THE BACK ROW - May 2009

Blitzen Trapper Saves the Day

Posted by: Bart Blasengame on May 29, 2009 at 09:00AM 3 Comments

Admit it. When you watch a show like Survivorman or Man vs. Wild, there’s a small flicker in the back of your mind that says, “You know what? I think I could do that. I think that, if it came down to it, I could survive under extreme circumstances. I would drink my pee. I would eat a bug. I could curl up in the carcass of a tauntaun to survive bitter cold.”

I sometimes think the same thing. Or at least I did until Day 3 of Sasquatch. Morning came like a steel-toed boot to the head. The taste of stale beer and cigarettes was wrapped around my tongue like a dirty sock. Even injecting coffee into my eyeballs didn’t seem to work. But this was it. This was the last day of our Sasquatch excursion. We had to rally. Again eschewing showers for hooker baths, the ladyfriend and I put on our game faces, found our friends, and joined the tens of thousands of peeling and hungover zombies trudging toward the sound of music.

It’s a long walk from the campground to the venue. There is no shade. And as the sun beat down on us mercilessly, it made every movement painful. If this were a bad teenage horror flick, this would be the point where I sit down in the middle of the dirt road and say, “It’s OK. You go on without me.”

But the ladyfriend’s favorite Portland band, Blitzen Trapper, was playing this day. So we fought on.

As usual, it was worth it. We watched Deerhoof and Black Moth Super Rainbow and a little bit of Horse Feathers… but all we really wanted to see was BT. They were playing the secondary Wookie Stage and after a laborious sound check, they showed once again why popular opinions are a confusing thing.

Let me take a step back… A year and a half or so ago, I went to see Blitzen Trapper play a headlining gig here in town. Opening for them was this little hairy band of harmonizers called the Fleet Foxes. I liked their CD, so I was interested to see how they would bring it live. They were pretty, interesting, and a great time. And then BT came out and destroyed them. Only a few months later, however, thanks to all the cool kids suddenly thinking that bands that sound like Dan Fogelberg and Crosby, Stills, and Nash are all the rage, the Fleet Foxes were everywhere. Opening for Wilco, headlining shows with Blitzen Trapper as their opening act.

And here at Sasquatch, the Foxes Fleet were playing the main stage. BT was on the Wookie.

I still don’t get it. Stack their albums up side by side and what you get is one very good, very pretty one-trick album by the Foxes, and another by Blitzen Trapper that is a panorama of sound: rock, psych, folk, pop. And each style is done perfectly. Live, the difference is even more pronounced. The Fleets harmonize and smile and flick their hair out of their eyes, while Blitzen rocks faces off while also taking the time to bust out ballads that get the ladies in the mood.

I like both bands. I love Blitzen Trapper. They should be huge.

Sorry. I will now get off my soapbox. And I will conclude by saying that Blitzen Trapper was great. They stomped through “Wild Mountain Nation,” got everyone high off the secondhand stoner rock of “Love U,” kept heads bobbing with “Saturday Nite,” and showed that they write some of the best rustic rockers with “Black River Killer” and “Furr”… still one of the best songs to come out of Portland in the last few years.

After their set, the ladyfriend and I checked our watches. It was nearly 5 p.m. We had a four-hour drive in front of us. And there was no more we needed to see. We’d survived Sasquatch… the public sex, the swimming pools of sewage, the angry mobs, the passed-out druggies, a fleeting brush with fame, and (most especially) we’d seen a ton of great music. All with the beauty of the Gorge smiling back at us.

We rambled back to our car, kicking up dust clouds in our wake.

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OH MY GOD, THE MURDER CITY DEVILS

(and the Back Row takes the stage)

Posted by: Bart Blasengame on May 28, 2009 at 10:30AM 1 Comments

I have seen approximately one billion rock ‘n’ roll shows in my lifetime. That’s probably why my liver is pickled, my ears are basically deaf flaps of flesh, and my fingers have curled into permanent devil horns from overuse.

But I’d never before done the whole three-day rock and camp extravaganza. Which is to say I didn’t realize what a toll ten solid hours of loud music, curdling heat, and lots of beer can take on ones body. As the sun came up on Sunday morning I wanted to punch it in the eye. I couldn’t move. But after a little coffee and some broken bits of burned pancake, life seemed like it could go on.

