, or something like
that.) But give the JP5 credit beyond their obvious hormonal
appeal. When they pour sugar--that is, sweet melodies--in
the tank of their music machine, it just revs higher and
hotter, outracing sexist preconceptions about chick-rock
in a fast lane where fun is the only speed limit. Try to
hitch a ride with them when you can--and I mean that in
the musical sense, you pervs. (JG)
Cerulean
Golden Crust Pavilion
Ah, such a pleasantly cool
name for a band. Say it slowly, softly...mmm, like a refreshing
mint. This Portland pair spins a brisk batch of sound to
match its Certs-quality name. Hints of chilly '80s New Wave
and easy-to-swallow '90s alterna-pop accent the cleansing
draught. (ZD)
Bebop & Destruction
Green Onion
It's a travesty, the way the name
of jazz is taken in vain at corporate radio stations. Sure,
everyone claims to love the old guard--Trane, Bird, Billie,
Miles, et al--but you'd never be able to tell with all the
soporific "smooth jazz" trash being forced upon uninformed
ears as if it were the real thing. Bebop & Destruction,
thankfully, is the real thing: sharp shocks of morse-code
guitar solos, vicious circles of percussion, buoyant acoustic
bass and some wickedly electric saxophone workouts. Hearing
this young Emerald City quartet's rocking-and-rolling update
of classic bebop is like recalling a forgotten song from
youth--a pulse-rising testimony to the power of music. (JG)
Cinderleaf
Ground Kontrol
These San Antonio boys pour the
guitars on thick and hot. Singer-guitarist J. Stiles emotes
all over the place in these chunky mid-tempo odes to loving,
living, road-tripping and acting out. (ZD)
Kaitlyn ni Donovan
Jimmy Mak's
Whenever I hear Kaitlyn ni Donovan,
I'm reminded of Sarah McLachlan's dusky old days, before
she began making misty videos for VH1 and playing Hacky
Sack backstage at the Lilith Fair. Ni Donovan's gorgeous,
rose-petal voice has its own unique timbre, though, and
its whisper-soft spirit transforms her stark songs into
ethereal treats that could easily appeal to old Cocteau
Twins fans as much as to newfound McLachlan freaks. In a
solo setting, ni Donovan's an angelic folkie; on record
(the latest being Songs for 'Three Days'), with her
delicate pipes augmented by eclectic instrumentation, she's
a bistro-noir star just waiting to go supernova. Slow-burn
buildup to eruption rarely sounds this sensuous. (JG)
Flogging Molly
Kelly's Olympian
As punk as the Pogues once wished
they were, this Los Angeles-based conglomerate of Celtic
hellions runs the energy and angst of the Irish diaspora
through a particle accelerator to produce uniquely rabble-rousing
music. Singer Dave King hails from Dublin; the verve of
his native city, demographically the youngest in Europe,
shines in his belted-out tales of debauchery and triumph.
Other members of the band haul their Irish surnames from
various corners of the American map, and Flogging Molly's
blitzing speed reflects the New World's social chaos. Brash
and uncompromising, Flogging Molly could touch off some
dangerous Guinness-fueled anarchy. (ZD)
Sun Barrow
Paris Theater
The instrumental rock elegy isn't
what it used to be. Back in the day (the '60s, man), the
sort of expansive keyboard-and-guitar floods unleashed by
Lawrence, Kansas' Sun Barrow were practically de rigueur
for hard-questing rockers. Now, while huge swaths of their
agemates strut through the world in backwards baseball caps
and huge shorts, the boys of Sun Barrow still try to see
beyond the edge of the night, driving their instruments
into a psychedelic dervish-whirl. No truth to the rumor
that drinking a glass of orange juice beforehand can make
a Sun Barrow set "better." (ZD)
Buckfast Superbee
Rocco's
Angst-ridden men plus loud electric guitars:
It's the equation around which rock was designed, students.
Even after 50 years, new researchers continue to find ways
to balance the formula, and San Diego's Buckfast Superbee
has put together a pretty beguiling formula of its own.
