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?

The Local Artist Speaks: WILD ONES

I finally met Jason.

Well, it all started when Jason Quigley’s name came up in an interview with band, Fault Lines, earlier in the day and then I actually met him at the Wild Ones listening party.

That is so Portland, isn’t it?

Last night, I attended the Wild Ones listening party in the Bar Bar apartment (above Mississippi Studios) – that is also so Portland and thank goodness.  What a great band!

Not to be confused with the hip hop band with the same name, the band was named as one of Willamette Week’s Best New Band in 2011 and I was happy to see them in person for the first time last night. I can’t believe it took me that long.

I chatted with the very friendly lead singer, Danielle Sullivan, upon arriving at the ‘invitation only’ event and helped myself to some of the free beer and snacks provided at the party. I was hungry and thirsty!  I also had a moment to chat with the keyboardist, who was quite nice as well. 

The party consisted of those free goodies, including a copy of the new album.  We were also treated to a “live” performance in the apartment’s living room.  The band played six songs, as I recall, from the new album, Keep it Safe.

At the time of this writing, I am about halfway through listening to the entire CD and really like the tracks, Golden Twin, It’s Real, and Row. I can’t wait to hear the rest of the CD. One of my ‘tests’ is if I feel motivated to roll down the car windows and play the music really loud.  To me, that means I am really enjoying it and want to share it with the world. So is the case with Keep it Safe. I’ve already noted that this is one of my faves for 2013.

You can hear the band play music from the new album on July 5 at Mississippi Studios.  It is their release party – My Body and Genders are also on the bill. 

Click here for show info.

Of course, you can hear this album on 1071 FM KZME radio because we are all about playing the music made here and played here, you know.

-- Dennise M. Kowalczyk

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DJ Klyph presents... The Movement

What's up party people!

Just had give you a quick update on what's happening in this NW hip hop scene.

First up, check out the new ad from Samsung for their new Galaxy S4 cell phone featuring music from Portland's own Chicharones (Sleep of Oldominion and Josh Martinez). You can hear them live at the station on Welcome to the Neighborhood coming up June 18th!


Also doing things with the visuals, here's a feature from Neighborhood resident Th3ory Hazit on the art of digging.



Check out the new central location for upcoming guests on the radio show, podcast links, appearances and some new things happening in the hip hop community at www.djklyph.com

Until next time,

Blessings!

CLUBLAND!

MIRACLE FALLS / THE LAURELS - Kelly's Olympian, May 9, 2013

Been a long while. Last time I was at  Kelly's Olympian was New Year's Eve 1992 to see the Fastbacks and...oh, y'know what? Let's just not talk about that night. Less said the better, really, ahem. But that aside, it is indeed a happy circumstance that brings me back to this vintage downtown mainstay as I've been generously invited to enjoy some promising Australian psych, namely The Laurels. One of the things I love about the Portland club scene, you never know who's going to pop up on the gig radar and where. The opportunity to see a band the reputed caliber of The Laurels, at a relatively intimate venue like Kelly's, well that wasn't something I could live with missing.

First, though, there's the (not so) small matter of Miracle Falls. Not knowing the name previous to their appearing on the bill, I did a bit of digging to prepare for the show and whattaya know, this is the new project of now-Portland resident Paul Dillon, ex-member of Sparklehorse, Mercury Rev and Longwave (all outfits well represented in my stacks at home), sporting, according to their Twitter page, members of the Dandy Warhols, the Rev, Brian Jonestown Massacre and the Warlocks. Quite the parentage, and again I'm in thrall to what's possible on a lovely Thursday night in May in a small downtown Portland drinking establishment. Proves it's good to do some research prior to arriving, too, so you don't miss what you might regret missing. And you would have regretted missing Miracle Falls.

Immediately effecting, their lineage jumps out at us off the stage, the first song chock-a-block with the aching Americana emotions of, yes, Sparklehorse if Mark Linkous had a more resilient garage soul. Next song arrives with a bit more blast, a sound infectious enough to draw a dozen more punters in the door, harmonic, rich and plaintive. There's a level of quality (with a charmingly rough edge) that is unheard of this time of night on a somewhat modest bill like this. I'm not surprised, of course, due that spot of homework I've done, but I can only imagine the surprise for the unsuspecting. I almost envy them, as it's one of those dreams we all carry around, happening unbeknownst upon a band like this, in this case one that could be The Replacements playing shoegaze Byrds, with all the mesmerizingness that implies. The young woman guitarist (she's not a listed member of the recording band, so far as I can find out) keeps stringing out these melodic solos, Dillon's hollow-body takes up the rhythmic chime and churn while the rhythm section sits in a pocket deep enough to park your car in. (on record that would be bass player Collin Hegna of BJM and MercRev's drummer Grasshopper. Don't know that that's the case tonight)

Third song begins like a wigged-out raga before evolving into a mid-tempo bar rocker with an insistent, itinerant rhythm that nearly spins into one of those abandoned grooves Rocket From The Crypt were so well known for, before getting ahold of its own collar and settling to a close. The band's impressive but loosely-jointed pedigree shines throughout their set. It comes as no shock when Dillon steps out for a Blasters-worthy solo nor when the fifth song in the let launches off a looped guitar sample. The four of them have a wide range of experience behind them and use every tool they've accumulated. Hell, at one point I'm even reminded of Aztec Camera rocking a Memphis stage, which is a damned fine hybrid indeed.