The ladyfriend and I checked the showers, saw that it would be a two hour wait and decided to take hooker baths in a sink near one of the porta-johns. We brushed our teeth, ladled on another layer of deodorant and called ourselves clean.

At 11 a.m. we cracked the first beer of the day.

I’m sorry to say that I missed Viva Voce’s noon set, but sitting where we were on the hill overlooking the stage we could hear them. And they sounded wonderful.

After meeting up with our friends we wandered again to the mainstage to check out NYC’s Walkmen. They’re like the Strokes without the media adoration. Next up was Calexico, whose Southwestern-tinged rock fit right in to the hot, dusty landscape at the Gorge. The ladyfriend and I then made a sidetrip to the Yeti Stage to check out our very own The Builders and the Butchers. They were great, but since you can read out ravings about them in the June issue of the magazine, we’ll save our slobber.

Besides, it all seemed like some silly precursor to what happened next.

MURDER BALLADS

And what happened next was Seattle’s Murder City Devils. Anybody else remember these guys? Put out a couple excellent records on Sub Pop that mixed gritty punk, sea chanties, and blood-lusting lyrics shouted out like a really pissed-off man’s dying curse? I saw them play once in Austin and was blown away by their ferocious live show. They broke up in the early aughts and everybody assumed they were done. But over the last year or so they’ve been playing again. And up until now I’d missed them.

I am an idiot.

What the Murder City Devils did was show all the rest of the new wave of gently mumbling indie bands in attendance like Grizzly Bear, Animal Collective, Fleet Foxes, and Bon Iver what it was to truly put on a rock ‘n’ roll show. It was an educational beatdown delivered with shouts, roaring guitars, and the conjured spirit of the Stooges. It was loud, dangerous, borderline out of control, and easily the single best show of the festival.

I’m not sure if lead singer Spencer Moody was drunk, stoned, or just in a really bad mood but from the beginning he made it clear that he owned the stage and if you didn’t like it he would bite out your jugular. He shoved bandmates, berated the crowd, flipped off the VIP section, dry-humped speakers, threw the microphone stand, went on tirades about jocks and trust-fund kids, fell, stumbled, professed his love for homosexuals (driving home the point by full-on kissing any man within arms length of him), and on more than one occasion threatened to pull his manhood out for all to see.

You just don’t see this type of aggression anymore. Nobody knew what would happen from song to song. Would he really pull it out? Was he really that angry? Was he going to punch somebody? Would somebody punch him? And all this drama happened while they absolutely ripped it up, nowhere better than on their song “Idle Hands.”

T.V. on the Radio had the unfortunate task of following the Murder City Devils. But they pulled it off. Besides, after gnashing our teeth and flailing about for the previous hour, the crowd seemed ready to dance. Which we did, furiously, as New York’s best band weaved through its set of new wave stoner rock. The guitarist with the crazy hair and beard used to serve me coffee back in Brooklyn with eyes that seemed to scream of how much he loathed his job…now he’s headlining Sasquatch. That’s kind of awesome.

TIME TO GO TO WORK

After working ourselves into a lather, the ladyfriend and I had to get to work. Yes…I said work. Work you can do when you’re half in the bag and sunburned. Earlier in the day I’d met the festival’s publicist and he was a dear, sweet, very, very stressed and tired man. Over a few gulps of water he’d mentioned that Of Montreal—a psych pop band whose live show is like “The Nutcracker” on a bad acid trip—needed some thirty volunteers for their theatrical show. He asked if we were interested. After figuring that I’d never again get the chance to set foot on stage in front of a few thousand people, the ladyfriend and I agreed.

So when Of Montreal started their Wookie headlining set we were ushered backstage. Once there a shirtless man in a codpiece gave us our instructions. We would be led onto the stage in front of the drum riser by a man in a pig costume. We were supposed to act scared. Wary. At some point a man in a tuxedo with a tiger’s head would burst onto the stage, slaughter the pig guide and attack us. At this point we would freeze in a state of horror. Then the man in the tuxedo with the tiger’s head would manipulate us into various poses. Finally, our hero—another pig—would emerge, lift up the man in the tuxedo with the tiger’s head, bite out his crotch and save us. At that point we would unfreeze and wander off stage.

Simple enough, right?

And that’s pretty much what happened. With the crowd roaring we went out with the pigs and the tiger-headed tuxedo man and played our part. I made one crucial mistake though…when I froze I did so in a crouched position. As the song went on and the crowd screamed my legs were beginning to burn. And then the man in the tiger’s head came up to me, yanked me up like a rag doll, threw my arms over my head, and stood me straight. My hero. The crowd screamed.

