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DJ E*Rock
[AUDIO CLIMBER] A multidisciplinary artist whose drawing, design and animation work has achieved global renown, DJ E*Rock remains principally known as the founder of the Audio Dregs and Fryk Beat labels and the creator of a labyrinthine and wide-ranging electronica. Touring with Ratatat—Audio Dregs artists co-helmed by his brother E*Vax—last summer, he wielded a rejiggered Wii controller and towering computer setup to propel unfamiliar crowds through a high-energy blend of beats, visuals and performance. JAY HORTON. ROTTURE.
Arctic Monkeys
[BLOG BABIES GROW UP] Sheffield scoundrels Arctic Monkeys are on the offensive. With their third album, Humbug, released just weeks ago, we're getting a rare chance to judge the band's big, brooding statement of intent in its unadulterated live form. And live is just how they like it. The Monkeys cut their teeth on the demanding U.K. touring circuit five years ago—playing all the smallest clubs, handing out demos, notching up industry plaudits—and built up unprecedented legions of fans along the way. The group's caustic, punchy songs defined a restless and dissatisfied generation at a time when indie rock was drowning in its own mediocrity. When they finally released their debut album, Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not, became the fastest-selling debut in British chart history. Arctic Monkeys now headline the überfestivals of Europe and stir up hysteria with a smirk. But Humbug marks a significant shift: Darker, louder and creepier, it's a behemoth of a record. Each player's indomitable musicianship has been drawn to the forefront, with Alex Turner's vocal delivery taking on a more enigmatic and crooning style. It's a shame to lose his acute summations on real life for talk of snake pits and abstraction, but he's not just "one of the lads" anymore. Early standout tracks "Crying Lightning" and "Propeller" are tough to digest first time around, with ferocious drums and twisted, lingering guitars cramming every sonic inch. But like much of the album, these songs grow and find form. Before you know it, the group's insistent hooks are lodged in your brain. And the band delivers a live show like no other. JENNY BOOTH.WONDER BALLROOM: NIKE.
8 Pm
Rob Wynia
[FLOATER'S FRONT] When onstage with iconic Northwest rock outfit Floater, Rob Wynia exudes confidence: The trio is pretty comfortable after 16 years as a regional force to be reckoned with. But solo gigs are still relatively new for the Portland-based songwriter, and he's admitted to having some nerves over them. He shouldn't. Though occasionally maligned by too-cool-for-rawk locals, Wynia deserves respect for building his band in true DIY fashion. Incidentally, he's a skilled vocalist and multifaceted songwriter. While he'll probably play some Floater tracks tonight, the focus will be on tracks that don't quite fit the band's heavier aesthetic. CASEY JARMAN.
No Kids
[P: ASTICHE] The brainchild of three orphans reclaimed from former Vancouver, B.C., pan-pop eccentrics P:ano, No Kids amps up the references on its debut album but maintains a singular if fictitious perspective. Sampling genres through an arch prism of faded boarding-school nobility, the coed trio essays boy bands young and old, absent any tradition of neighborhood harmonizing. JAY HORTON. BACKSPACE.
Blunt Mechanic
[FOLK PUNK] Once one of Portland's most notable and prolific artists, recording primarily under the moniker Kind of Like Spitting throughout the early aughts, Ben Barnett has always produced music with a raw, open-book appeal. Though he recorded some of his best work—both electric and acoustic—between 2004 and 2006 for a handful of indie labels, Barnett took a hiatus from recording to focus on teaching at the Paul Green School of Rock Music in Seattle. Proverbial shit back together, Barnett is currently gearing up to release a lo-fi tour-de-fuzz comeback disc, World Record, with his new band Blunt Mechanic. CASEY JARMAN. BERBATI'S PAN.
Living Proof
[HIP-HOP] Well, we always describe Portland-Seattle hip-hop duo Living Proof as "smooth," but that adjective just fits. Prem and Tope's b-boy stances are of the "thoughtful, chin-rubbing" variety, and the music is often as thoughtful and personal as it is bumpable. Which, now that we think about it, is just as good an adjective for the duo as smooth. Last year's Roots to Branches still sounds fresh, but if we had to go out on a limb we'd predict a few new bangers tonight. Put them fuckin' hands up! CASEY JARMAN. HAWTHORNE THEATRE.
Dirty Mittens
[SNAP-CRACKLING POP] The sweet-tart pop of this ever-growing local collective—formerly a trio, they were seven members strong at this year's PDX Pop Now! fest—will win over even the most jaded listener. With the effervescent, whimsical voice of frontwoman Chelsea Morrisey at their center, Dirty Mittens' songs are celebrations of raucous Motown horns, vintage girl-group hooks and sensitive Swedish pop references. In addition to their cherubic originals, they also have a deft hand with well-chosen covers—we dare you not to swoon. REBECCA RABER. MISSISSIPPI STUDIOS.
Trouble Andrew
[MISH-MASH-UP] Straight out of Squampton (actually Squamish, B.C., but that's what the kids like to call it), former pro snowboarder Trevor Andrew is the beau of Brooklyn's indie princess Santi White. And while an artist's love life usually shouldn't matter, it's worth mentioning here. Andrew's music exists at the intersection of Santigold's pop-punk-dub-hop potpourri and the Caucasian street rhymes of guys like Mickey Avalon. He calls it douche-core, but he's only joking. Mostly. MATTHEW SINGER. ROSELAND.
