CLUBLAND! MFNW edition # 3

Life's got complications, eh? Tonight, night three of MFNW, it's the much-anticipated thunderstorms rolling into town from the south. Originally I had planned on catching Youth Lagoon at Pioneer Square but other obligations came up during the day and I had to scuttle those plans. Ha! Once again, lucky me. I'm sure by festival's end it will be one of the stories of this years happening but frankly? I'm happy not being part of that lore.Happy and dry.

Aside from all that, the choices just keep being rather painful.Using "I like 'em but I've never seen 'em" as my guide, I'm at Roseland to catch Lost Lander, or anyway at least for half their set, then it's across the street for my synth-wave post-punk friends Vice Device. Figure splitting wealth is better than betting it all on one show. Pros and cons to that view but there's no time for that, a dedicated knot of fans are gathered at the stage and Lost Lander are plying them with their unique Portland brand of rocked-up sophisti-pop. What's always attracted me is their gift for effortlessness. Their songs are crafted, no doubt, but they pour forth, Sarah Fennell at the electric piano bringing a classic pop depth, engaging modern Tin Pan Alley fills while putative head Lander Matt Sheehy sings the ache out of each song, at the same time having his way with a miked acoustic. Can't recall anyone getting such a deep bodied sound out of an acoustic before. Whatever the case, it's not a little magical which nea,tly encapsulates the whole pop package these four summon up, a summon, if you will, that's greater than its parts.

When word comes before another new song is premiered that they've been hard at work in the studio, a kind of gasping Yay goes up from the floor. The two new songs do point a warm way forward, a much welcomed proposition on a cool rainy late summer's night. 

Now too quickly scurry across the street. where it turns out, much to my chagrin, that Vice Device have just ended their set. Thankfully, I've seen them recently (at The Know and they were amazing) but regardless I'm sorry to have missed them on the wonderful stage of the Star Theater. Next year, I promise.

At first I decide to stay at the Star Theater and check out Diana because I've never heard of her them and thought in might be one of those delightful surprises this festival is known for. When it becomes evident pretty much within a minute that that's not going to be the case I hightail it back to my car and shuttle myself across the river to Branx. Royal Canoe is playing, opening up for Chk Chk Chk (AKA "!!!," of course, whom I secretly suspected I'd end up seeing) and I've heard good things about them, even posted video of them on Facebook earlier in the day trying to get a grip on where I was going to go tonight. This, as it turns out, was a momentous decision.

With their lowdown solid white funk vibe, the Winnipeg-based Royal Canoe easily remind me of Minneapolis Prince/Justin Vernon-affiliated outfit Gayngs. Slinky, slow prog-funk sex jams, grooved melting falsetto, all of it. In case we ain't getting it, the two-drummer-and-pronounced-bass setup make sure there sublimely gutter level message gets through. Now I wish I just run over here straight away.

Royal Canoe's infectious, swimming and swooning groove is, ahem, having an obvious amorous influence on the couples in attendance. There is, after a quick swivel of the head, a fair amount of grinding going on.

And yeah there's a reliance on effects, on treated drums etc, but the result couldn't sound, and feel, more organic. This sound goes Funkadelic deep at times, a slow dirty funk with a deft touch and elegance, almost, and boy are they sick tight. Royal Canoe. You're going to want to remember that name. 

OK now I'm in place for !!!, and I'm in need of a blitzing shot of post-punk funk, stir the corpuscles, resurrect the dying legs, the recalcitrant knees. And indeed, this is medicine to me. 

Singer Nic Offer has on a pair of Some Girls-patterned shorts which makes nothing short of total sense given his megalomaniacal frontman stage presence, strutting, primping, arms flailing in crazed robot geometrics. In a word, this is MAD! An absolute punk-funk extravaganza! You'll have to excuse me while I just lose my sh*t for a while, phew! (as an added note, it makes complete sense that the picture below is blurry. The guys really are that kinetic)

I've probably told you all you need to know about the band. Oh, the audience? Branx is packed, and the repeat formula here of two drummers, one wild-thumbed bassist and an absolutely stunning guitarist, all wound up in the right places, has the area up near the stage surging and jumping in a gyrating mess of a mass. By the third song with a chorus that is almost certainly "California Here I Come" all is lost, the guitar just suh-LAYS and the handclap funk that follows is almost unbearable. 