And just like that—crotch biting completed—it was over. A fleeting moment of fame that I still can’t find on You Tube.

But it happened, I assure you.

Followers of crotch-biting pigs don’t lie.

Tomorrow: Day 3.

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Sex, drugs, and the Decemberists

(Not necessarily in that order)

Posted by: Bart Blasengame on May 27, 2009 at 09:00AM 0 Comments

Four hours to freedom.

As the ladyfriend and I finally squeezed past the Portland traffic and sped north toward the soon-to-be-town of Sasquatch, that’s what it felt like. We’ve been dating for nearly three years and will be getting married this August. This three-day music festival was our first REAL vacation. That’s sad (he says, shaking his fist at “the man”). But we aimed to make the most of it, and with my best friend from New York meeting us there, I didn’t think that would be a problem.

The drive up along the Gorge (one I’d never taken before) was stunning. Between the views and the array of birds (yes, I’m an Audubon nerd), I nearly drove us off the road a couple of times. Despite the tens of thousands of people making this same journey, we made good time and had pulled into our camping spot and erected our tent by 8:30 p.m.

A GRANOLA KIND OF HELL

(FULL DISCLOSURE: We didn’t camp in the general area. I figured I could spring for a “premier” spot, which, with promises of cedar fences, private showers, and coffee, sounded like Eden among the ruins. Of course, I’m an idiot. Premier camping just turned out to be the same, slightly more spacious mass cesspool with a few extra porta-johns—Honey Buckets, ew!—thrown in. If you wanted a shower, you had to brave two-hour lines. And I never saw one cup of joe.)

We sat down in the darkness and hatched our plan for the next day. Definitely wanted to see the much-hyped Animal Collective, the Doves, and the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs, but wanted to make time for hometown faves like the Decemberists and M. Ward. We would drink, we would pack lunches, we would bake in the sun, and we would revel in great music. The only boundaries I set for myself were not to vomit on anybody and to keep all my clothes on.

As the ladyfriend and I heated up a can of soup over a lantern, deafening roars floated up into the night. Waves of noise swept across the unseen horizon. It was the campers from the general camping grounds. It felt very Lord of the Rings … a horde of orcs screaming in anticipation of battle.

Naturally, we decided to join the fray.

It was like entering a particularly granola circle of hell. Past the single cedar fence that encompassed the entire premier lot, tents and cars stretched off in all directions in absolutely no order. Sasquatchers who were just arriving formed a snaking line of headlights and kicked up clouds of dust. Couples drunkenly groped in the grass, by-the-book hippies pawned tie-dyed shirts and glass pipes, shirtless males roamed the grounds screaming, there were drum circles, random dance tents, puddles of puke and broken glass. At one point, a drunk Canadian (of which there were many) decided not only to get behind the wheel, but to try to drive his truck over and through a tightly packed neighborhood of tents. “I’m trying to get to Quincy,” he slurred as we stopped him from backing over another encampment.

It was absolute chaos. And it made me want to run and get a vasectomy.

After a visit and a few cold beers with the ladyfriend’s sister and her friends (among them a guy who worked for FEMA and seemed right at home in the human wreckage), we headed back to rest up for Day 1.

AND THE BANDS PLAYED ON

Saturday was a very Portland kind of day on Sasquatch’s three stages, with Blind Pilot, M. Ward, and the Decemberists all taking their turns to rock the masses. For reference, the rundown went like this: the Yeti stage was the smallest, reserved for up-and-coming bands; the Wookie stage was for more-established indie acts; and the main stage was reserved for the heavy hitters.

Blind Pilot was a big draw on the Wookie, even at their early 1:30 p.m. start time. And although the outdoor setting would seem to beg for big, rambunctious rockers, Blind Pilot stuck to their breezy, country-pop guns. It worked, as the crowd sang along and bobbed their heads and danced. Of course, they were all high (everyone everywhere was high, I think), but still … it was another big step for a group that seems poised to be the city’s next breakout band. The only bad thing about their set—ads for XBox popping up on the screen behind them between songs—was not their fault.