Jeffrey Jerusalem
[DANCING MACHINE] Coming off a muggy, memorable midafternoon set at this year's PDX Pop Now! festival—one bookended by an a cappella incantation of "Day-O (The Banana Boat Song)" and a sample of "The Circle of Life"—Jeff Brodsky, a.k.a. Jeffrey Jerusalem, is establishing himself as the postmodern prince of the Portland electro-dance scene. Don't expect him to stay hunched over his laptop, either: The East Coast expat's shows are as much a joyous experience for Brodsky as they are for the crowd. MATTHEW SINGER. ROTTURE.
Southern Belle
[JOY RIDE] Hurry Up and Thrill Me is the first release from this band of PDX young'uns, and it seems as much a mission statement as a title. Southern Belle's songs thrill in so many ways, the band having eagerly absorbed a whole spectrum of indie-pop heritage. "Pacific" features farmyard folk pluckings; then comes the more sinister organ trills and yelps of "Oh Tokyo" before "Shitlist" brings twisted electro to the table. Playing with exuberant energy, SB balances shouty wildness with homespun harmonies. JENNNY BOOTH. SATYRICON.
My Life in Black and White
[COUNTRY-FRIED ROCKAGE] With Lucero members busy filming MTV reality shows, Against Me! choosing to toe the anarchist line from Starbucks-sponsored stadiums, and This Bike Is a Pipe Bomb being best known for causing security threats, perhaps now is the perfect time for PDX's MLIBAW to make its mark in a long-oversaturated folk-punk scene. The band already has three full-lengths behind it, but it's really the live show where this kind of music proves its mettle. If "raucous" and "whiskey-fueled" is how you like it, there's no better show. DAVID ROBINSON. SLABTOWN.
Tanning
[SOLO JOGGER] Like our friends in Church and Nurses, erstwhile Jogger/Shaky Hand Jake Morris has come up with another wonderfully un-Googleable name for his latest musical venture. There are a scant few tracks online to really get a true sense of what Morris is going for with his solo joints, but what is out there demonstrates a devilish, shifty-eyed pop sound, with a dose of folk sensibility thrown in for good measure. ROBERT HAM. SOMEDAY LOUNGE.
8 : 45 Pm
The Jealous Sound
[LONGING ROCK] L.A. quartet the Jealous Sound personifies the fucked-up emotions of the male genome through riff-heavy rock driven by ample distortion and power chords. The lyrics—about breakups, mistrust, love and pretty much every thought generated by a dude who looked at his lady's text-message history after a half-rack of PBR—share the theme. The band understands there is sometimes only one way to mend a broken heart: by rocking as hard as possible. AP KRYZA. CRYSTAL BALLROOM.
9 Pm
The Dry County Crooks
[PUNK BUMPKIN] Few bands outside the psychobilly genre cage straddle the fine line between outlaw country and punk. The Dry County Crooks are one of them. Middle fingers held high, the Portland quartet takes to the stage like some unholy, rowdy-as-fuck offspring of Johnny Cash and Nancy Spungen. Old-timey country gets crunched beneath heavy riffs and pounding drum lines, with neither cherished form of musical rapscallionry compromised. AP KRYZA. ASH STREET SALOON.
Tara Jane ONeil
[SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT] Back in the day, Louisville's avant-rock outfit Rodan (of which now-Portlander ONeil was a founding member) granted the feeling of an ocean to an island: isolating but rich, deep, unplumbable. That same sense of richness and isolation permeates the rest of ONeil's musical projects, from the drunken layerings of Retsin to the post-jazz forays of Jackie-O Motherfucker. Her solo work is more intimate and spare than any of these ventures: expressionistic bursts of guitar or lyric that find their home in the lump at the back of your throat. MATTHEW KORFHAGE. BACKSPACE.
Say Hi
[FORCED IMPRESSIONS] While endlessly layered home recordings ordinarily plump up the weaknesses of one-man bands—audience ever wondering how the magician manages the trick—the perfectionist streak of Say Hi/Eric Elbogen thankfully surrenders to enviable indie-pop instincts. Maybe lopping off the more embarrassing bits of the band's name (Say Hi to Your Mom, bless), moving to Seattle, and changing narrative thrust from vampirism to hott girls shan't guarantee every bearded music critic a Gossip Girl soundtrack spot, but it seems Elbogen's obsessive bedroom tinkering and empathy for undead predators struck a chord. JAY HORTON. BERBATI'S PAN.
Scout Niblett
[ABOUT A GIRL] We haven't heard much from Portland's fave English emigrée Scout Niblett since 2007's globally acclaimed This Fool Can Die Now: her fourth album, third produced by Steve Albini and first with eventual tour mate Will Oldham manning duets. Well past dodging those old comparisons to Cat Power's Chan Marshall, Niblett has explosive dynamics and distinct eccentricities (the wigs continue) that remain her own, and a recently released Drag City 7-inch presents our rocking bird in full feather. JAY HORTON. DOUG FIR.
Logan Lynn
[DANCY PANTSY] Portland beat boy Logan Lynn has range. His songs span from slutty to romantic, from cluttered to clean as a whistle. Since signing with Beat the World Records (the Dandy Warhols' label), Lynn has been cranking out peppy, electronic dance jams like a turbocharged machine. Pairing with synth-savvy local producer Carlos Cortes (of DJ collective Assemble the Empire) allowed Lynn to pump out his most polished EP yet, Feed Me to the Wolves. WHITNEY HAWKE. EAST END.
