TBA

6:45 pm, Pioneer Courthouse Square: TBA opener Rinde Eckert's On the Great Migration of Excellent Birds is uninspiring and woefully under-rehearsed. Eckert envisioned an outdoor meta-choral work invoking the movement of flocks, and he evokes much of this beautifully. Singers rustle choral scores, jut out their arms and hands like tall cranes and mimic bird noises. But it doesn't add up. The hastily assembled "Rinde Indie Choir," a force of less than 100, does not hold up its end of the bargain. With far fewer voices than the work needed, discerning text, pitch and musical gesture is challenging, making for a fuzzy and forgettable performance. STEPHEN MARC BEAUDOIN.

FRIDAY, SEPT. 7

MFNW

8:45 pm, Tube: Bardcore band Dagger of the Mind—with former WW-er Jason Simms on guitar and vocals—commands Tube's few hundred square feet, matching lines from Henry V with power-metal guitar solos. Simms emphatically throws down the mic stand, and the microphone splits in two. His eyes widen and face blanches as he breaks character for a moment, his 16th-century posturing gone, and turns away from the audience as he scrambles to fix the mic. With the repair successful, he resumes his act as Lord Simms, Liege of Albakirk, announcing in an English accent that DOTM's show next Friday is "a mere 40 yards from here at Dante's Inferno, if you are so sacrilegious to brave such a place." PR.

9:37 pm, Towne Lounge: A guy and a gal talk loudly during Eskimo & Sons. My boyfriend reluctantly says, "Hey, I don't mean to be a dick, but...." Guy and gal quiet down. They start up again. Guy turns to us and says, "It's just background music for some people, you know?" Meanwhile, a line stretches out of the Towne Lounge and down the sidewalk, full of people who want to see both Eskimo & Sons and all the bands the folk-pop outfit's under-21 members will miss due to bogus OLCC rules. Singer Danielle Sullivan mentions how much she'd like to see the other acts. Talking guy is too busy talking to see the irony. AM.

9:57 pm, Doug Fir: People behind me are discussing how nervous the frontwoman of Tiny Vipers looks after her fellow guitarist disappears briefly from the stage. They debate whether she'll make a run for it, cry or vomit. They tell her it's OK, but quietly enough for her not to hear. NILINA MASON-CAMPBELL.

10:01 pm, Towne Lounge: Starfucker takes the stage, with two drum sets facing each other and an antique-looking amp—like an Incan god—between them. As the two start their first song, drumming in unison, Josh Hodges turns on the synthesizer and the amp gives out. They both pause before Hodges' bandmate casually gets up and whacks the amp, startling it back to life. Later, Hodges stops to whisper into the mic that he has 15 CDs for sale. "I packaged them with sage," he says. "I picked it in Nevada. And radish seeds. Even if you don't like the CD, you should buy it and plant the seeds and eat radishes." JS.

11 pm, Crystal Ballroom: Rilo Kiley's Jenny Lewis is wearing gold shoes! And a silver one-piece! NMC.

11:06 pm, Holocene: Dat'r's two members run around the stage frantically, one shouting into a mic, the other beating on a drum set. The tall, skinny guy beats the set like it's liable to hit him back, circling around it, attacking it from all angles, never stopping to leave himself open to counterattack. There's 100 times more energy coming from the stage than from the crowd of über-cool kids. The song ends, and the one with the mic says, "We're gonna keep practicing that one, and it'll be great." JS.

11:55 pm, Satyricon restroom: From the dude pissing next to me, unsolicited commentary on Old Time Relijun: "That was a shot of 151 to the soul." Walking away, he mutters, "Fucking rock 'n' roll, man." I concur. MICHAEL BYRNE.

12:11 am, Doug Fir: I just don't seem to get what's blowing everyone away about Grizzly Bear's live show. The Brooklyn quartet clearly know what they're doing, but they're creating a wall of lullabylike sound consisting of sad-looking guys going, "Ahhh!" endlessly. Doug Fir feels like a church for misled, avant-garde saps. I head to Slabtown for some high-energy folk rock courtesy of the Builders and the Butchers. AM.

12:29 am, Berbati's Pan: Brian Jonestown Massacre is late setting up, and the crowd is drunk, restless and tightly packed. The room is dark save for a single candle when the band takes the stage for a 10-minute, wall of fuzz with some near-inaudible vocals behind it. The guy next to me is so eager to start something he yells, "Fuck you, Anton!" as loud as he can. No, dude, fuck you. You and your ilk just ruined a perfectly good set. IR.

2 am, Towne Lounge: "This one's a Neil Young cover," Dolorean's Al James says. Then, as if stricken by a sudden preemptive mourning, he mumbles, "Don't you ever leave us, Neil." The band launches into a loving, if inebriated, version of "Razor Love." Slow-dancing couples checker the floor. CJ.

TBA

10:30 pm, The Works: There's a hip-hop duo playing—Lifesavas. They're good. One is fat, one is thin; one has baggy pants, the other tight pants. They both have on gold chains. I like them. They have a lot of energy. The crowd down by the stage are dancing with a lot of energy themselves. The same cannot be said of the audience up in the balcony, who are sitting glumly in a row, looking like PETA activists witnessing the electrocution of baby seals. RICHARD SPEER.