There's not a person here that's not amazed and let that be the end of it. !!!? I say add another couple of exclamation marks. I also say it's doubtful I'll be more plain bloody thrilled by a band for the remainder of MusicFest as I have been by this lot. I repeat: Phew!

- Dave Cantrell

CLUBLAND! MFNW edition # 2

Oh crap, now the decisions of where to go and who to see, who to begrudgingly decide you won't see, begin to potentially bite. Because of circumstances beyond my control, I don't make it out of the house until near 9 o'clock and on the fly have chosen Richmond Fontaine at the Doug Fir. On the conservative side, maybe, choice-wise, but I've never actually seen them before and now's as good a time as any. Have seen Willie read, and until their last album (High Country) have kept pretty steady with them (the drop off on account of just being so busy, haven't heard it yet and it's been two years). It's not just Vlautin's writing, though that is going to be a large part of it no matter what, but the band as a whole are Americana writ sharp and intuitive, they live not inside but with their songs like intimate trailer mates. 'course, I'm likely gonna have to bounce early to get over to the Crystal and, with luck, get in to see Deerhunter, the plum in the night's cap and I mix my metaphors with glee but anyway Richmond Fontaine are about to begin here so let's check it out.

Lined up like the truckers and Monday night bowlers they look like, with no one out front and therefore everyone out front - well, except the drummer - this is communal musical democracy on the brink.and here we go. Being a literary storytelling songwriter, the fact is that regardless of how good the band behind him is, and they're very good, the focus has to be on Vlautin. If you've lived any kind of life at all, if you've ever been young and broke and determined to not care, you've met these people. Windblown, broken but fronting, pride and empty pockets and often lots of drinking and an often fatal fatalism.

The playing is immaculate though. During third song "The Boyfriends," a kind of easy but dark-as-usual country shuffle, the pieces fit together so dovetailingly well it's almost like an illusion. They all seem so relaxed and comfortable up there, Paul Brainard hittin' the light mariachi trumpet like it's Tijuana NW, Dave Harding's bass all soothing and poignant, Dan Eccles' guitar accents like paint strokes and drummer Sean Oldham holding back with an exact grace. You understand why the British have fussed over them so much (considerably more popular there than here). And that's not even getting two Brainard's normal mainstay job as a BJ Cole-worthy pedal steel player, tones sliding and crying up and back like chills up my spine. Great way to start a Wednesday night straight up.

Jetting out a few minutes before the end of the set (voice in back of head "Deerhunter, Deerhunter, Deerhunter), there's a passel of some smart car variety done up all crazy outside, one with Legos hanging all over it, another with Super Mario being played on the inside of the windshield and next to them all a small banner "I heart PDX" and right now, the way that MFNW is unspooling, at least for me but I'd bet for everyone out on the bricks tonight, we're all flying that flag.

The gamble pays off, though there is a scare coming to the Crystal: I pass the side of Roseland and the line stretches around the block. For the second time tonight the phrase 'Oh crap' echoes through my head. If there are that many folks waiting for Chvrches what must the line for Deerhunter be like? But by whatever quirk of fate, as I swing around Washington and onto 14th, there is...no line! I quickly find a place to park and 4 minutes later I'm in the historic bouncy house that is the Crystal and boy is it hot and humid (it ain't the heat it's the humanity). The crowd is healthy but not yet jammed to the hilt. There is, however, a certain palpability afoot. Most here, I'm guessing have likely scene Bradford Cox's lot before, I have not.