Animal Farm
[HIP-HOP] Talk about street cred—four-piece Portland-area crew Animal Farm managed to get none other than legendary hip-hop poet KRS-One to lay down tracks on its recent album, The Unknown. And it's no wonder: Employing beats ranging from ragtime to funk, the group spits rhymes that soak in social consciousness while keeping heads nodding to its members' tongue-twisting flows. In a city where hip-hop often plays second fiddle, Animal Farm's MCs flex nuts and brain power with equal strength. AP KRYZA. HAWTHORNE THEATRE.
Yourself and the Air
[THE AIR UP THERE] If Chicago outfit Yourself and the Air needed any sort of band validation, then its recent session for Daytrotter should provide all the cred it needs. Led by quirky, yelpy songs that are as clever as they are catchy ("So You've Come to Mingle," "My Friends Are in Love With a Feeling"), the band's third full-length, Friend of All Breeds, is a direct, compact statement of purpose, showcasing a band very much on the rise. MICHAEL MANNHEIMER. HOLOCENE.
M64
[NEW STARS?] M64 is pretty fresh out of the box. Uniting honey-toned local soulstress Ragen Fykes with producer extraordinaire Ohmega Watts, this Portland combo is already creating slick, ambient soul with enough bumps and blips to keep shoulders bouncing. Not to be confused with some euphoric French dude (M64 + 19), this is "the effect of two galaxies colliding and resulting in a new star system." Big words with only one 7-inch to back them up, but with a full-length album scheduled later this year, M64 could prove a perfectly timed showcase. JENNY BOOTH. JIMMY MAK'S.
P.O.S.
[CANDY HIP-HOP] Minneapolis-bred solo MC P.O.S. (a multipurpose acronym, depending on his mood) is also the frontman for hip-hop group Doomtree and hardcore band Building Better Bombs. Rooted in Midwestern rock and later influenced by artists like Slug from Atmosphere, the Rhymesayers-signed spitter colors his emphatically rapped verses about politics, living with purpose and fatherhood with the semiautomatic lyrics of a socially conscious rapper and the energetic, raw, flippant angst of a punk rocker. SARA MOSKOVITZ. ROSELAND.
Atole
[NEW BEAT] Portland's Atole has long been one of our most thrilling dance bands, but now the newly minted quartet is also one of our best. Instead of only relying on its weird side (distorted krautrock jams, whooped vocal calls), Atole is incredibly accessible on its new Brainwaves EP, which is filled with joints like "Tonya's Song" and "Satyricow" that are both danceable and catchy. Who knew instruments could make music so funky? MICHAEL MANNHEIMER. ROTTURE.
LAKE
[PAJAMA POP] Hailing from Olympia, Wash., pajama-pop five-piece LAKE sounds sort of familiar on first listen. But pay attention, and you'll hear strands of various pop groups—including Motown standards and [gasp] Fleetwood Mac—in the band's layered, delicate sound. LAKE plays undeniably dorky music, filled with horns and flutes and bouncy, "Chopsticks"-style piano, but it's so fun and hooky and even danceable that you'll rue the day you ever spoke a bad word about indie pop. MICHAEL MANNHEIMER. SATYRICON.
System and Station
[OUTSIDER ART ROCK] For nearly a decade, elusive Portland quartet System and Station has made a rare concession—indie rock shouldn't skimp on catchy riffs or pop mentality. The band hones its sound in the most unpretentious laboratory in town, and its experimentation serves the purpose of bettering the musical palate. The band uses its instruments like playground equipment outside a school for the gifted, and the result is a sound that embraces and enhances rock conventions without stepping too far away from the monkey bars. AP KRYZA. SLABTOWN.
Inside Voices
[LESS IS MORE] Inside Voices does more with a guitar, bass and drum kit than most bands with a 10-piece orchestra. The local trio—John Gnorski on guitar and vocals, Lee Slack on bass and vocals, and Jeff Brodsky with some of the most creative drumming around—excels at being relatively simple. Still, the band's songs always find a way to dig themselves into your head, and its debut full-length, The Fortunes, is filled with twangy guitars and boy-girl harmonies that can't be ignored. MICHAEL MANNHEIMER. SOMEDAY LOUNGE.
9 : 30 Pm
Rapids
[TURBOLENCE] When burgeoning area metal troupe Rapids—featuring past members of Merrick Foundation, Slowhawk and Wadsworth—asked Sean Croghan to fill in on vocals one early cover gig, it never expected the Jr. High/Crackerbash icon to accept the position full time. But, two years on, don't call it a comeback. Rapids was always more balls-to-the-wall Hüsker Dü than local riff merchants, and Croghan's active involvement's seen songs grow more concise and more focused. JAY HORTON. DANTE'S.
10 Pm
Michael Dean Damron and Thee Loyal Bastards
[ROCK FOLK] Mike D, these days billed under his full given name, has mellowed since his days of tearing up the stage and his larynx with I Can Lick Any SOB in the House. Mellowed, that is, the way a whiskey does; his music might go down a little smoother, but that just conceals a stronger kick. Now that Damron's reduced the tempos and the volume to spotlight his songs' substance, he's producing his most personal, powerful work yet. JEFF ROSENBERG. ASH STREET SALOON.