So, I talk to Laurels guitarist Piers before the show (who wouldn't have looked out of place in the Undertones, btw), ask him how the hell they can afford a tour like this. Well, he tells me, they gigged furiously in Oz, saved up, and here they are, a treat for any and all psych-heads here in PDX. Plus? Once they return home they'll apply for a (wait for it..) government grant that supports Australian touring bands. 'Wow!,' you're saying, 'Wow! What an enlightened policy.' How right you are. Sigh.

Assuming you've recovered from that, we can move on to the performance itself. First off, there are two motherboards of pedals and buttons set up stage right and left, looking like Skylab dropped a couple panels before crashing into the Pacific. Second off, this is one of the most unassuming bands I've seen in a while, by which I mean to say there appear to be no rock star trappings, no egos, just a genuine drive to drive us mental with an unpretentious psych pop bliss.

Set up: Fender Jazzmaster, Fender bass, Rickenbacker, basic drums then BOOM! I instantly think 'Remember that time you did acid in the garage?' Well, not really, but if I had, this would have been the soundtrack. There's a heavy mash, they're loud and fuzzy in all the right ways, at just the right volume (loud; did I already say that?) and they flange with indomitable panache. Bass player, who looks a mix of Graham Nash and Levon Helm, plays with a kind of Jack Bruce-slash-punk authority.

Inevitably The Laurels come with a a well-worn intensity. It's easy to tell that they've been gigging heavily before passing through customs into the US. The third song (hey, I wasn't able to score setlists like I normally try to do) goes beyond pure heavy psych and lapses into Swervedriver territory, all linear trance and blended volume before Piers lets howl a feral vocal yowl - something about fire - and we're back on lysergic tribal land. Straight out of that it's into the Seedsian Nuggets patch, pushing just enough too hard to make the paint begin to peel, the floorboards warp. Somewhere in the stratosphere Sky Saxon is smiling big time while Roky Erickson is reminiscing 'I remember when I could do that.'

The whole set I'm thinking about how every year I'm envious of friends down Texas way that get to attend the Austin Psych Fest and how, for tonight anyway, they get to be jealous of me. The Laurels at Kelly's Olympian! HA! Beat that!! Especially during the last song played tonight, wherein a serious amount of thrash, abandon and histrionics makes for a classic - and memorable - outro. I walk out shimmering, thanking The Laurels, thanking the Australian government, and thanking whatever it is that's in the water down there.

(note: The Dandeylions were third up tonight but your humble scribe was unable to stay due to a conflicting commitment)

DJ Klyph presents... The Movement

Yo! The mighty northwest is looking pretty nice right through here, and the Neighborhood has been growing with new visitors every week.

Recently my man Serge Severe passed through with producer 5th Sequence to talk about the release of his latest project Boom Bap and Bars Vol. 1



While Serge was visiting KZME, he dropped this verse, one of the dopest live performances on Welcome to the Neighborhood to date:

I also had a chance to host local MC Madgesdiq after seeing him perform during the Soul'd Out Music Fest. Had a great conversation during the show and he even hung out at the station to chop it up after the broadcast. He gave me a chance to play a number of tracks from his upcoming mix tape project "Introducin' Antoine Terrell", and we played tracks from his latest full length project Rastamerica. Be sure to stay up to date with him via the website www.madgesdiq.com

Festival time is kicking off with the nicer weather, and I'll have some announcements regarding upcoming events related to KZME and the local hip hop community, so stay tuned! Remember there are a number of ways to do that besides the blog including:

Twitter
Facebook
Vimeo
Podcast

Until next time,

Blessings!

CLUBLAND!

NIGHT MOVES / DJANGO DJANGO - Doug Fir, March 20, 2013

I'll say this about the Doug Fir, they're prompt. After a spot of confusion at the box office, I arrive on the floor at 9:08 and Minneapolis up-and-comers Night Moves are already a song into their set. The first couple of impressions are, naturally, visual: singer/guitarist John Pelant's space-age, gaffer-taped guitar cord and the dapperness of bass player Micky Alfano that brings to mind a young Rick Danko. The former is anomalous, the twisty silvery appurtenance that resembles nothing so much as a tube swinging off the side of the robot in Lost In Space could not be contextually further from the hit-ready countrified soul filling the friendly timbers of the Doug Fir. The latter, however, is much nearer the mark, as the Band is certainly a reference point here, if only glancingly, though on "Old Friends" the hit is more direct, replete as it is with a least a cousin to Robbie Robertson's plangent guitar tone coming off Mark Ritsema's hollow body Gibson.