There's not a record of theirs that hasn't in some way twigged me sideways (that's a good thing) so I'm thrilled to finally be in their presence. As for the crowd and atmosphere? Winterland 1975, is all I can say.

Lucky me I score a side bench upon which I now stand. The crowd is now substantial and it's even stuffier in here. But screw that, Mr Cox is instantly riveting, a cross, in both stature and charisma, between Julian Cope, Iggy Pop, and Bobby Gillespie. Having not seen them before I'm surprised there are no keyboards, just drum, bass, two guitars and voice. Whoop, the Thin White Rail just strapped one on, make it 3 guitars.

Considering how unpredictable they can come across on record - excitingly so - it's also something of a surprise how much of a bloody terrific, out and out rock band they are here tonight. Dense, with detours into a stroppy weirdness here and there but overall they're, of all things, a poppy proposition, at least within the confines of fringe indie. 

Deerhunter thrive in the Venn territory where primal, sometimes even feral, overlaps with the cerebral, amounting to an emotional/aesthetic covering of all bases. The time signatures aren't particularly challenging but the pure honest intensity is.

Jamming with an extended near-drone groove ain't uncommon, either, a kind of college-aged Neu! before reverting back to a quirky, slightly murky geek sex pop with one of the hookiest bridges this festival is going to witness.

And so OK now I've gotta fold up this little notebook. The colored spots are swiveling music is swivelingly incandescent and I gotta just take it in. I'll say goodnight and, indeed, it's been a good night but let me add this: the beauty and magic of live music - during Nothing Ever Happened, an uptempo, wigged-out, shoulda-been radio hit, my 57-year-old fatigue melts away, just lifts off me. And that's before it takes off into another motorik groove, before it becomes virtually transcendent. And that sort of thing is happening all over town right now, cares and worries and anxieties and even actual years being swept magically away by the lure of great music, which is my unsubtle way of saying "Go see live music, and hey, here's a perfect opportunity that comes around but once a year."

CLUBLAND! - MFNW 2013 edition

The first night of a festival has a first date feel to it. Tentative, quietly anxious, bit of a jitter. There's so much expected but it's far too early to give that hopeful anticipation form. And so it is on a Tuesday night at Dante's in early September as a milling smatter of punters trickle in for MFNW's first rock'n'roll show (there's a hip hop showcase up the street at Roseland headlined by Joey Bada$$). We await Portland band Summer Cannibals, who from what I've heard, define the word 'promising,' we await Black Bananas, the latest vehicle for raggedly invincible crusher doll Jennifer Herrema, ex-Royal Trux. And, we await Redd Kross, the band that refused to die, an initial stint spanning 17 years (1980-97) before reforming in 2004 and continuing to refuse to give up, or, for that matter, even grow up. In essence the same pop-punk rocker kids they were when they first emerged, we're here tonight to see how that's holding up. But first the Summer Cannibals.

(oh and by the way we all know its been a monkey summer lately and Dante's is already beginning to earn its name)

Summer Cannibals are immediately, well, rather dangerously good, a Dum Dum Breeders indie melodic drive, singer-guitarist Jessica Boudreaux and guitarist-singer mark Swart trading guitar power runs and sharing some whoa oh oh vocals. Mostly though, this is Boudreaux's show, she's got a tear-it-up, hard/soft rock chick persona it's hard not to focus on.

As a decade, the 90's seemed to leave us with a lot unsaid. Summer Cannibals aren't the first I've seen/heard lately that's intent on redressing that balance, just one of the best. Fifth song in they even hit a chunky blues grunge sweet spot (rough spot?) that would do Jon Spencer proud. Fred Armisen as well, I should imagine, the 90's alive and well in, well, Portland.

Okay, confession: I was never much of a Royal Trux fan. Heroin chic turned on its head? Cool, I suppose, but the shambolic, falling-down-the-stairs nature of it put me off. Jennifer Herrema seems a Nico for our ages, less classically trained, more self-indulgent mess. But, I'm more than willing to let bygones be bygones and give the disheveled queen of chaos a chance.