Karl Blau
[NORTHWEST INDEPENDENT] Anacortes, Wash., native Blau has a freewheeling sense of experimentation, but not just from a compulsion to be different—he's one of those open-minded tinkerers who treat music the way kids treat finger paint. Long an MVP of Laura Veirs' backing bands, Blau's been as original in disseminating his music as creating it; between 2001 and 2006, rather than albums per se, he offered nine volumes of a subscription CD series, Kelp Monthly. Since then, he's released one more issue and four additional full-lengths. JEFF ROSENBERG. BACKSPACE.
Rocky Votolato
[SIGH OF THE TIGER] Seattle's favorite technical Texan (almost every leading light of Northwest music shines through his extended discography), Rocky Votolato abandoned frontman duties with critically acclaimed bleached-roots outfit Waxwing seven years ago to focus on country-tinged singer-songwriterdom. Votolato's national profile's grown slowly, his tales of misbehavior consigned to lyrics rather than gossip columns, but recent Barsuk albums of raw-boned folk and manfully restrained emotive vocals rank with the best of his contemporaries. JAY HORTON. BERBATI'S PAN.
Sunny Day Real Estate
[NORTHWEST LEGENDS] It's hard to overstate Sunny Day Real Estate's impact on contemporary indie rock. The Seattle quartet took the riffage of the grunge era and tempered it with start-and-stop song structures fused with organic melody—a style that, to the distaste of many of its notable purveyors, would come to be known as "emo." And though the band's 1994 breakout, Diary, sounds little like the polished 'n' packaged "emo" of today, the disc's songs have managed to stand the test of time. By the time SDRE got around to releasing its second disc, LP2, inner turmoil over frontman Jeremy Enigk's increasingly vocal spirituality broke up the band. It was a shame because the disc's standouts—gut-wrenching opener "Friday" and the epic "J'Nuh," among them—translate quite nicely to the stage (we know this from the band's subsequent reunion shows without guitarist Nate Mendel, busy with the Foo Fighters at the time). Sunny Day would go on to record two more studio albums without Mendel: 1998's How It Feels to Be Something On dabbled in Middle Eastern rhythms and delivered notably coherent writing from Enigk—a songwriter not known for lyrical accessibility. The Rising Tide, released in 2000, seemed radio-ready but failed to propel the modified group into the mainstream. The original Sunny Day lineup hasn't performed publicly since 1998, and we expect the focus at its MFNW appearance to be on material from the first two discs—both of which see reissue just before the Portland date. Because all the band's members have had long, strange trips since those discs came out, this new tour probably won't replicate the band's original sound so much as celebrate it. That's a good thing: Why would we want a band that changed rock 'n' roll to stay the same? CASEY JARMAN.
CRYSTAL BALLROOM.
Pack A.D.
[SAD PACK] On Funeral Mixtape, Canadians Maya Miller and Becky Black's second album as the Pack A.D., Black whines through tight lips, uncoiling songs about heartache and the gravestones of lovers. On "Tintype," Black growls and whimpers like a cat in heat alongside the raw riffs and an angry, steady drumbeat that pushes hate more than it does heartache. The feeling isn't limited to one track. "I'm gonna give these blues to every damn body I meet," Black wails with fury on "All Damn Day Long." Becky Black is singing the blues, and the Pack A.D. is making sure you feel its pain. LYNDSAY ASHE. DOUG FIR.
The Punk Group
[JOCKO HOMOS] Smartasses or just assholes? Honestly, the Punk Group would probably be satisfied with either description. Picking up where Devo left off—not only with its synth-speckled robo-rock, but in its fascination with decaying American culture—the Portland duo takes a satirical buck knife to post-millennial life, gutting everything from social networking sites to online sex predators to Sleater-Kinney. (Although, Pabst Blue Ribbon should seriously consider picking up its ode to PBR—ironically titled "Heineken"—as a promotional jingle.) The band recently self-released a tribute album to…who else? The Punk Group itself. MATTHEW SINGER. EAST END.
Common Market
[HIP-HOP] Common Market's debut LP, Tobacco Row, is more soulful than you might expect from a couple of kids from Seattle. But religion—and religious fervor for hip-hop—brought MC RA Scion and DJ-producer Sabzi (formerly of Seattle rap duo Blue Scholars) together. Both are followers of Baha'i, which preaches the unity of major religions. Picture Jesus, Allah and Yahweh passing a blunt around the freestyle cipher. It's kind of like that. There are traces of a revival preacher in RA Scion's rolling flow, which is also reminiscent of Brother Ali. It's clear that the duo is impressing the big guy—not your deity of choice, but KRS-One, who flew to Seattle for Common Market's album release party and then took them on tour with him. ETHAN SMITH. HAWTHORNE THEATRE.
The Prids
[DREAM WEAVER] Listening to the Prids' hazy, swooning noise, you wouldn't be wrong to think that the band hailed from some gloomy U.K. town instead of Portland. The quartet has obviously aced its 4AD history test, and it cribs the finest bits of shoegaze and dream pop and swirls them into catchy, rapturous nuggets of delicate pop. The band's best songs—"Love Zero"; "Like Hearts"; an essential, slowed-down cover of Guided by Voices' "Motor Away"—mix equal doses of wavering keys with punchy guitars and melodies that are both sweet and sour. MICHAEL MANNHEIMER. HOLOCENE.