Testosterone funnelled through large amps equals fun, don'tcha
know. (ZD)
The Aquamen
Roseland Downstairs
As Tupac said so well, California
knows how to party. You don't have to tell San Francisco's
Aquamen twice. These stylish SoMa types have a few preoccupations:
cars, girls, booze, surf music and, let's see...well, what
else is there, really? Crank the reverb, chill the gin.
(ZD)
Richmond Fontaine
Satyricon
At five years of age, Richmond Fontaine
has reached an apex that few bands reach in a lifetime.
For its third album, Lost Son, the Portland alt-country
stalwarts transcend the Uncle Tupelo craze and firmly plant
themselves at the top of the country-rock heap. Where previous
outings by Richmond Fontaine have touched here and there
on the confluence of Hüsker Dü and Willy Nelson,
Lost Son marks the definitive crossroads where the
two meet and meld. For the latest batch of songs, tension
and release tilt back and forth like ghosts riding see-saws.
Plying against the almost unbearable pressure are singer
Willy Vlautin's sharper-than-glass vignettes. (AI)
11:11
Seges ArtBar
These gents from Davis, Calif., repeat
their NXNW '98 performance, when they had half the crowd
nodding to the jazz mantra and the other half wriggling
their phat fannies. Though they bill themselves as "avant
garde jazz," this is more searing than cerebral, and the
groove is better for it. (BS)
Botanica
The Spot
Good thing we're breaking into October,
month of spooks, because Botanica has the Scary Meter cranked
to 11. With songs like "Malediction," "Dead Prophet," "The
Castration Tango" and "A Fresher Hell," there's small doubt
as to whether this band's allegiances lie with the dark
side. Firewater's Paul Wallfisch is the ring leader of this
grimly fun circus--and indeed, with ample organ on some
tracks, Botanica sounds like a soundtrack for creepy clowns.
Kid Congo Powers (Cramps, Gun Club, Bad Seeds and Congo
Norvell), Abby Travis (KMFDM, Beck, Elastica) and Oren Kaplan
(Firewater) join Wallfisch to throw their own smooth menace
into this gig, which has the potential to be the happiest
surprise of the festival. Well, at least as happy as the
dark side can get, anyway. (ZD, JG)
Earlimart
Tonic Lounge
They're named after a small town
in Cali so boring that the kids put water balloons in the
road and wait all day for the explosion. They built a bar
in their back yard, called it the Filthy Door, then named
their album Filthy Doorways. They have a song called
"Kill Your Parents," another called "Come on Whiskey" and
a third called "Punk Rock Mom." Their sound is a swaying,
ramshackle contraption built of noise and solitude, rockin'
good times and lonely spells. In short, what's not to love
about L.A.'s Earlimart? (ZD)
Steadman
Tugboat Brewpub
Having been screwed over by Arista
UK when known as the Dharmas, the enterprising Brit band
went the way of the Net. Pale, wan and righteous, Steadman
is very pleased with itself for releasing and promoting
Loser Friendly all on its own. Four looker lads and
one big-eyed girl unleash the woes of being oppressed popsters,
yet the catchiest tune on the album makes this confession:
"I'm an underachiever living the life of leisure." Lucky
them. (CM)
M.I.R.V.
Zoot Suite
Lounge horror metal? Circus joke goth? San Francisco's
M.I.R.V. is one of those bands that cause nasty adjective
pileups in critics' tongue-tied mouths. Their music can
simmer or slam as needed, while their skewed lyrical vision
idles along through fantasies involving monkeys, Mexico's
mythical monster the Goatsucker and the most terrifying
circuses ever. Did we mention monkeys? Lots of monkeys.
(ZD)
12:30
AM
Reclinerland
Tugboat Brewpub
Reclinerland is actually Michael George Johnson, a songwriting
genius who recently split Portland for the swinging confines
of New York City. Drawing together chamber music (check
out the luscious "Venezuela" on his recent album on the
Expanding Brooklyn label), DIY folk and punk-rock passion,
Johnson is a troubadour and pop auteur for the next
century. Rose City's loss is the 'Apple's gain (damn them!),
but at least we get to bask in the glow every once in a
while. (ZD)
1
AM
PigGie Hat
Ash Street Saloon
Join this Austin band as it
searches for the soul of rock 'n' roll. Bring some earplugs.