Well, with the help of a head-bowed, lank haired wizard of a guitarist and a keyboard laptop magician, she manages to sound pretty good inside that context. Her singing, however, is virtually buried and certainly unintelligible, as is her between song patter. Sadly, what she reminds me of is Patti Smith if she'd found heroin instead of Rimbaud. Her bandmates, however, are ace, crack accompanists that bravely hold up each side of the stage while Ms. Herrema gamely caterwauls in between them. At one point a dirty funk is reached for (as are earplugs) and it may very well be reached but if so, so far as the singer is concerned, it's a lucky grab. But hey, again, the two-man band?  Superb.

Well, yeah, we're packed in here now, as well we should be. I've bounced into friends we're all hyped up and ready to bang shoulders together

So we start with a squall,.a playful, kinda quiet one but a squall. But within seconds we're in pop-punk city and it doesn't have to go very far before this formulation of occurs: Slade doing Buzzcocks. It's an equation that won't leave me the rest of the night. Weird thing? They're not, of course, British, but hail from sunny, cementy Hawthorne, California and wear the hippie tresses to prove it. With that in mind, come to think of it, power pop skate punk may also well suffice.

Without a doubt a heritage band, of sorts, but the thing is there's just too much of a sharp (though non-threatening) edge to them to ever end up at Spirit Mountain. They especially escape falling into such a fate since they're, y'know, still putting out new material though in truth it doesn't very wildly from what made their reputation in the first place over 30 years ago. The slightly cartoonish image their music portends, that initially made me shy away all those years ago, is actually they're most enduring charm. You don't come to a Red Cross show looking for enlightenment, you come for a rockin punkish good time and you most certainly get it, in spades, in surges, from the rafters to the soles of your feet. In the end, respect.

CLUBLAND! MusicFestNorthWest edition

Heads up, everyone!! I'm soon off into the night for the first night of MusicFestNorthWest (henceforth always shortened to MFNW). Easing into it tonight with a show at Dante's (hoping it's not too packed by the time I get there) but more than anything else, just wanted to alert everyone that KZME is ON THE JOB, BOB!! Stay tuned, my friends, and wish me luck. It's six nights of music on the fly, I'll do my utmost to bring you on-the-scene reporting (though, to be fair, posts will appear the morning after) that's rich in detail and puts you as THERE as there can be. Until tomorrow then...

DJ Klyph presents... The Movement

Yo! What's good people!? Lot's going on in the NW Hip Hop community right now. The 3rd Annual NW Hip Hop Festival is coming up and this year's event which is once again sponsored by KZME should be pretty special.

Saturday August 31st at the Blue Monk is the kickoff event featuring performances by NW MC's Serge Severe and OnlyOne of Sandpeople and hosted by DJ crew Skratchpad PDX.

The festival begins the following weekend and this year features three nights of music at two venues! Over 50 acts with showcases from Welcome to the Neighborhood, We Out Here Magazine, Camobear Records, Runaway Productions with performances by Oldominion, Cool Nutz, Grand Royal Beastie Boys Tribute, Seattle's own Th3rdz just to name a few. Hit the link below to find out where to be for the best live Hip Hop in the NW.

On Friday, August 30th the NW Hip Hop community is coming together in support of one of there own. It's a benefit show for MC Libretto and this event should be massive. Featuring performances from Vursatyl of Lifesavas, Cool Nutz and DJ Fatboy, Tony Ozier of the Doo Doo Funk Allstars a set from The Rundown featuring Destro Destructo, Easy McCoy and Th3ory Hazit. This is truly an event to support a community of artists doing positive things.

Be sure to tune in every Tuesday night to 107.1FM KZME from 8-10pm for Welcome to the Neighborhood to stay connected to the movement.

Until next time,

Blessings.

