Between a forlorn, rail-thin troubadour from Abilene TX and a Scottish quintet bursting with such washes of melodic gale-force volume as to be reckoned a force of nature, the show last Sunday night (March 11, 2012) at the Doug Fir was a marvelous study in contrast.
Micah P Hinson represents, in a sense, the joys and tribulations of being a singular talent on the great American landscape. As he has no record deal in this country right now, he has no label support and therefore could not afford to bring a band along on the tour. It is emblematic that it was the patronage of a band from the UK - where his popularity far outdistances that of his native land; his most recent record, Micah P Hinson & The Pioneer Saboteurs can be found in shops there but not here - that brought him before his adoring US fans, of which there were a fair number attending this night.
Dressed in drainpipe jeans the color of a western desert and sporting enormous white-framed glasses that couldn't help but suggest Buddy Holly in negative, he was a warm but enigmatic presence on stage, at once self-effacingly polite and gently acidic. Hinson's main weapon, aside from disarmingly honest songs, is his voice, a boy-next-door baritone, albeit a boy with some dark secrets, a boy that's done some livin'. Watching him, hearing him, it's hard to believe that that voice comes from such a slight frame. Regardless, it's to his great credit that my initial disappointment with his bandlessness was vanquished from the off. The moment he hard-strummed into 'Take Off That Dress' from the Saboteurs record, wielding a sticker-bedecked electrified Godin Seagull acoustic, it was a palm-of-the-hand deal. I've been a fan since the first record (The Gospel Of Progress) so this 6-string version of "You had me at hello" was no surprise. But I should think that even those less eager to see him live than I would have been easily won over. Hinson manages somehow to be both fidgety and comfortable at the same time, and as such his stage persona, though outwardly gawky, never lacked authority. Highlights included - oh hell, all eight songs in his quick set were highlights, but for special mention I'll city "2s & 3s," also from Saboteurs, "The Life, Living, Death And Dying Of A Certain And Particular L.J. Nichols" (his grandfather and introduced with the inclusion of a cousin a few feet from stage) and closer "God Is Good," a scathing paean to existential doubt in the face of overwhelming social pressure, the classic spiritual conundrum into which Hinson was thrust via the simple agency of his birth. Great set, glad I saw him, finally.
The Twilight Sad, I must admit, is new to me (my bad - 3 LPs, 3 EPs since their 1st in 2006 but better late than never), though new in that way that betokens great interest, excitement even. In short, I'd heard great things, both via reviews I'd read and what I'd actually heard on youtube. Such spirited anticipation was not unrewarded.
No live account of this band can avoid the volume question so let's address that straightaway. The Twilight Sad is loud. Very loud. Hinson mentioned it in the course of thanking them during his set, citing My Bloody Valentine and in fact not since seeing MBV in 1992 have I witness such a sonic hurricane of a show. But I knew this going in, as did most of those in attendance and nearly all of us had earplugs safely in place as the band hurled themselves into the business at hand.
It seems hard to believe but no band that I can think of offhand has yet to marry shoegaze's sheets of sound to post-punk's slightly icy, driving template of melody and passionate, full-of-portent vocals. Thankfully, The Twilight Sad are here to remedy that oversight. Earlier in their career they described their sound as "folk with layers of noise, " but in recent years such influences as Can, Cabaret Voltaire, PiL and Magazine have come to the fore and were immediately evident in opening song "Kill It" from recent album No One Can Ever Know. Had the suggestion of such influence escaped me sonically - though that's not likely given Andy MacFarlane's commanding, McGeoch-like dexterity on guitar and the haunting melodics of organ from hired hand Martin 'Dok' Dohery (The Sad are a trio in the studio) - it would certainly have been brought to mind by lead singer James Graham's manner of lurching around in a controlled epileptic passion, jerked by the power of the band behind him, conjuring images of Ian Curtis though, OK, not quite that tic-driven. The further they get into their set the more the singer's commitment to song reminded me of Billy Mackenzie of The Associates, another (sadly-missed) Scot with memorable lungs. At one point early on, though, MacFarlane's on his knees as if praying to the mic, which as it turned out was futile as said mic insisted on cutting out.
