A Portland musician teaches Kabul youth how to rock.
In the United States, the phrase “rock school” rings a tad
false. There’s nothing wrong with empowering kids through music they
actually listen to, but teaching something as fundamentally no
Born: Michael Quattlebaum Jr. in 1986 in San Mateo, Calif.
Sounds like: A gender-twisted gangster straight
outta Hades, blasting holes through hip-hop’s hetero-normative heart,
with enough wig
Seattle surfer grrrls ride a dreamy wave of retro.
[NORTHWEST BEACH MUSIC] La Luz is a study in contrast. The
Seattle quartet melds ’60s girl-group harmonies with boys-club surf
guitar, and the band’s buzz-garnering debut 2012 EP, Damp Face,
Unlike many other kids I know, my parents didn’t introduce
me to Fleetwood Mac. Between my jazzhead father and Motown-loving
mother, there were hardly any rock records in my house growing up. My
Shaken by cancer and complacency, Camera Obscura needed a change. They found it in Portland.
No one could ever mistake Desire Lines as anything
but an album by Camera Obscura. All the identifiers are there: melodies
meshing the chirp of ’60s radio pop and ’80s post-punk devilry, and t
Years active: 1990-2001, 2008, 2010-present.
Sounds like: Television and the Stooges-inspired
darkness, with dueling, strained guitar lines turning into a lascivious,
bluesy and slightly dr
Portland jazz bids farewell to one of its leading lights.
How will Portland jazz survive without Andrew
Oliver? Since Hurricane Katrina blew the young pianist back to his
hometown in 2005 after a few years at New Orleans’ Loyola University,
Who’s playing Warped Tour? Beats us. So we went to the mall to find out.
Nothing makes a 30-year-old music writer feel like a
decrepit, out-of-touch sack of dust more than scanning a Warped Tour
lineup. The hordes of pierced, tatted and asymmetrically coiffed
Portland music-scene fixture Joe Haege returns this
week to premiere new 31Knots songs—which his own bandmate, Jay
Winebrenner, will be hearing for the first time and giving commentary on
For a rootless roots musician, words are very unnecessary.
Somewhere on Marisa Anderson’s résumé is
the phrase, “Once portrayed the ass-end of a jaguar.” It was the
mid-1990s, a few years after the Northern California-born guitarist