Klyph

CLUBLAND! Special SOMETIMES A GREAT NOTION edition # 2

After a promising first evening, I arrive - again in a timely manner, early birds, worms, all that - flush with anticipation. Last night was stacked with talent leaning toward the electronic side of things (and was bloody excellent, in case you missed it; see post here), tonight has more of a rock 'n' roll, bravura feel to it, with local phenom Matthew Heller, a couple of terrific bookings from our sister up north (that'd be Seattle, natch, and we're talking The Maldives and Rose Windows), Cambodian Space Project from, umm, yeah, that's right, and a not insignificant plum of a headliner, ex-Posie Ken Stringfellow. So, after short chats with organizer Sean Hocking, CSP's Julien, and Dawn and Christian from Das Fluff (one of Friday night's standout highlights), I'm all clubbed up, prepared to have my head spun round how ever many times the assembled performers find necessary and spot on eight o'clock the lights go dim, the stage fills up and off we go, seat belts optional.

Y'know that classic white soul-ish garage band you wanted to form in high school, the one that would write and sing with freakin gusto the kind of songs that should be on the radio, with actual middle eight guitar solos and a Winwood-esque piano? Well, Matthew Heller went right ahead and did it. Heller trades off between piano and guitar - another echo of the Traffic man - and like the era in which that band arose Matthew Heller and the Clever do indeed play the type of unfussed-over, blues-based, four on the floor rock 'n' roll  that one might have stumbled upon in a smoky, beery converted ice arena, say, in 1973, which before you ask is indeed a compliment. Depending on the song, we're thrown back to Detroit, boogeying in Memphis or tearing up the upholstery midway between New York City and Austin. In fact, Heller and his mates make a habit of tearing it up generally tonight, pulling out the stops and going to town. They rock the hell out just like you want them to and there's nothing ironic about it. They. Just. Rock. Very happy I got to see them live at last and I suggest you do yourselves a similar favor: Go see 'em.

Suitably, Seattle contenders for rookies of the year Rose Windows lead us further down the amber path with their psych folk Jeff Airplane take on the same period, though a bit more bruised up maybe. A tight fit on stage, two female singers, one moonlighting on flute, two guitarists, drummer bass and keys, we're treated again to the beauty of unadorned vintage-era rock and roll brilliantly played, suffused with the inspiration of its creation. Yes, there are echoes the raindrop organ of the Doors, there's that great society voice, there are those harmonies harkening back to the days when harmonies mattered and everyone used them - Laurel Canyon harmonies in other words - but until someone can convince me there's anything wrong with echoes like that, when synthesized into such a gorgeous modern whole as Rose Windows bring, I'm going to go ahead and enjoy it if you don't mind. Y'know how certain bands, people will say 'They've really got it'? Rose Windows really do have it. When lead singer Rabia Shaheen Qazi announces "This is our last song" it's far too early for anyone in the audience - which is fairly thick by this point - at least we're treated to the lengthy "Native Dreams" (off new album The Sun Dogs) Qazi belting it out, face-wrapping hair curtaining around, guitarist Chris Cheveyo unpeeling the most ringing, Quiksilver guitar break I've heard in, well, decades. Superb, a highlight, end of story.

Keeping with the Seattle connect and keeping with the timelessness theme plus sticking to the 7-up line-up, in this case three guitarists, bass, organ, drums, and the seated bewhiskered banjo player, Emerald City stalwarts - nay,institution - the Maldives arrive full of bar band fervor, kicking the holy shite out of the joint, injecting punk energy into every gesture and lick of what is essentially an Americana tip. "I'm not used to playing that fast" says lead singer/acoustic guitar slinger Jason Dodson, "it's a really short set so we're trying to pack them in real tight" and he couldn't be any righter. After  umpteen years together this lot is almost dangerously tight, not to mention joyous and unimpeachably rockworthy. Clearly a fan favorite as evidenced by audience-band banter, there's something invincibly comforting about the Maldives, which is perhaps down to the easy authority of their sound, the honest working man's work ethic sense of it met head-on by a fully up-to-date wariness. Too upfront to be cynical, the Maldives deliver instead a deeply effecting treasure of seriously good-time music and are another band I've been hearing all these good things about and finally get to see. What a great live band.