(ZD)
Popdefect
Club 21
I owe some of the most formative experiences of my young
rock 'n' roll life to these indefatigible L.A. road warriors.
Montana high school days passed slowly, but once a year
or so the Popdefect crusade would hit town to showcase spare,
hyperdriven post-punk-surf and death-defying beer-drinking
skills. These golden moments shine in memory: guitarist
Al Anderson running straight up the wall of the Moose Lodge
basement late one night in 1990; bassist Charlie Hutchinson
howling a wordless hound dog lament a capella as the freaked-out
crowd barked along; drummer Nick Scott frantically trying
to corral his well-pummelled kit as it slid across the Moose's
condensation-slicked floor. These were the days of my life.
Popdefect has somehow managed to remain obscure despite
totally ruling--check 'em out and help right one of the
great historical injustices of '90s rock. (ZD)
Wylie and the Wild West
Cobalt Lounge
Good ol' Wylie is a good ol' boy from Montana (though
he makes his home in some Eastern Washington dustspeck these
days) and he and his Wild West are gonna take and play you
some honky tonk if you don't mind. Twanging brilliantly
and yodelling beautifully through windswept plains, Wylie
links this modern post-alt-country age with the radio variety
shows of his youth and the deeper substrata of cowboy song
and Western Swing that undergird country. Two-step to the
millennium. (ZD)
Speedealer
EJ's
Or, "The Band Formerly Known as REO Speedealer, Until
a Bunch of Forgotten Soft-Rockers Decided to Show They Had
No Sense of Humor (in Addition to Their Widely-Known Lack
of Musical Talent) and Sued the Texas Band's Butt into Submission."
But even if the courts can force Speedealer into changing
its name, it would take a greater power than some sad old
MOR has-beens to alter the course of its heavy-metal hurricanes.
Like an American version of Motörhead, only without
the facial mole (but with the Fu Manchus), these
rowdy dudes scorch their throats sore, bellowing lung-busting,
misanthropic anthems over fat chunks of guitar. It's mean
but definitely not lean. We can only hope these obviously
temperamental men never run into REO Speedwagon in a dark
alley somewhere...or should we? (JG)
Champion Birdwatchers
Green Onion
If you were from Idaho, you'd title your album The Inconsolable
Longing too. (Easy fellas, it's just a joke.) Ultra-earnest
and eclectic, the Champion Birdwatchers stir together cellos,
grinding hard rock and spiritually introspective lyrics,
plus a serious preoccupation with The Lion, The Witch and
the Wardrobe author C.S. Lewis. Their super-serious mien
suggests that the Birdwatchers might not be the guys you
want to end up talking to all through the party, but their
intriguingly cracked music should cow even the most social
into a few moments of silence. (ZD)
The Green and Yellow TV
Ground Kontrol
This L.A. pop band cites all the right people as influences--the
Beatles, the Who, the Beach Boys. After winning some major-label
lovin' at last year's NxNW, the Green and Yellow crew is
back--the relationship, it seems, didn't take. Still, they
got some studio time out of the deal, and the resulting
Scarecrow Museum EP sparkles with hundreds of pop-gem
facets. Still, the record is just quirky and willful enough
that it's easy to see why it might make some A&R stunod
run for the sheltering shadow of the Backstreet Boys. (ZD)
Brenda Kahn
Jimmy Mak's
With angsty lyrics and an onward-marching procession
of acoustic chords, Brenda Kahn could drop all too easily
into the anonymity of the singer-songwriter rank and file.