Ben Darwish
[IVORY-TICKLER] All hail Lincoln High School, responsible for the likes of Simpsons creator Matt Groening and the late, great Elliott Smith. Next in line, Ben Darwish, the next generation of Portland jazz. He's earned the respect and partnership of local legend Mel Brown while incorporating hip-hop into his repertoire with the likes of Ohmega Watts. A mash-up of classic talent and contemporary musical brainstorming, Darwish is several strides ahead of his tender young age. MARK STOCK. JIMMY MAK'S.
Weinland
[HOME TEAM] Adam Shearer does not sing; he holds a mic up to his chest and waits. Portlanders need no introduction, for this folkie locomotive has gathered only momentum as of late. A bit like Grandaddy if you replaced the digital elements with acoustic analog ones, Weinland is dedicated and focused. But the whole is nothing without its parts, and it's the inner workings of Weinland that are most special. Watch as every band member takes complete custody of his or her role. MARK STOCK. MISSISSIPPI STUDIOS.
Monotonix
[HIGH-PERFORMANCE ROCK] Best arrive early to this one, as the word is out. Israel's hardest-working band has brought its post-garage antics to the smallest clubs in Portland, and quickly outgrown them. Now curious crowds pack in like sardines to witness the living legend of the Monotonix stage show, which seems energized by the sun itself (or maybe the cocaine in Tel Aviv is just that strong?). These guys have a penchant for putting members on top of the bass drum on top of the crowd. I've yet to see them fall. NATHAN CARSON. ROSELAND.
Truckasauras
[COMMODORE 69] Sloppily projecting wrestling reels to the back of the stage while forging intricate bleep symphonies from vintage synths, sequencers and home computers, Truckasauras rampages amid the detritus of our more colorful pop-culture past: A modified Game Boy directs its electro engines. Last year's self-titled debut album from the Seattle troupe, weirdly cozy for all the primitive electronics, doesn't really convey the tuneful chaos nerd savants armed with a real, live boy drummer can create in a live setting. JAY HORTON. ROTTURE.
Reporter
[INDIE POP] When local darling Wet Confetti hung up its party hat in 2007, fans didn't have to wait long for Reporter to emerge. The group features the same three faces and Alberta Poon's patented breathless vocals. The songs are still minimalist, pop-oriented indie tunes, but now the rhythms are augmented by sparse and glitchy electronics. The vibe is still tensely romantic nighttime rock. The main difference is that one can name-check the band without feeling embarrassed. NATHAN CARSON. SATYRICON.
Southerly
[OPPORTUNISTIC INDIE] Southerly, a.k.a. Krist Krueger, truly utilizes the diverse sonic opportunities available to an indie artist. Flanked by four other musicians, Southerly explores the intricate back-alleys of music. Drifting from somber, piano-driven melodies to the hard edges of rock, Kreuger's forceful voice guides the journey as it weaves in and out of sonic landscapes connected by a confident pop sensibility. The result is often breathtaking songwriting paired with driving rhythms that keep the listener on edge without veering toward the exclusionary side of experimental pop. AP KRYZA. SLABTOWN.
Jared Mees & the Grown Children
[LULLABITES] Co-owner with wife Brianne of the all-inclusive (label, imprint, boutique and gallery) one-stop-shopping indie superspace Tender Loving Empire, Jared Mees has more than a touch of the precocious youth to his music: He's as helplessly optimistic and intimidatingly articulate as a nitrous-happy tweener Elvis Costello. The enlightened pop construction and instrumental interplay of Caffeine, Alcohol, Sunshine, Money—Mees' first album with the Grown Children, a handpicked troupe of local all-stars—betrays a seasoned maturity absent pretension. JAY HORTON. SOMEDAY LOUNGE.
10 : 30 Pm
The Soft Pack
[BARREN PUNK] The music press loves to hate the Soft Pack. Mostly 'cause it used to have a shit-hot name (the Muslims) and now it has a…soft one. Well, whatever, has the music also softened like so much chocolate on a hot day? Nuh-uh. The San Diego natives now bristle with energy, bashing out tunes with frenzied, raw power. Wearing Stooges and Modern Lovers influences on its sleeve, the Pack is loath to dilute its stark sound with anything more rounded. It's refreshing to see music geeks without scenester aspirations; to suggest the Soft Pack "packs a punch" would be cheesy, but not inaccurate. JENNY BOOTH. DANTE'S.
11 Pm
New York Rifles
[NITTY GRITTY] Comparing Portland-based avant-punkers New York Rifles to the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion isn't too far of a stretch. The two bands share a fondness for militaristic vocal chanting, radiating guitar sketches and a stop-and-go, convulsive nature that keeps you wanting more. The Rifles can creep you out like the Kills and get in your face—with clapping, harmonizing and tomfoolery—like the Who. The band does it all with a "we eat what we like" mentality that makes for an eventful live set. MARK STOCK. ASH ST SALOON.
Mount Eerie
[NATURE POEM] It's not really accurate to peg Mount Eerie's new album Wind's Poem as black metal, as advanced press would have you believe. Still, Wind's Poem is assuredly the heaviest thing Phil Elverum—the man behind Mount Eerie and, before that, the Microphones—has ever done. It's filled with his boyish voice and meditations on nature and life, but this time the background is often chunky and immense, just like the stars Elverum loves to sing about. MICHAEL MANNHEIMER. BACKSPACE.