That issue hastily resolved, the band plowed with merciless, emotionally-charged efficiency through a 13-song set with the bulk of selections coming from No One... and previous album Forget The Night Ahead. Throughout, that profound sound of a band pulled from the heady height of 1979 through a early 90s reverb-soaked wall and into the full throat of the present never falters. Drummer Mark Devine, along with journeyman bassist Johnny Docherty, keep them steadily anchored to the stage while MacFarlane, with his shaved head, outlaw mustache and Jazzmaster-looking Fender (wasn't close enough to be any more precise) soars regularly - though economically - into the stratosphere, Graham rolls the occasional 'R' and pop epic after thundering crescendo flow past to appreciative roars from the audience.
By the end - a fitting closer called "Burnside" from Forget The Night Ahead - they have indeed reached a level that can only be described as punishingly (if enduringly, endearingly) loud and even a bit shrill with a touch of feedback blowing over some very pretty piano notes and the deliberate beat of a cymbal. It's a telltale moment. The Twilight Sad, through hard work and the absorption of disparate elements, have carved a unique niche in the current musical environment, faring quite deservedly well in this brave new world of zip file mp3 hear-it-on-your-iPhone temporality. The band, in the end, make an inspiring racket that is decidedly outside all that. Soaring and shamelessly intense, this is a music from before the internet. Thank you, Twilight Sad.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Saturday, March 3, 2012
CLUBLAND (addendum)
Just wanted to add: tune in next week for a report on the AMAZING Twilight Sad/Micah P Hinson double bill happening at the Doug Fir on Sunday, March 11th. Ol' Dougie's been hosting some fine nights out lately, as evidenced by this blog's posts, but this coming show, THIS show, will be hard to beat this month, and possibly this whole year. Twilight Sad are a Scottish band..oh, here, let Wiki tell their story:
The Twilight Sad are an indie rock band from Kilsyth, Scotland, comprising James Graham (vocals), Andy MacFarlane (guitar), and Mark Devine (drums). The band are currently signed to Fat Cat Records and have released three full-length albums, as well as several EPs and singles. Their 2007 debut album, Fourteen Autumns & Fifteen Winters, drew widespread critical acclaim, noted by Graham's thick Scottish accent and MacFarlane's dense sonic walls of shoegazing guitar and wheezing accordion. The Twilight Sad's notoriously loud live performances have been described as "completely ear-splitting, and the band toured for the album across Europe and the United States throughout 2007 and 2008. Sessions inspired by stripped-down and reworked live performances yielded the 2008 mini-album, Here, It Never Snowed. Afterwards It Did.
Their second album, Forget the Night Ahead, marked a shift in the band's direction; lyrically more personal and musically darker and more streamlined, it was released in 2009 to further acclaim. Recording sessions for the album also produced the mid-2010 release The Wrong Car, which followed the departure of founding bassist Craig Orzel in February 2010. The Twilight Sad's third album, No One Can Ever Know, was released in February 2012 and marked another stylistic shift, with the band citing industrial music and krautrock influences for a darker, sparser sound. The band describes their sound as "folk with layers of noise," and music critics have described the band as "perennially unhappy" and "a band that inject some real emotion and dynamic excitement into a comparatively standard template."
Combine this with Micah P Hinson, the legendary (& still young, just 31 years old) Texas songwriter that has thus far produced six albums of emotion-shredding genius (not a gratuitous use of that word) packed with songs that hang in your limbic system like brilliant, bruised friends that inspire empathy and scorn in equal measure. Very few songwriters limn the sinuous border that separates regret and defiance better than Mr Hinson.
I said it last week, I'll say it again: this is NOT a show to be missed. I wasn't wrong last week (I mean, just check out that post re: Elliott BROOD) and I won't be wrong this week. Again, this show is at the Doug Fir on Sunday, March 11th. Not only will you not regret it, you'll be so thrilled you went you'll never doubt another word I say. See you there...
The Twilight Sad are an indie rock band from Kilsyth, Scotland, comprising James Graham (vocals), Andy MacFarlane (guitar), and Mark Devine (drums). The band are currently signed to Fat Cat Records and have released three full-length albums, as well as several EPs and singles. Their 2007 debut album, Fourteen Autumns & Fifteen Winters, drew widespread critical acclaim, noted by Graham's thick Scottish accent and MacFarlane's dense sonic walls of shoegazing guitar and wheezing accordion. The Twilight Sad's notoriously loud live performances have been described as "completely ear-splitting, and the band toured for the album across Europe and the United States throughout 2007 and 2008. Sessions inspired by stripped-down and reworked live performances yielded the 2008 mini-album, Here, It Never Snowed. Afterwards It Did.