We spent the rest of the evening at the main stage, locked into place by the back-to-back appearance of English mope-rockers Doves and M. Ward. M. Ward was magic. Does anybody else make winning over the crowd seem so easy? From the start, he owned the stage. Stomping, smiling, singing in that matter-of-fact, gravelly croon. It’s an odd thing. He’s not doing anything new, but he does it so well, so timelessly, that he’s both paying homage to rock while pushing it forward at the same time. After he made sweet, sweet love to his acoustic guitar on “One Hundred Million Years,” I turned to the ladyfriend and said, “That guitar is now pregnant with twins.”

Even when drunk and sunburned, I am nothing if not witty.

Devotchka was next, and although I’d never heard of them, my friend insisted I watch (even if I did so in the shade). They were great. They’re from Denver, but their Eastern European–flavored ambient rock sounds worlds away from the land of Coors.

Next was one of the more-anticipated appearances of the festival: Animal Collective. How do you describe them? Indie-electro? Psych-prog? Three dudes randomly pushing buttons and squawking into their microphones? Thanks in large part to their latest record, Merriweather Post Pavilion, they have a rabid and varied following. Frat boys, surfer dudes, girls in sundresses, hippies, neon-clad hipsters. They all seemed to love it (again though, they were all very, very high), but I guess it’s clear that I’m no longer able to hang with the cool kids. All I heard was one great song—“My Girls”—and a couple of solid numbers, surrounded by giant, repetitive, annoying wads of noise trying to pass as progressive jam music.

When Pink Floyd’s “One of These Days” came over the speakers after the set, it was as if somebody was not-so-subtly saying: “Hey guys, this is how you do it.”

THE NAUGHTY BITS

Up next was the first true, unbridled, magical, had-to-be-there-moment of the festival. It was magical. If by “magical” you mean gross, surreal, certainly illegal, and kind of awesome. Naturally, it happened right smack-dab in the middle of the Decemberists’ main stage set.

During the epic ebb-and-flow of “The Wanting Comes in Waves,” a weird roar kept weaving its way from the back of the bowl to the front. I was confused at first. But finally I looked back to see thousands of necks crooked up and to the left where, on a cliff just off the top of the amphitheater, two naked bodies were furiously humping each other. Which is to say, they were having sex. Full-on, naked, head-tossing, back-arching sex. Despite the illegalness of the deed, it was kind of beautiful. The sun was just climbing off its boiling crest, which cast the two lovebirds as a pair of black silhouettes acting (and I would guess, overacting) out a couple of pages of the Kama Sutra.

The crowd roared its approval (and Colin Meloy and the rest of the band tried to contain their laughter) until security finally managed to pull the couple off each other (just try and imagine those poor dudes).

Here’s the video (don’t worry, you can’t see any naughty bits):

How do you top hilltop fornication and a rock opera? You don’t.

But the Yeah Yeah Yeahs did all right. As the sun finally finished its descent, the ever-flamboyant Karen O came out dressed like a mix of Peter Pan, Sacajawea, and a box of neon Crayola crayons. I was living in New York when these guys first broke out, so I was lucky enough to have a front-row seat to their rise to dance-rock royalty. But I had only ever seen them play clubs. Could they fill a open-air stadium with twenty thousand or so people? Hell and yes. The YYYs, and especially Karen O, were totally engaging. Cool, stylish, hard and nasty at times. But she never stops smiling. There is no better front woman in rock music right now. And when they whipped out a stripped-down acoustic version of their hit “Maps,” it was an amazing moment. Sincere and fun … a brief break in the jittery, rocking, furious set that put a smile on everyone’s sunburned face.

Tomorrow … Sunday. Day 2. The day the ladyfriend and I got up onstage in front of five thousand or so people and a band from Seattle kicked my butt and blew my mind. Again.

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Messin’ with Sasquatch

(but not in a pervy way)

Posted by: Bart Blasengame on May 20, 2009 at 10:00AM 0 Comments

I don’t typically like crowds. To be a little more precise…I hate them. They’re unpredictable, they smell, they talk too much, and they make me do this constant hand-to-ass movement because I’m always making sure my wallet is in place.

But when my best friend, Ian, said that going to the Sasquatch Festival for three days of chock full of beer, camping, and rock music was not just a good idea but, as he put it, “a moral imperative,” I agreed. That means I’ll be spending the Memorial Day holiday with 20,000 (give or take a few thousand) of my stinkiest, sweatiest friends. The ladyfriend used to work concession at the Gorge during the summers, so she knows all about the place. Meanwhile, this is my first trip to the Gorge which, with its beautiful cliff-side vistas, I’m told is one of the most beautiful venues in the country.