Viva Voce
[ROSE CITY ROYALTY] Kevin and Anita Robinson were an indie-rock power couple even before relocating to the Pacific Northwest from Alabama in 2002, but over the course of seven years and five albums the pair has blossomed into one of Stumptown's best songwriting tandems. Having expanded from a duo to a quartet for this year's Rose City, the band has an inventive, sweet-and-cool pop with a swingin' backbone. And with the rousing title track, the group may have penned the definitive Portland anthem. MATTHEW SINGER. BERBATI'S PAN.
Nurses
[HOMEMADE ELECTRO-POP] It can be hard to keep track of the steady stream of musicians relocating to Portland, but some bands stick out. Nurses sticks way out, and not just because of big hats and the occasional cape. The trio clutters the stage with a mess of tangled wires and bulky keyboards, using the pile to create funky, percussive jams with more hooks than Muhammad Ali and a heart to match. CASEY JARMAN. DOUG FIR.
Royal Bangs
[KISS KISS, BANG BANG] Royal Bangs play indie-pop tunes with the precision of a math-rock band. Imagine if Polvo ditched its knotty riffs and zigzagging beats for chunky synths, a disco-worthy backbeat and TV on the Radio's sense of space and dynamics. Hailing from Knoxville, Tenn., this isn't your typical Southern band—instead of getting all mopey and opining over languid, rich guitar solos, Royal Bangs walk with a strut that's more Vice magazine than No Depression. MICHAEL MANNHEIMER. EAST END.
Swollen Members
[DARK RAP] More gothic gore than gangster, Swollen Members has parlayed an unlikely string of adjectives—Canadian, medieval, crunk—into a decade of success and a devoted fan base, best recognized by their Volcom T-shirts and Da Kine backpacks. On the group's latest album, 2006's Black Magic, Mad Child and Prevail mingle hip-hop's lovable standbys—visual rhymes, money talk and hyperbolic bravado—with J.R.R. Tolkien references and medieval battle scenes. The crew's affinity for the Dark Ages should come as no surprise—its record label is Battle Axe and its go-to producer is Rob the Viking. Rob's infectious beats—like the choppy, walking keys of "Pressure"—lay a crooked path that Mad Child's drunken sociopath shtick zigzags along, while the brooding and restrained flow of Prevail picks a more precise course. The combination of hype beats and Vancouver's proximity to Whistler and the accompanying snowboard culture has made Swollen Members favorites for snowboard video soundtracks. And rowdy live shows, where Mad Child perennially clutches a Heineken bottle and Prevail keeps the crowd—chanting along with every lyric—busy with its hands in the air. Raise your ax up. ETHAN SMITH. HAWTHORNE THEATRE.
Explode into Colors
[FUTURE PRIMITIVE] If Explode Into Colors had formed in England 30 years ago, the trio would be thought of today alongside the Au Pairs, the Raincoats and the Slits as a pioneering all-female post-punk outfit. Alas, the group will just have to settle for being Portland's best band. That is not hyperbole: Anyone who has witnessed its hyper-percussive dub-funk cocktail live can attest to being whipped into a feverish primeval dance party that's unlike anything else in town. MATTHEW SINGER. HOLOCENE.
James Pants (DJ Set)
[RAINBOW HIP-HOP] Signed to the ultimate indie hip-hop label Stones Throw Records, James Pants has impressed even his idols (Peanut Butter Wolf, Girl Talk). Weaving instrumental sounds, squeaks and interludes between his assortment of electro, hip-hop, vintage soul, funk and punk tracks, Pants creates a playground of danceable mercury drops. An Egyptian Lover remix twinkles into Too Short, which fades into some long-lost tech-Euro instrumental. He's the perfect DJ to get a crowd hyped for the main event. SARA MOSKOVITZ. JIMMY MAK'S.
Port O'Brien
[FOG ROCK] Some bands can't help but embody the place they came from. In the case of Port O'Brien's Van Pierszalowski and Cambria Goodwin, where they're from is entirely what the band is about. Coming together initially in the small California coastal town of Cambria, the duo writes delicate, mist-wrapped songs reflective of lives away from music; he as a commercial fisherman, she as a baker. Their stirring, beautifully wounded melodies evoke days that are gray and cold, yet never gloomy. MATTHEW SINGER. MISSISSIPPI STUDIOS.
Bad Brains
[JAH CORPS] Look, just like Jesus Christ wasn't a Christian, D.C.'s Bad Brains weren't hardcore punk. What they did with 1980's "Pay to Cum" was invent the genre, and then allow Minor Threat to go off and play St. Peter. Behind frontman H.R. (who doubled as the world's first Rastafarian AK-47), Bad Brains put punk on speed when it was already on speed, halved the meter and shouted so fast it didn't matter what anybody was saying. Somewhere in the middle they yeasted the bread loaf with Jah-positive reggae and made the crowd think they'd lost their breath because they were having 4:20 sex rather than holding a Marxist fistfight. The Brains' career, like most of their songs, has been a collection of sprints—they've broken up more times than Larry King, largely because of H.R.'s renowned volatility—so this is less a reunion tour than yet another winded push-charge. Their latest album, Build a Nation, is just as bipolar as all the rest—careening between karate-chop anger and tensely universal love—and no less punishing in its 2/4 assaults. When the attack lulls into cushiony reggae, the relief is that of a knife being pulled out of your kidneys—never mind you're bleeding green, yellow and red. MATTHEW KORFHAGE. ROSELAND THEATER.