Their second album, Forget the Night Ahead, marked a shift in the band's direction; lyrically more personal and musically darker and more streamlined, it was released in 2009 to further acclaim. Recording sessions for the album also produced the mid-2010 release The Wrong Car, which followed the departure of founding bassist Craig Orzel in February 2010. The Twilight Sad's third album, No One Can Ever Know, was released in February 2012 and marked another stylistic shift, with the band citing industrial music and krautrock influences for a darker, sparser sound. The band describes their sound as "folk with layers of noise," and music critics have described the band as "perennially unhappy" and "a band that inject some real emotion and dynamic excitement into a comparatively standard template."
Combine this with Micah P Hinson, the legendary (& still young, just 31 years old) Texas songwriter that has thus far produced six albums of emotion-shredding genius (not a gratuitous use of that word) packed with songs that hang in your limbic system like brilliant, bruised friends that inspire empathy and scorn in equal measure. Very few songwriters limn the sinuous border that separates regret and defiance better than Mr Hinson.
I said it last week, I'll say it again: this is NOT a show to be missed. I wasn't wrong last week (I mean, just check out that post re: Elliott BROOD) and I won't be wrong this week. Again, this show is at the Doug Fir on Sunday, March 11th. Not only will you not regret it, you'll be so thrilled you went you'll never doubt another word I say. See you there...
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.
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.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Welcome to CLUBLAND!
Hi, and welcome to Clubland, a bi-monthly (or so) post covering some of the amazing live music happening around town. Portland has one of the most vibrant local club scenes in the country, which means two things for the purposes of this blog: 1) there will never be a shortage of exciting, curious, passionate and at times just outright crazy shows to report on, and 2) What I'm able to cover here will be but a small sampling. If this blog accomplishes nothing else, I hope it inspires KZME listeners to get out there and support live music, support the musicians and venues that bring it to you, and, perhaps most important, experience as much music live as you can. Music is a lifeblood to me, as I'm sure it is to anyone reading this, and though I love little more than hearing that new album I've been reading about, heard a sampling from etc, there's nothing to compare to the experience of seeing/hearing it live. The odd irony to live shows is that they're as common as dirt yet wholly singular, no two are alike, the setlists differ, the energy in the room varies night to night, you never know what you're going to get. I promise to do my best to capture at least a bit of that lightning in a bottle but the best thing by far, of course, is to be there. So, to paraphrase that age-old saying, on with the blog!
San Francisco, in the past 10 years or so, has (re)attained a reputation for various stripes of psych, from the likes of Devendra Banhart at the more fried-folk end of the spectrum to Wooden Shjips and Comets On Fire pushing the heavier, more garagey textures of the form. But, ever the restless city, the two SF bands that bookended my week proved that change waits for no genre.
First up on Monday, Feb. 20th at the Doug Fir, the Fresh & Onlys. Besides displaying some astonishing growth in their sound - less of the somewhat thinner indie sound I'd heard on 2009's Grey-Eyed Girls, more dynamic immensity that's ready to take over the world - the band carved a sonic path out of any stylistic cul-de-sacs their regional cohorts may ever find themselves stuck in. If you've ever asked yourself: is it possible to bring a post-punk electricity to a sunny pop-sike sensibility, the Fresh & Onlys are here to emphatically say, 'No problem.'
Love & Kindness, from their 2010 self-titled release was a case in point, lead singer/rhythm guitarist Tim Cohen - who bears no small resemblance to a young Lowell George, by the way - asking "Why are we here/Why are we there/Why the world isn't always there" over both the background responses of 'love me dear' and a rather stomping Mekons-like beat and you can't get much more post-punk/pop-sike than that.
Fresh & Onlys are one of those bands that are sufficiently good live to become your favorite band on the spot. From opener "D.Y." to encore "Peacock And Wing" there was highlight after highlight, not least the bass-thrummed wonder of "Invisible Forces," somehow ominous and joyous at the same time, though, judging by their reaction, I'd have to say the crowd came down on the joyous side of that equation.