By guitarist Julien's description, singer Srey Thy was so entirely freaked out when she first heard herself singing through headphones in the studio, she fled the scene. There's a little sign of that tonight. Ms Thy has a presence, her arms flowering out beside her and though she's not yet, by appearances, 100% stage comfortable, she is without doubt confident in the power of her voice, a chill-raising instrument that fills the Mississippi like Cambodian crystal in a fish bowl. Glass clear, ranging from percussive to as lyrical as a waving reed, often in the same song, it's what carries Cambodian Space Project whether there's nine of them on stage or just two of them as there is tonight. Singing entirely in Khmer (though introducing songs in a practicing English accent), during a haunting version of  the Sonny Bono-composed "Bang Bang (I'm Afraid Of Love)" - though in truth any song Srey's voice touches has a biting hauntingness to it - the language barrier disappears, and if one wasn't entranced at that moment then one is simply not entranceable.

At some point I have to just hang up the notebook, let loose and enjoy so goodbye to the word for a bit. After the rousing la la la's of, um, "LaLaLa," Srey has become at one with her stage persona, commanding the mic while Julian and the stage-invited Ken Stringfellow and Maldives drummer extraordinaire Faustine Hudson bang an improvised shuffle groove around her that is quintessentially, well, Western while sounding frankly, fully trans-Pacific in scope and spirit. From here on out they rip out a good ol' rockin' racket that Dr Feelgood would be proud of.

Last song "Whiskey Cambodia" is a tough mauling drag tempo blues improv of sorts ("of sorts" because nothing Thy sings is going to sound like the blues blues) that scrapes the gutter while raising the rafters and I am in fact left feeling a little hungover, actually, but, y'know, in the very best way.

Which leads us to ken Stringfellow. Other than the Kingsmen and Nirvana, is there a more legendary Northwest band then the Posies? Great enough to be called upon when Alex Chilton needed a couple of musicians to fill in for those members of Big Star no longer available, it was the Posies he called upon. And it is instantly clear why. Stringfellow sits behind a Kurzweil and stunningly emotes the way only a musician of his stature can, possessing the stage, the audience, the room. But hell, he doubles down by inviting the Maldives back on stage as his backing band and we all collectively melt. This inevitably is a very winning proposition and, if I may be so bold, echoes the very invitation Mr Chilton made back in 1993. 

Lemme say this: there is a lot of joy on stage right now. Due to the pickup band nature of the arrangement, there's the spontaneity of improvisation colliding with the solidity of the at-least-marginally rehearsed, a very fine cross-hair in which to find ourselves. "All Night Long" is an utter monster of collaborative dynamism, Stringfellow more or less howling by the end, the band locked in to his every bandleader gesture. It's a thing of beauty.

As with the Posies, Stringfellow has an unerring ear for the seductive, unforced pop hook, and they leak out everywhere tonight. What an ideal way to put this year's Sometimes A Great Notion festival to bed. It's like you just know you're going to have a great dream, one soundtracked by the ad hoc collective on stage right now. I'll head out tonight a happy guy, but for now I gotta close this notebook and just..luxuriate in the pure pop now, and once again thank Sean Hocking for a sublime summer weekend. Til next year, then, if you have the chance, cheers, mate.

CLUBLAND! Special SOMETIMES A GREAT NOTION edition

A year ago a savior came to town. OK, maybe that's wording it a bit strongly but in July 2012 Sean Hocking, ex-Brit, once of Australia and now resident of Hong Kong, staged a sprawling, multi-media mini-extravaganza on the grounds of Disjecta in North Portland that not only brought legendary Saints founder Ed Kuepper to Portland for the first time, he also carted along the Felice Brothers, Peaking Lights, Dennis Coffey and a mad host of others while also engaging a slew of local musicians - Mattress, Zac Pennington, White Fang, Holcombe Waller, Nick Jaina, Strangled Darlings to name but a few. Added to this were flashing video rooms, an art exhibit, a haute naturel fashion show (if you were there you know what that means), even a record sale. To say it was a highlight of my summer last year would be so blindingly obvious I won't even say it. Very nice and sorry if you missed it but...he's back!