SATURDAY, SEPT. 8

MFNW

7:45 pm, Slabtown: I'm treated to a sound check that blows me away. "Who are you guys? Are you from Portland?" It is Leigh Marble and his band. They are indeed from Portland, and they are perfect. IR.

8:54 pm, Ash Street Saloon: Waiting for the Drunken Prayer show, I make my way to the bar, where my Nike "We Sold Our Soles for Rock 'n' Roll" shirt catches the eye of a goateed patron. He points to his own tee, reading, "I Came For the Lobster, But All I Got Was the Crabs." He recognizes a kindred spirit. "There's nothing better than a funny T-shirt," he enthuses. "Tonight, I almost broke out one that says, 'Will Fuck for Beer.' But the last time I wore it, I got hit on by a dude. Maybe I need one that says 'Will Eat Pussy for Beer.'" I agree this might do the trick. AARON W. MESH.

9:35 pm, Doug Fir: Fist Fite's Jonnie Monroe breaks open a $1.49 tube of glitter, douses the audience at the front of the stage in it, then breaks out some Egyptian-looking dance moves before returning to her spot behind her keyboard. NMC.

10:03 pm, Crystal Ballroom: During comedian Eugene Mirman's show someone spits an entire mouthful of beer all over my back due to uncontrollable laughing. For this I can forgive him. NMC.

10:21 pm, The Fez: Oakland's the Heavenly States' Lead singer Ted Nesseth mentions the band is crashing somewhere near "Mulletnomah," comically mangling the name of Northeast Multnomah Street. "I had cousins in the '80s who had Mulletnomah," he says. "It's cancer of the hair. But they're better now." PAIGE RICHMOND.

11 pm, Roseland Theater: Mashup master Girl Talk, a.k.a. Gregg Gillis, shuns the stage and plants his Mac on a table in the narrow aisle between the stage and a row of metal barriers restraining the crowd. "How the fuck is Portland doing?" he shouts into the mic, then taps a couple keys, and the room explodes into a sea of thrashing teenage limbs. He starts pulling kids over the barriers, and in moments the seething dance party has converged on him. >> The energy within the mass on the floor here, especially when seen from above, is anarchic, almost frightening. The throng is less a sea than a riptide; it yanks Gillis under its surface as soon as he begins his set and doesn't let him go for an hour. Crowd surfers play along the crests, while the only signs of Gillis are his beats and the occasional, brief freestyle coming from the ocean floor. >> At the end of the set, Gillis emerges, soaking and shirtless, having only survived thanks to a human cordon of security guards, hugs MFNW director Trevor Solomon and says, "Top five show. Ever." ETHAN SMITH & AWM.

11:30 pm, Tube: The first words I hear sung out of Sexy Pants' mouths are "With sexy power comes sexy responsibility," followed by what I'm pretty sure is, "If you're only dancing with us for fun/ Then the terrorists have already won." Shirts are torn, hearts are broken. CJ.

11:34 pm, Berbati's Pan: Grandaddy ex-frontman Jason Lytle sits humbly onstage with only an acoustic guitar and a small keyboard, which sits on top of a cardboard Solo Cups box. He says he feels funny about being a "solo guy" these days and calls himself a "quality intermission" between Damien Jurado and Okkervil River. He's selling himself way short. AM.

11:45 pm, Ash Street: The trio of LKN has scrawled "F," "K" and "UC," respectively, on their white T-shirts. Though they're standing out of order, the message is clear. What's equally clear is that guitar goddess Lauren K Newman is shredding her metal-inspired blues with the mastery, efficiency and swift, terrible beauty of Karl Rove rigging a House race. "This is our last show," she barks at the end of the set, "and I'm not fucking kidding!" F-K-U-C is right. TC.

12:15 pm, Roseland Theater: Somehow the same kids who went wild for Girl Talk's bouncy audio collages are rapping along with Clipse lyrics. Several thousand hipsters chant the chorus of "Keys Open Doors," and at least some of them seem to know it's about coke dealing. More proof music is the universal language. Or that middle-class white kids wish they were black. ES.

12:20 am, outside the Fez: Smoking a cigarette outside while the Prids are playing, I spot two men wearing only underwear standing outside Boxxes. I head over and ask if I can take their picture. They jump at the chance, asking if I want an ass or crotch shot. One of them humps my leg and squeals, "We should just double-team her!" I tell them I can't take the picture if I'm in it, and they happily settle for an ass shot instead. PR.

1:20 am, Ash Street Saloon: Obituaries frontwoman Monica Nelson, who's just taken a long slurp from a bottle of cough syrup, is staring ghoulishly at a button-down business type toward the back of the room dancing rubber-bodied, smiling bright at Nelson all the while. "Why don't you come over here and make fun of me?" Nelson asks. She's gonna destroy him. "Aren't you the guy who does my taxes?" she asks him midsong. He laughs and prepares for the second half of her assault—a stage-dive tackle or a chucked cough syrup bottle. "Hey, that's the guy that does my taxes," Nelson feebly jokes again, before adding with a forced smile, "As long as you're having a good time." What? That's it? Punk takes another punishing blow. CJ.