As for that crowd, it should be noted that I was at first a bit worried for opening band Disappears. I arrived at the Doug Fir at 8:40, with the show scheduled to begin at 9:00, and I was only the sixth person there. Chalk it up to a rainy Monday night, I suppose, as it was scarcely better come showtime and the band wisely waited until 9:45 or so to start. Still, those that came in late missed quite a spellbinding set. Disappears is a Chicago band that was joined in 2011 by Sonic Youth drummer Steve Shelley, who was clearly enjoying himself, which makes sense since Disappears themselves aren't shy about toying with guitar wig-outs but instead of extending out into jagged, near-free jazz improvs a la SY, these jams seldom crossed the 5-minute mark while maintaining a wicked tight rhythmic structure, allowing Shelley to wail away with a disciplined glee. Great band, with flavors of Can, Nuggets-era garage (The Sonics, let's say) and not a small dollop of shoegaze. If that sounds like a mesmerizing, high-octane trance, you're right.
And speaking of shoegaze, Friday found me in the company of Young Prisms, another promising (and yes, young) San Francisco band playing the middle set between new (and yes, also very promising) Portland band Stay Calm - I expect I'll be covering them in an upcoming blog if Friday's show was any indication - and legendary local darlings Quasi at Mississippi Studios. The presence of that last guaranteed that there wouldn't be any issues about attendance that evening. Place was pretty well packed from the moment that Stay Calm took the, umm, carpet (in front of the stage), and by the time it was Young Prisms' turn (up on the actual stage) I'd guess the place was at capacity. Which is good, as the foursome deserve a wide hearing.
First off, let me say that Matt Allen has the hardest working bassline in shoegaze. While the band overall turned in a bruisingly lovely set, with melodic squall chasing melodic squall, it was Allen's bass that kept its feet on the floor. Not that those feet would in any way be standing still. Not funk, exactly, not New Order, exactly, but close enough to steady the sheets of noise around it. The other calming influence is the almost serene voice of main singer Ashley (can't locate her last name on Kanine Records website), floating and circling above and throwing Pale Saint shapes over the proceedings. At a couple of points guitarist Stef Hodapp joined in with a flat near-baritone harmony and the effect was a little startling but ultimately necessary, helping anchor Ashley's eerie angelic lilt. I copied down their setlist before the show - Sharpied on a towel, I might add, which I found charming - but it ended up not doing me a lot of good, most of the songs consisting of multiple parts and/or blending seamlessly into each other but it hardly matters, as it wasn't long I just gave up trying to figure all that out and let their sound wash over me, surely their intention. This is a band that named themselves wisely, as that sound, wah-wah washing over you like that, does so with multiple refractions and the sonic equivalent of shards of light. Young Prisms know their influences well, and the Slowdive/MBV comparisons are inevitable, but it was clear that it won't be long before they outgrow those lengthy, ricocheting shadows of their forebears - impressive as they are - and emerge as a major force in their own right. I can hardly wait, and I wanna be there to see it happen.
As for Quasi, well, Quasi were Quasi, always on the verge of falling apart which is exactly the place their utter charm originates. They had a warm, accepting crowd and they could do no wrong, and that, as well, is exactly as it should be. Their set, in fact, often sounded more like a party than a show folks had paid to get in to, so glib and jokey were the exchanges with the audience. Everyone knows their story - Sam Coomes, once in Heatmiser with Elliott Smith, with his ex-wife Janet Weiss, who really requires no bio - everyone knows their music, and everyone knows that what you get live is not the same as what you get on record. Their sound Friday night was no different, it had an impromptu nature to it to go with the convivial atmosphere. It felt as if we were being given an intimate sneak peak at a rehearsal, with Sam making musical mayhem at the piano like a skinny blond Lurch, playing his stock barrelhouse/nickolodean melody lines while Janet banged away at the drums with the same authority that'll help bring down the Crystal with Wild Flag come May. When Sam switches to guitar for Never Coming Back Again and others, things get a little more focused musically but the pull-out-the-stops antics, if anything, get crazier, as he stands half on the wobbly electric piano and just generally caroms about the stage like a man being electrocuted and liking it. For me the highlight was Bye Bye Blackbird off of last year's American Gong, it had a prodigal taste to it, noise merchants come home to roost on an irresistible hook, which is Quasi in a nutshell. This is Portland, this is our band and we love them.