Though a slightly more stripped back outing this time around (2 days/nights instead of 2 days/3 nights) and shifted to the Mississippi Studios, the initial evening last night shows our Sean hasn't lost his flair for booking a crazy-talented, varied, and, really, quite sublime night's entertainment. With Pulse Emitter, Pinks Quieter, Das Fluff, White Fang, and Pink Skull on the docket, there was no excuse for being late so your devoted correspondent indeed finds his way Albina-ward by the appointed hour. Sean is outside chatting with Charlie Salas-Humara, who, I'd only recently discovered, is the driving force behind Pinks Quieter ('Can't know everything' I often tell myself but regardless am abashed at not having known about this lot sooner; more in a moment). A committed impresario driven primarily by the passionate need to get the music he loves not only on his label (Metal Postcard) but as well just out there so everyone else can see/hear how great this band or that artist is, Sean, like yours truly, is a bit old guard, grounded in the fundamentals of the  DIY/underground/John Peel school (Hocking is a DJ on the Peel-inspired Dandelion radio), where a sort of music evangelism mixes it up as best it can with market capitalism. Whereas the prospects in this approach of becoming a record magnate are rather slim, it is the only path that allows the type of fierce devotion Sean not only displays in conversation but as well in his commitment to the artists on his label. It also makes for a savvy sense of what works on stage and tonight's a fine example of that. Attendance on the first night was sparse given the surge of talent on offer so I say to you right here right now: DON'T MISS TONIGHT!! OK, let's see what we've got here.

Daryl Groetsch, the one-man band/composer that is Pulse Emitter, has been described as the "undisputed king of planetary scale hypnosis," and I'm not going to do much better at describing the gist of what we're hearing than that. Yes of course it's music, but to be more accurate I'll say it's pulsing washes of soundscape or the emanative breath of the Spheres - it's either and both of those things and no doubt a multitude beyond - ooh, there! That's also what it is, music of the beyond - and it's also a remarkably magnetic way to kick off the second annual SAGN Fest. Groetsch, the Oz in plain view responsible, is the Harold Budd of the future and that future is now. With a persistent subtlety of rhythm, looped beat structures embroidered inside the textural whole like an insinuated pulse and sheets of chthonic melody cascading, tripping, and tripping again, evolving and fading out then rearising as if to prove reincarnation via a slightly multi-phased, programmed synth, it pulls me in time and again. 'Mesmerizing' would be the word were it not so addictively engaging. The early handful of us standing around in a loose tribal trance are the lucky ones, already transported and its not even half past eight yet.

Say, how does experimental funky tropical sound? Well, let me tell you how it sounds: bloody amazing! Pinks Quieter is two drummers (one with a couple of congas appended), a basement heavy bass, a flangeing high life-like guitar, a guy standing behind a little Realistic synth and Moog stack, filling in the sonic cracks, bringing the melody, whatever's needed. Add it all up and you've got a high and righteous racket of the first order. This is punk rock Sun Ra, this is go-go music (the Washington DC-bred Cubanized funk pioneered by Chuck Brown), Portland style, and when the band all kicks in, when Charlie Salas-Humara hits his manic guitar stride, its a noisily transcendent wonder and don't even think I'm exaggerating. Even when a song comes creeping into being, as tonight's second offering does, incipient in it's slowly fraying fabric is a coming fever, a tightly controlled maelstrom of jumping, sometimes skittering, always grooved joy and kick, with a smooth manic improv feel. Out of nowhere Pinks Quieter have become one of my favorite Portland bands, there's nothing like them by a DC city mile.