Strength
[PDX PRANCE] Disco, electronic, synth rock, neo-psych: You can call Strength by these names, but none of that really nails it. Strength is simply the most underrated party band to call Portland home. Over the past five years, the group has busted out pure, unadulterated pop music highlighted by the wiry tenor of frontman Bailey Winters, and dance-inducing orchestration of guitarist Patrick Morris and multi-instrumentalist John Ziegler. To be strong enough for Strength you've got to bump, grind, sweat and sing along. So muscle up and enjoy the ride. WHITNEY HAWKE. ROTTURE.
Typhoon
[OLD-WORLD INDIE] Don't let Typhoon's numbers daunt you. While there might be a dozen people onstage at any given time, this band has perfected a wall of sound that ranges from the very soft and touching to hard and droning. Utilizing its brass and string players to the fullest, Typhoon excels at delivering a beautiful gypsy motif without compromising the harder indie sensibilities the kids seem to like so much these days. IAN RASMUSSEN. SATYRICON.
Sharpening Markers
[PISTOL-POINT BLANK] No need to get cute. Sometimes a band gets up onstage and the point was only ever rock 'n' roll. Name aside, precision's in play here only for the timing, not the delivery. Portland's Sharpening Marker's takes in the swampy emo-punk noises of bands like Portland's Thirty Ought Six and launches the whole mess into the propulsive context of late-'80s Orange County—all signal and momentum and broken voice. Break up, make up, who cares? Not me, not them. MATTHEW KORFHAGE. SLABTOWN.
BOAT
[GONZO POP] Jesters on the all-too-self-serious indie-rock circuit, Seattle's BOAT offers witty, funny and ultra-meta pop cuts where the band's sense of humor takes center stage. The quartet takes its indulgences and goofball demeanor and applies them to the catchiest beats imaginable. But frat rock this ain't: Between giggles, BOAT's musicianship shines through, earning the Puget pranksters a reputation as equal parts comic gold and earnest, working-class rock. AP KRYZA. SOMEDAY LOUNGE.
11 : 30 Pm
The Zeros
[PROTO PUNK] Thirty-three years ago, California punk quartet the Zeros was just a bunch of noisy kids. Now, the group is legend, a band whose shelf life exceeded its compatriots' by decades. Some say punk's dead, and modern groups are simply imitating a sound that, in its purest form, died with Sid Vicious. The oft-imitated Zeros disprove something they once asserted: Punk isn't just in the hands of the youth. It's also in the genes, and the force and the fury of the Zeros defy age. AP KRYZA. DANTE'S.
Midnight
The Lonely H
[GEN CSNY] Port Angeles, Wash., boys in their early 20s playing early-'70s-style rock (Eagles, Allman Brothers, any bands to boast unshorn hair and Bic-worthy solos) of such perfect timbre and absolute conviction as to confuse some about the music's provenance shouldn't need to regroup, but, following some 200 live shows, the Lonely H recorded its third album Concrete Class as an unspoken testament to all it'd learned on the road: Play enough dives enough times and you become the denim. JAY HORTON. ASH STREET SALOON.
The Long Winters
[SOFTCORE] A man the beastly size of John Roderick shouldn't be so cuddly. With the crooning capacity of Dean Martin, the towering leader of Seattle's Long Winters can turn a lifelong vegetarian on to steak with his satin pipes and piano-loving hands. A personal favorite act of mine since it stole Sasquatch as the last-minute substitute for MIA in 2007, the Long Winters is another case of an overqualified Northwest band that should be bigger, but likes things just fine the way they are. MARK STOCK. BERBATI'S PAN.
Pink Mountaintops
[HOMEMADE HALLUCINOGENS] When he's not melting faces with Canadian psychedelic prog-stoners Black Mountain, Stephen McBean is frying brains all on his own under the name Pink Mountaintops. PM's first two records, which take the trippier elements of McBean's main band and give them a gauzy, lo-fi treatment, came across as nice but ultimately diversionary downtime bedroom projects. With this year's Outside Love, however, McBean took a step toward legitimacy with a bigger sound—dipped liberally in Jesus and Mary Chain-esque dream fuzz—and greater emotional heft. MATTHEW SINGER. DOUG FIR.
Tigercity
[DANCE, SUCKA] Brooklyn quartet Tigercity takes a New Wave cue and imbues its songs with a serious pop wallop, making for a sound that's at once familiar and unique, drifting from lucid dreams to the dance floor with funky ease. Like a more organic version of Seattle's Velella Velella, Tigercity offers up dance pop at its most infectious. Prodded on by a throbbing synth and high-register vocals, the groovy beats and catchy harmonies lodge in the brain. AP KRYZA. EAST END.
Chairlift
[FLAWLESS CONFECTION] Chairlift boasts bruises. And "Bruises" is one of those songs—you remember the very first time you heard it. Then, after two months on repeat, it's not getting old. Etcetera. Hence the song's 7.5 million MySpace plays. This Brooklyn trio has crafted a heart-bursting piece of pop perfection, reeling you in on the first beat before layering up quivering guitars and zigzagging synth, all dusted with pitch-perfect reflections on new romance. Elsewhere, if you can tear your ears away from "Bruises," Caroline Polachek's vocals veer from Celtic crooning to Nico-esque, as debut album Planet Health charts a course between electro-candy and a slinking, Asian-style take on the Miami Vice soundtrack (no kidding). Initially grouping together in Boulder, Colo., in early 2006, Chairlift found timeless influences in faux-gothic architecture and oak cabinet aquariums. But it was after moving to the artistic hub of New York that the band quickly rose to the top of the avant-pop pile. Combining quirk with accessibility, the band recently garnered a VMA nomination for a song containing the immortal line, "The most evident utensil/ is none other than a pencil." JENNY BOOTH. HOLOCENE.