So OK, that's it for me from Clubland for this week. Hope you enjoyed your stay and tune in next week as I report back from the Doug Fir and Toronto band Elliott BROOD's show (with Vancouver BC's Pack AD back in town, what a show, GO!). Elliott BROOD fall under many headings - alt.country, death country (a favorite) whatever - but I just see them as being among the premier tunesmiths around, absolute kings of aching melody. See you there!
San Francisco, in the past 10 years or so, has (re)attained a reputation for various stripes of psych, from the likes of Devendra Banhart at the more fried-folk end of the spectrum to Wooden Shjips and Comets On Fire pushing the heavier, more garagey textures of the form. But, ever the restless city, the two SF bands that bookended my week proved that change waits for no genre.
First up on Monday, Feb. 20th at the Doug Fir, the Fresh & Onlys. Besides displaying some astonishing growth in their sound - less of the somewhat thinner indie sound I'd heard on 2009's Grey-Eyed Girls, more dynamic immensity that's ready to take over the world - the band carved a sonic path out of any stylistic cul-de-sacs their regional cohorts may ever find themselves stuck in. If you've ever asked yourself: is it possible to bring a post-punk electricity to a sunny pop-sike sensibility, the Fresh & Onlys are here to emphatically say, 'No problem.'
Love & Kindness, from their 2010 self-titled release was a case in point, lead singer/rhythm guitarist Tim Cohen - who bears no small resemblance to a young Lowell George, by the way - asking "Why are we here/Why are we there/Why the world isn't always there" over both the background responses of 'love me dear' and a rather stomping Mekons-like beat and you can't get much more post-punk/pop-sike than that.
Fresh & Onlys are one of those bands that are sufficiently good live to become your favorite band on the spot. From opener "D.Y." to encore "Peacock And Wing" there was highlight after highlight, not least the bass-thrummed wonder of "Invisible Forces," somehow ominous and joyous at the same time, though, judging by their reaction, I'd have to say the crowd came down on the joyous side of that equation.
As for that crowd, it should be noted that I was at first a bit worried for opening band Disappears. I arrived at the Doug Fir at 8:40, with the show scheduled to begin at 9:00, and I was only the sixth person there. Chalk it up to a rainy Monday night, I suppose, as it was scarcely better come showtime and the band wisely waited until 9:45 or so to start. Still, those that came in late missed quite a spellbinding set. Disappears is a Chicago band that was joined in 2011 by Sonic Youth drummer Steve Shelley, who was clearly enjoying himself, which makes sense since Disappears themselves aren't shy about toying with guitar wig-outs but instead of extending out into jagged, near-free jazz improvs a la SY, these jams seldom crossed the 5-minute mark while maintaining a wicked tight rhythmic structure, allowing Shelley to wail away with a disciplined glee. Great band, with flavors of Can, Nuggets-era garage (The Sonics, let's say) and not a small dollop of shoegaze. If that sounds like a mesmerizing, high-octane trance, you're right.
And speaking of shoegaze, Friday found me in the company of Young Prisms, another promising (and yes, young) San Francisco band playing the middle set between new (and yes, also very promising) Portland band Stay Calm - I expect I'll be covering them in an upcoming blog if Friday's show was any indication - and legendary local darlings Quasi at Mississippi Studios. The presence of that last guaranteed that there wouldn't be any issues about attendance that evening. Place was pretty well packed from the moment that Stay Calm took the, umm, carpet (in front of the stage), and by the time it was Young Prisms' turn (up on the actual stage) I'd guess the place was at capacity. Which is good, as the foursome deserve a wide hearing.