Portland semi-legends, White Fang is White Fang, an unreconstructed (read: fun) shambles of a rowdy no-holds- barred drunk punk band that is this year's only returning act from last year's lineup, where they just about destroyed themselves putting on a raging show. Taking hedonism to a purer unapologetic level (read: 90's), they couldn't be more of a contrast from the two bands preceding but in frontman Erik Gage they've got a spokesman for a non-generation, he's anti-charisma charismatic if you would and whatever jarringness in the transition gets rolled right over. Plus, oh yeah, their 1-2-3-4-take-no-prisoners recklessness, inside all its crunch and snotty apathy, is an unquenchable pop sensibility, melody keeps tumbling out despite itself. Nothing so well describes what the Fang are all about than Gage's sartorial choice for the evening, self-made denim cut-offs topped by a ripped-to-shit "Yabba Dabba Doo" T-shirt. There may be a cartoon element to their punk but they certainly know what they're doing and know how to shred an audience. Only drawback tonight is a malfunctioning guitar shortens their set, but, y'know, what the heck, they'll almost certainly be back next year for SAGN 3.

'Immediate' is the word that immediately come to mind once Das Fluff hit the stage. Tall yet somehow elfin Teutonic-looking siren Dawn Lintern, resplendent in black faux-feathered headdress, leopard print tights, sequins and lace, captivates from the off. Think Lene Lovich graduating from the Bromley contingent while Christian rocks the hell out of a...laptop? Why, yes, and it doesn't matter one jot, it works, and works rousingly well. "Jolly" (as described by Dawn) song 'Rage' has the singer screeching like angels throwing a tantrum, it's entrancing and un-turn-awayable like that, full of, yes, rage, full of A-side ready hooks, it finishes with Dawn staring icicles before breaking down into a disarming smile. It's clear Dawn gives all of herself on stage here, its her that brings the commanding theatricality, a post-punk intensity with an irresistible soupcon of Weimar decadence. Most surprisingly, most winningly, I can hear notes of (of all people) the Raincoats in her London accent. When Dawn comes down amongst us during 'Lucky Lady,' people actually hide behind their brave companions (even if jokingly) and well why not, the woman is fierce. But as often as not Lintern's voice, when not being dramatic, forceful, full of portent, hits these celestial interludes. Not sweet exactly - bit too spooked for that - but lilting. hypnotizing. Her presence truly is alluring, dangerous, charming, whatever coquettishness edged with menace. Star of the night, there can be no doubt about that, while Christian strikes a stance of Zen poise despite the black Sex Pistols t shirt. Next task for me is to buttonhole Sean tonight and inquire about a CD, an LP, something. Want Das Fluff for Songs From Under The Floorboard post-haste.

Pink Skull are two lone wizards flashing dizzying wrecked mandala graphics, complex programmed synth interplay and a damaged disco slash house rhythm. Ibiza is a Tokyo nightmare, basically, which at first feels a bit calculatedly off-putting but lo and effin behold it soon becomes a seductive miasma of deep grooving, umm, grooviness. Yeah, it's all microchips and well-placed computer effects, it's man commanding machine, but it's nonetheless immutably human, not dissimilar, I should think, to that startling moment when we find out that, yup, robots actually have human hearts. The possibilities of dance in these moments are almost infinite, it's Kraftwerk had they been just that much funkier. It's also an irresistible lure to the kids from the bar, as a trail of them find their way to the living room-like dance floor in front of the stage, Pink Skull topping their night off in style. 

So Sean's done it again, brought a head-spinning array of not-to-be-missed talent to a single stage for Portland's exclusive entertainment. And I'm sorry if you missed it - it truly was a terrific night on the tiles, or, rather, carpet - but the cool thing is, you can make up for it!! Tonight it's Seattle institution The Maldives (woo-hoo! I've never seen them), The Cambodian Space Project (who I've been so very keen to see since Sean turned me on to them last year - you do NOT want to miss them) and..wait for it...Ken Stringfellow from THE POSIES!! See you there, then, yeah?