1:20 am, Doug Fir: I was so ready to gaze in jealousy at Deerhunter's Bradford Cox's dress, but he disappoints by wearing trousers. Just because playing guitar now restricts your onstage antics doesn't mean your fashion has to suffer! Somehow I hold myself back from yelling this at him. NMC.

TBA

10:30 pm, The Works: Fruit and nonsense abound with Awesome, the Seattle-based rock/performance-art ensemble. There is much ado about a whale, a magic book and an evil government called "the Board." None of it makes much sense. More intriguing is the crowd: Who was that guy that looks just like Nikki Sixx from Mötley Crüe? Who were all those good-looking, elderly women? STACY RIGER.

SUNDAY, SEPT. 9

MFNW

2:05 am, outside Berbati's Pan: After a never-ending encore from Okkervil River, I'm playing chauffeur for MFNW's Trevor Solomon. En route to the VIP afterparty at AudioCinema, we pick up Bobby Bare Jr. and Adrian (though it might have been Adrienne, or some other name entirely), a charmingly wasted groupie in leopard-print pants. Halfway there, I notice Adrian has pulled a plastic cup of bourbon from her purse. It's illegal, but I understand. This car ride to the next boozy event is going to take several minutes. ES.

9:05 pm: We're on our way to Swim Swam Swum when I hear Britney Spears' VMA performance went down a disaster. It gives the night a downtrodden accent. NMC.

10:59 pm, Crystal Ballroom: Wolf Parade are gathered together on one side of the stage. In their hands are set lists—hand-written on scraps of paper as opposed to a banana like the last time they played the Crystal. They are one of the only bands that can perform a set of almost all new songs and have the audience freaking out as if the band were playing their absolute favorite song they already knew. A barrier falls down. They note that every time they play PDX, there's a circle pit. NMC.

1:54 am, my apartment: I wake up, fully dressed, lights on. I meant to go to Wolf Parade but apparently slipped into a MFNW exhaustion-induced coma instead. Bummer. AM.

TBA

3:30 pm, Rudy's Barbershop: Long-suffering WW receptionist Dan Winters goes under the clippers as part of Mammalian Diving Reflex's Haircuts by Children—foolishly caving to our demand that he get a full-on faux-hawk, a request his stylist (a Converse-sporting Glenfair Elementary student) is happy to oblige. The kids take their roles surprisingly seriously, and really try to give their victims the best haircut possible. Several participants come out looking pretty fine. Dan? Not so much. He ends up looking like Danny Zuko. TBA artistic director Mark Russell's bob cut, styled by a 9-year-old named Britney, makes Russell look little Lord Fauntleroy. BEN WATERHOUSE & BYRON BECK.

4:30 pm, Interstate Firehouse Cultural Center: Charlotte Vanden Eynde and Kurt Vandendriessche carefully tie pieces of string to each other's nipples (hers), dick (his) and balls (again, his). And now they're flying each other's naughty parts like tiny airplanes. This is one of the more normal moments of the Belgian couple's endearing Map Me, an hour of plain-spoken experiments the couple performs in their birthday suits. Video projections transform their pale backs into lips, hands and mouths. A kind of warm hush fills the space as the pair use packing tape to stick their two heads together and trace the contours of each other's shape, blindly—to a jubilant soundtrack of Italian folk music. Safe sex...I think. KC.

6 pm, Northwest Everett Street: As a bearded white guy rattles off lines from Joseph Heller's Catch-22 on the sidewalk (part of TBA's Reading Out Loud) a trio of middle-aged suburbanites stop for maybe 30 seconds, then burst into spontaneous applause, catching the reader off guard midsentence. SMB.

6:30 pm, Northwest Neighborhood Cultural Center: Taylor Mac looks like a Ben Nye theatrical makeup kit exploded on his face—a face from which some of the most riotously funny, painful and all-too-human stories emerge. As a self-described "subversive's jukebox musical," the post-drag artist offers personal drama, politics and camp hilarity. "I write this show for gay people," Mac says in his show. "If you are heterosexual...you can listen." SMB.

8:45 pm Newmark Theatre: For the Donna Uchizono Company, the lure of guest artist Mikhail Baryshnikov was enough to pack the house, leaving me with a vertigo-inducing view from the balcony. But I stop kicking myself for not getting there early midway through Uchizono's State of Heads, when I catch a glimpse (through the wings at stage right) of Misha himself, warming up at the barre. I stifle the kind of giddy shriek usually associated with tweener sightings of Zac Efron. Fifty bucks says there'd have been floor seats left if Misha weren't on the bill, but since he was, more people got to see how State's economic movement, partnered with carefully calibrated sound effects, can convey anything from humor to dread. Leap to Tall, Uchizono's homage to Misha, with Misha, was arguably less interesting, choreographically, but it got the standing ovation and made another kind of point: Just because you're eligible for an AARP discount at the local Econo Lodge doesn't mean you're not a force to be reckoned with. HEATHER WISNER.