CLUBLAND

They came from the east, they came from the west. They leaped as one across the border and landed in Portland at the Doug Fir, armed with guitars, killer drummers, and even a banjo set to 'stun.' Yep, on the night of February 29th, those invading Canadians struck again, this time in the form of Vancouverites Pack AD, back again after a headlining set on January 19th, and Elliott BROOD, a 3-piece from Toronto that brought at least two unbeatable forces with them: a disarming charm and, apparently, their own army. Before arriving I hadn't any idea that Portland was such a hotbed of Elliott BROOD fans. The club was fairly teeming even before Pack AD took the stage. By the time it was EB's turn, the crowd had swelled to near-capacity, not bad for a cold wet Wednesday night, the cap end to what had been, weather-wide, the worst day of the winter.

Pack AD were ably covered in these blog pages by Andrea after that earlier appearance, and I reviewed them as well for a friend's webzine but still, it has to be said, Becky and Maya - not to put too fine a point on it - just..plain..rock. Becky Black with her Joan Jetting Ramones-y guitar prowess, Maya Miller being her usual, an amazing monster human drum engine, both women with a panache and presence that keeps you riveted to the stage as long as they're on it. It's hard to think of a band that basically comes at you with a garagey punk rock assault yet leaves you smiling, pulled toward the action, begging for more. Though the majority of the crowd that night was likely there for Elliott BROOD, the Pack AD, by the end of their set, had a whole new legion of fans.

Elliott BROOD, of course, are a much woodsier proposition, readily apparent by one glance at the drum kit, the bass drum cover made to look like the ringed cross-section of a tree trunk, the rest of the kit given the appearance of aspen bark. Which is appropriate, since one has to guess that the band will not encounter a decor more suitable to their sound than the urban bucolic mojo of the Doug Fir.

The band's most recent album, Days Into Years, had its official release just a day previous so it shouldn't be surprising that eight of the twenty (!) songs that made up their set should originate with that album. It's been widely reported that said album derived much of its impetus from a visit the band happened to make to a World War I cemetery in France - each of the three of them have an avid interest in military history - and, finding many Canadian names among the fallen, were determined to write an album reflecting the deep resonance they felt there. Which may make it all sound like a sobering affair but I assure you, not only is the album a romping, rocking delight, the show was that multiplied a hundred-fold.

Immediately the trio's energy and that aforementioned charm take over. Their spirit is totally infectious, and though I was up near the front, where everyone was bouncing around from the start and never stopped, it's hard to imagine a similar effect wasn't felt back by the bar as well. They began with My Mother's Side off the new album before sliding into a couple tracks from 2006's Ambassador, the fabulous driving country stomp of Bridge and then a storming Second Son, lead singer/(mostly)rhythm guitarist Mark Sasso switching to electrified banjo and singing in a near-Waitsian growl, albeit far less shopworn. The tone was clearly set for the night: this was going to be a wild joyous ride.

The musicianship is notable, which is an understatement. Casey Laforet, the entire night sporting a snake-charmer's glimmer in his eyes, doubled up his acoustic/electric guitar set up with a bass pedal, thereby becoming two, two, two musicians in one, and both of them (ha ha) are exquisitely expressive, not to mention virtuosic. And drummer Stephen Pitkin? He just plain brings it, beats of rolling wonderment, rollicking splashes of cymbal, all the while decked out in a white shirt and red bow tie, a soda jerk magician of a drummer. Meanwhile, Sasso, looking in his vest and boots something between the barber, the country lawyer and the sheriff, trading off mandolin, acoustic and that banjo, is the default ringleader, singing with utter commitment, leading his 3-man posse through a whirlwind. Through much of the night the band are floorlit, lending each of them an otherworldly glow, while the music itself could not have hewed harder to the earth we were all jumping around on.

Now, you may love Elliott BROOD on record - and who doesn't - but it is imperative to see them live. Though there were times when they slowed things down - as on their rather anthemic Northern Air, paradoxically the most Middle American roots/country song of the night - they more often take songs that have a more deliberate pace on the album and juice them up in the live context. Ambassador's Johnny Rooke is a perfect example, ramped up close to triple time Wednesday night in keeping with the pace in general. Thing is, when the band isn't rocking, such as on the Laforet-sung If I Get Old off the new album, they're hitting points of poignance that pull your heart out of your chest and on to your sleeve. Somehow, and I hope this makes sense, Elliott BROOD makes their audience honest because they're so honest.

And boy to they know how to play a room. At one point, and I'm sorry I can't say during which song, forgot to make that note, they paused for a sec so Casey could say "This part of the song is about waking up Sunday morning at Pickathon," garnering a predictable roar from the crowd. From the fun the band was obviously having, it's impossible to say whether Elliott BROOD loves Portland more or Portland loves Elliott BROOD more. Let's call it a tie.

Reviews often depend on common reference points to help encapsulate a band's sound, and if forced to do so I'd go with Frightened Rabbit running with The Band, though neither of those would suffice to describe the punky energy the band exhibits. There's this word I picked up years ago, "djank." It's that final note of a song slammed down by the entire band and to the best of my memory, this was the first time I ever experienced a banjo djank.

I don't know the last time I had this purely unadulterated of a good time at a show. Maybe Bombino back in January at Dante's, though this was more participatory. By the final song of their set before the encore, Write It All Down For You from last year's Mountain Meadows LP, they'd passed out steel pie pans and wooden spoons and everyone was either banging along with those or clapping wildly to the rhythm and helping shout out the song's HEY! HEY! HEY!'s in the utmost hopalong sync, the whole crowd jouncing about as one. It was a helpless symbiosis, the band couldn't have been as good as they were without us and we couldn't have been as thoroughly rocked to our bones without them.

What a night, an absolutely joyous punk hoedown.