Mayer Hawthorne
[THE SOUNDS OF SEXY SOUL] The artist who, if his first name were Fred, would all but share a handle with a certain Southeast Portland grocery store, was actually christened (better make that "Jewished") Andrew Mayer Cohen. But while he may be a 21st-century white boy from Ann Arbor, Mich., the music he makes evokes artists of a different millennium and melanin content. The quality and sincerity of Hawthorne's pastiches of '70s soul and quiet-storm balladry, and the fact that his vocals don't imitate any specific African-American singers, ought to carry him a long way past any taint of minstrelsy. Hawthorne doesn't hedge his bets with reflexive, self-conscious goofiness à la Beck's funk parodies, rather laying his heart on the line like a soul man of old. His polymathic studio approach, tracking multiple instruments all by his lonesome, recalls classic RB heroes like Stevie Wonder and Prince. Hawthorne's new, debut full-length, A Strange Arrangement, recapitulates some material from his breakout singles of the past year, "Maybe So, Maybe No" and "Just Ain't Gonna Work Out," which have earned him praise and airplay from British classic-soul connoisseur, DJ and remixer Mark Ronson, among others. Grab your sweetie and sway to the old-school slow jams. JEFF ROSENBERG. JIMMY MAK'S.
Deer Tick
[ROOTS BEER] As the story goes, one night a teenage John McCauley locked himself in his Rhode Island bedroom with a bottle of brandy and a shit-ton of Hank Williams records, and emerged a songwriter. The imprints of that time spent with the country legend are still all over his band Deer Tick, particularly in McCauley's nasal drawl and tales of booze-soaked regret. But when the group plugs in—particularly on the rollicking single "Easy," from this year's Born on Flag Day—it's straight-up, no-bullshit rock 'n' roll. MATTHEW SINGER. MISSISSIPPI STUDIOS.
Copy
[ELECTRONIC DANCE] The dance event of MFNW might be seen by outsiders as Girl Talk, but those in Portland know that any room commanded by Copy is just as strong a party. He worked his way through the trenches of the Portland dance scene, armed with little more than a deep knowledge of how to make even the most uptight hipster sweat through his tight jeans. There is never a night better spent than dancing to Copy's videogame- and rap-inspired laptop beats. IAN RASMUSSEN. ROTTURE.
Japanther
[UTTERLY UNAPOLOGETIC] Friends of Casios and cassettes are friends of mine. Out of NYC and stuck to the city's storied punk-rock history, Japanther has shadowed the likes of its heroes and predecessors. And, in the ironic fashion of hipster America, it's done it new by being quite old. A mesh of '80s noise and ballistic percussion, the twosome is at once fun and fanatical. MARK STOCK. SATYRICON.
We're From Japan
[POST-ROCK] We're From Japan (from Portland, deceptively) might as well rename itself Old Faithful considering the reliable nature of its shows. Like instrumental post-rock bands that have come before it, WFJ is expert at creating a melodic wall of sound. Songs tend to seamlessly blend themselves together, for better or worse, into an indistinguishable wave of peaks and valleys. However, like Old Faithful, they are best during these climaxes, making the whole experience worthwhile. IAN RASMUSSEN. SLABTOWN.
The Shaky Hands
[SOLID ROCK] It's ironic that a band so reliably consistent would name itself the Shaky Hands. Since moving to Portland from California in 2003, singer-guitarist Nick Delffs and company have released a steady string of records, each delivering on what has made them one of the city's favorite bands: songs that burst and bristle with the exuberance and confusion of youth, conveyed through a loose, jangly sound pitched somewhere between the electrified Americana of Crazy Horse and the unbridled energy of the first two Kings of Leon albums. MATTHEW SINGER. SOMEDAY LOUNGE.
12 : 30 Am
Mudhoney
[PIECE OF CAKE] Touch me, I'm making a late-career comeback? More than 20 summers after its debut single, "Touch Me I'm Sick," changed the way people think about Northwest rock, Mudhoney returned last year with its best record in a decade, the heavy and sedate The Lucky Ones. Mudhoney was grunge before the word was even invented, beating Kurt Cobain to the punch and producing a debut (Superfuzz Bigmuff) that still stands as one Seattle's most defining rock moments. MICHAEL MANNHEIMER. DANTE'S.
1 Am
Two Cow Garage
[CLASSIC(-ISH) ROCK] Two Cow Garage has earned its rock cred, as evidenced by singer Micah Schnabel's Pall Mall-and-whiskey-ravaged voice, which rolls over riff-heavy tunes like a rake dragging across gravel. The Ohio quintet plays rock the way it was conceived: heavy on riffs and tales of barroom revelry set to pounding beats. That shit ain't broke, and Two Cow Garage isn't trying to fix it. The band knows its sound is ageless, even if its members' tar-filled lungs aren't. AP KRYZA. ASH STREET SALOON.
WWeek 2015