Takes as a whole, Night Moves fall under the Americana heading which is fair if reductive, as their sound so innately expands beyond the boundaries of such that one should at the very least addend the word 'sumptuous' to that label. At first glance Pelant might be mistaken for a lost Gallagher brother but then he opens his mouth to sing and it's more likely he's a lost Buckley, especially on their album's title track "Colored Emotions," the delicate but decisive croon lapping at the shores of falsetto.

"Country Queen" is introduced as their prom song, there's some joking mention of a disco ball but if that's the case it's the last song of the prom, a tune that one could easily imagine becoming 'our song' for any number of young couples draped over one another at the Elks, its all yearning and love-declarative and has 'pop-soul classic' written all over it, albeit with the e'er present country-tinged lilt.

Genre-labeling aside, at the end of the day Night Moves are simply superior song stylists, there's an effortless sheen of classicism hanging over virtually every song like a golden radio haze. As an ensemble it's quite clear they've been playing together solidly for a few years (since 2009, to be encyclopedic about it) but also that they meld together in that seamless way as bands do that are meant to be.

As the set proceeds through "Horses" with its touch of Dark Side Of The Moon-era Pink Floyd creeping in towards the end, through "Classical Hearts" with more of those Band-soaked tough-angel vocals, I keep coming back to the sultry soul notes that flavor nearly every song regardless of other ostensible influences and think Too bad Al Green producer Willie Mitchell ain't around any more.'

A swinging light bulb projected on the back screen and the obligatory 'Hello Portland!' shout herald the arrival of Django Django. By this point the venue is well-sardined and your intrepid correspondent has retreated to the safety of the bar's far corner for the sake of scrivener's ease if nothing else, plus I'm afforded a nice, unimpeded letter-box view of the band as they waste no time in winning over the crowd with one of their best-known tracks. "Hail Bop," common sense would dictate, is a very nervy way indeed to begin their set. Lesser bands might save it for a mid-set highlight, perhaps the encore, but Django Django are clearly confident enough in their matrial that they can toss out the obvious crowd-pleaser right off without a worry.

"Hail Bop" and other tracks - "Storm" for instance - on their self-titled debut from last year have drawn many accurate comparisons to Brian Eno in his early solo, pre-ambient period (As if that's a bad thing, one can't help but say) and synth master Tommy Grace bears some resemblance to Mark Mothersbaugh, even hopping about like him, bringing the band's inevitable debt to (a more refined) Devo to the fore, but I say to heck with that, this will tell you everything about how they sound: if there was a band playing the bar on Skylab, it was Django Django. But anyway, regardless of what comparisons get thrown at them, what matters is melody and structure, inventiveness and tone. In short, songs, and Django-squared have them to spare.

When a song like "Firewater" can feature both a faint but insistent echo of cowbell and synthesized handclaps and still drop you dead with a kind of airy singalong funk, well, something magical's goin' on. And it never really lets up. Before "Skies Over Cairo," frontman Vincent Neff shows how inveterate a showman he is, persuading the boisterous crowd to put down their drinks and join in a full extended arm wave thang a la some Egyptian house party.

Make no mistake, these lads may have formed in London but cannot escape the Edinburgh roots from which the band arose. There are moments, especially during "Default" - another ringingly popular selection - that the ghosts of a bagpipe and pennywhistle are hidden in the jumpy jiggy rhythm, reels as interpreted by New Order.

The syncopated groove that prevails throughout their set might suggest an over-reliance on the pre-packaged ones-and-zeroes programmed into the machinery up there but in fact nothing feels rote or contrived. Somewhat coreographed, certainly, this is a performance, after all, but there's never a sense of what we're hearing/seeing as being anything but spontaneous, driving and true.

Thing about Django Django, they emit many slyly identifiable sounds - bit of surf guitar here, bit of Mexican Radio there, in addition to the Enoisms already cited - but it's all hybridized in such a way that the band's sonic profile is very recognizably their own. In a word (OK, two), bloody irresistible.

They end the set proper on the rockabilly-ish tip "WOR," a joyous, buoyant skedattle of a tune that A) pulls me very pleasantly back to memories of mid-80s fireplugs Woodentops and B) ensures that sleep will not be soon coming for myself or anyone else in attendance. Hard to sleep with your heart all skipping along in your chest like that.