First off, let me say that Matt Allen has the hardest working bassline in shoegaze. While the band overall turned in a bruisingly lovely set, with melodic squall chasing melodic squall, it was Allen's bass that kept its feet on the floor. Not that those feet would in any way be standing still. Not funk, exactly, not New Order, exactly, but close enough to steady the sheets of noise around it. The other calming influence is the almost serene voice of main singer Ashley (can't locate her last name on Kanine Records website), floating and circling above and throwing Pale Saint shapes over the proceedings. At a couple of points guitarist Stef Hodapp joined in with a flat near-baritone harmony and the effect was a little startling but ultimately necessary, helping anchor Ashley's eerie angelic lilt. I copied down their setlist before the show - Sharpied on a towel, I might add, which I found charming - but it ended up not doing me a lot of good, most of the songs consisting of multiple parts and/or blending seamlessly into each other but it hardly matters, as it wasn't long I just gave up trying to figure all that out and let their sound wash over me, surely their intention. This is a band that named themselves wisely, as that sound, wah-wah washing over you like that, does so with multiple refractions and the sonic equivalent of shards of light. Young Prisms know their influences well, and the Slowdive/MBV comparisons are inevitable, but it was clear that it won't be long before they outgrow those lengthy, ricocheting shadows of their forebears - impressive as they are - and emerge as a major force in their own right. I can hardly wait, and I wanna be there to see it happen.
As for Quasi, well, Quasi were Quasi, always on the verge of falling apart which is exactly the place their utter charm originates. They had a warm, accepting crowd and they could do no wrong, and that, as well, is exactly as it should be. Their set, in fact, often sounded more like a party than a show folks had paid to get in to, so glib and jokey were the exchanges with the audience. Everyone knows their story - Sam Coomes, once in Heatmiser with Elliott Smith, with his ex-wife Janet Weiss, who really requires no bio - everyone knows their music, and everyone knows that what you get live is not the same as what you get on record. Their sound Friday night was no different, it had an impromptu nature to it to go with the convivial atmosphere. It felt as if we were being given an intimate sneak peak at a rehearsal, with Sam making musical mayhem at the piano like a skinny blond Lurch, playing his stock barrelhouse/nickolodean melody lines while Janet banged away at the drums with the same authority that'll help bring down the Crystal with Wild Flag come May. When Sam switches to guitar for Never Coming Back Again and others, things get a little more focused musically but the pull-out-the-stops antics, if anything, get crazier, as he stands half on the wobbly electric piano and just generally caroms about the stage like a man being electrocuted and liking it. For me the highlight was Bye Bye Blackbird off of last year's American Gong, it had a prodigal taste to it, noise merchants come home to roost on an irresistible hook, which is Quasi in a nutshell. This is Portland, this is our band and we love them.
So OK, that's it for me from Clubland for this week. Hope you enjoyed your stay and tune in next week as I report back from the Doug Fir and Toronto band Elliott BROOD's show (with Vancouver BC's Pack AD back in town, what a show, GO!). Elliott BROOD fall under many headings - alt.country, death country (a favorite) whatever - but I just see them as being among the premier tunesmiths around, absolute kings of aching melody. See you there!
Saturday, February 25, 2012
three7: DJ Klyph presents: DJ O.G. One Interview pt1 (Audio)
Earlier this month, I had the great opportunity to interview a staple in the Portland music scene DJ O.G. One. Besides having opened for hip hop greats Run-DMC, Naughty by Nature, being the official DJ for the Portland Trailblazers, O.G. One has been an activist in the Portland community mentoring youth and building as a positive influence and being recognized for these acts just recently by the Trailblazers.
Check out part one of the interview here and be on the look for parts 2-4 as well. Also see the fan page DJ O.G. One on Facebook and follow him on twitter @djogone
Blessings,
Klyph
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Put A Blog On It: The Introductory Post
Flight: TICKETS PURCHASEDHotel: RESERVATIONS CONFIRMED
Walking Shoes: BROKEN IN
SxSW Apps: DOWNLOADED
Sunglasses: MISPLACED (of course...)
It is official, I'm headed to SxSW 2012! It's a trip two years in the making, when my friend Michael and I first conspired to visit this musical Mecca.
I've heard and read about it for years and years, but have never experienced it for myself...until now! I've been telling friends and family that it sounds to me like "the Disneyworld of all conference/festivals."
I'm looking forward to taking it all in, but
I'm also looking forward to telling you
all about it!
I'll be blogging here on the KZME site, I'll be tweeting
from my Hello Cruel World twitter account, and I'll even be
phoning into the "Lunchbox" show (weekdays 12noon - 1pm) for some live updates.
Stay tuned!
Thanks for reading,
JBJ
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