Fortunately, though, she's got the fecund chaos of New York
City in her corner. The city lends hard imagery to her words
and a creeping avant-garde tendency to her music. The odd
Velvet Underground squeal worms through here, a downbeat
stream of crazed cello invades there. It all suggests that
livin' for the city isn't easy, but it's necessary. (ZD)
Mogue Doyle
Kelly's Olympian
There's a good tale about how these lads got their name--from
an ancestor who commanded the Wexford rebels in the ill-fated
Irish Uprising of 1798, the bloody and rueful Year of the
French. Other than that, the members of this Detroit octet
march with the ghost of the Pogues, with vocalist Greg Brophy
doing a credible job of Shane MacGowan's phlegm-slobbering
yowl. That's no small success, given that Detroit's a long
way from Eire. (BS)
The Green Pajamas
Paris Theater
The clear-eyed bliss of Revolver-era Beatles
joins a droning, inner-space-exploratory school of '90s
indie rock in the capable hands of this Seattle band. (ZD)
Agent 51
Rocco's
There's sweat in the basement. Stickers on the amps.
Blood on the strings. Spit on the mic. This bracing San
Diego band bundles the wiry energy of teen-age alley punk
into a familiar but exciting package. Lickety-split guitars
and comradely vocals hash out an elemental frustration with
the Man and Society with barrelhousing energy and goose-pimple
excitement. (ZD)
Phoenix Thunderstone
Roseland Downstairs
Is that dirt under Phoenix Thunderstone singer Sean
Haskett's fingernails or is it...is it blood? For the love
of God, man, we have stumbled into something unholy. This
San Francisco band's ravenous swamp-blues blast goes places
dark and dirty, as Haskett raves like a moonshine-addled
preacher who's fallen from grace. Guitarist Wendy Van Dusen
offers some sugar to cut Haskett's salt, but with Sean more
or less guaranteeing full nudity with every show, there's
little question as to where eyes will be locked. Honking
harmonica lurks in the background, adding a bayou wildness
to the hammering storm of guitars and drums. (ZD)
Deathray
Roseland Main Room
Members of Cake! (ZD)
King Black Acid
Satyricon
These longtime explorers of Portland's inner space commingle
a squalling, lush guitar sound reminiscent of some of Brit
pop's more tripped out fellow travellers with a blissful
stateside psychedelia. While the dense washes of sound definitely
show sophistication, you can hear the simple loneliness
of highway interchanges, truck stops and city street corners
in the midst of the textured euphoria. (ZD)
Ashbury Park
Seges ArtBar
Forget their moniker's allusion to Bruce Springsteen's
home town: This local band's sound is more in tune with
the spaced-out San Francisco of the '60s than The Boss'
working-class '70s. Like many post-Grateful Dead neo-psychedelic
jam bands, this quintet plays a drawn-out, improvisational
blend of American folk-rock, blues and jazz. (DM)
Flatirons
The Spot
At about five in the afternoon, you can wander into
some bars and find a few oldtimers inspecting the molecules
on the bottom of empty whiskey tumblers. The Flatirons explore
the inner workings of this moment with their slow-burning
country, a sound tailormade for jukeboxes and sad, sad moments.
(ZD)
Jim Greer
Tonic Lounge
No, this is not the same Jim Greer who writes for Spin.
Yes, it's the guy who plays keys for Tipsy and Dr. Octagon.
No, his solo work isn't electronic. Yes, it's singer-songwriter-type
stuff. No, it doesn't suck, 'cause he's got a unique vision
and a talent for idiosyncratic arrangements pulling in toy
organs, de-tuned pianos, accordions and the like. Rover
Songs, his latest, is a weird mélange of campfire
folk and tricky alt-composer tricks. Jonathan Richman can
be detected somewhere in this guy's musical DNA, but he's
been exposed to some radiation, that's for sure. (JG and
ZD)
Darin Talbot
Tugboat Brewpub
Bluesy pop-folk meets a distinct Gen-X sensibility in
this Nevadan's wry tales of snowboarding drop-outs, random
love, country living and the musician's lot in life. Friendly
and rollicking, Talbot comes off like a great beer-drinking
buddy who's decided to lay down some amiable songs drawn
from life. (ZD)
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Willamette Week | originally
published September 22,
1999
|