Hopefully, I will not end up like the guy below, the now infamous “naked wizard” who was tazed by police at this year’s Coachella Festival (don’t worry, the naughty bits are blurred out):

Suffice to say, I’m stoked. And I’m even more stoked for the total glut of great music…much of it generated from our local legion of bands. The Decemberists are the obvious big-hitter with a headlining spot set for Saturday. But there are plenty of other Portland rockers set to put on a show: M. Ward, Blind Pilot, Viva Voce, The Builders and The Butchers, Point Juncture, WA, Blitzen Trapper, Horse Feathers…and probably a few I’m forgetting.

Since I’ll be there roaming from stage to stage, and since the ladyfriend has a pretty sweet camera, and since there’s very little else to do besides drink and blow out my ear drums (a perfect weekend, if you ask me) I’ll be compiling a full report of the Sasquatch madness for this here website. Look for it next week (time TBD). Maybe in the meantime we can come up with some sort of smell-o-vision where you can actually catch a whiff of the fragrant clouds of beer and body odor that will be filling my nostrils.

Wish me luck.

Now, on to the weekend:

FRIDAY
Driving four hours and camping for three days in the Gorge to hear music isn’t an option for everybody. But the good thing is that in the days leading up to Sasquatch, many of the bands playing there are making a pit stop in Portland. Tonight is one of those nights as both the Avett Brothers and Mos Def take the stage for a little pre-fest warmup. The Avett Brothers are a hoot-and-holler punk-bluegrass combo from North Carolina that will certainly leave the crowd sweaty in their wake. Mos Def is a suave, sophisticated Grammy-nominated rapper (and Golden Globe nominated actor) whose concerts are far more entertaining (and enlightening) than his latest film, “TK.” [Avett Brothers: 9 p.m./Crystal Ballroom/$20. Mos Def: 8 p.m./Roseland/$30]

SATURDAY
Multnomah County Fair
Not all fairs have to be massive odes to disfigured carnies and cow manure. At this downhome festival, a petting zoo, extreme air dogs, roller skating, and even a Guitar Hero competition are all part of the experience. But what’s kept families coming back for 100 years is the prospect of a thrill-ride rush, followed by a head-splitting order of homemade ice cream. [Noon, Oaks Park, $15]

SUNDAY
The Hobbit
With a big screen adaptation of J.R.R. Tolkien’s “The Hobbit” already in the works, the time seems right to brush up on your knowledge of Middle Earth with this presentation by Northwest Children’s Theater. In this entry in the fantastical cannon, mild-mannered hobbit Bilbo Baggins finds himself in the company of adventurous dwarves and a wizard named Gandalf in this epic precursor to the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Tag along as Bilbo discovers courage he never knew he had—not to mention a rather marvelous ring. [2 p.m./Northwest Children’s Theater/$16-20]

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Cuss words, cleavage, and other weekend curiosities

Posted by: Bart Blasengame on May 13, 2009 at 10:58AM 2 Comments

I’m having a great Wednesday so far. The fluttering butterflies of the Lost season finale in my gut and the surprise stream of the new Wilco album … If, somehow, the Millennium Falcon toy my mom threw away sometime back in the early 80s travels through time and lands in my office, OR if somebody buys me a monkey butler, this might well be the best Wednesday ever.

Speaking of music (which we just were) … have you heard the new Shins song?

And speaking of iPhone apps (which we weren’t, but whatever), have you seen the iSnort? [Caution: Computerized drug use. But we’re all big boys and girls here, right?]

And speaking of the weekend …

FRIDAY
Film: Slap Shot
When I was a kid in the late 1970s and early 80s (sorry, didn’t mean for this post to turn into a nostalgia trip, but there you go) a whole slew of classic comedies came out. None of which I saw. Porky’s. Stripes. Meatballs. Revenge of the Nerds. And while most young’uns had older, cooler brothers and cousins around to sneak them in to the theater, all my cool older brothers and cousins were (like me at the time) good Christian boys. So I was screwed. No hilarious profanity and gratuitous nudity for my eyes and ears. So suffice it to say I STILL haven’t seen Slap Shot, which is playing tonight at the Clinton Street Theater as part of its Paul Newman appreciation series. It seems like the perfect time to catch up some cuss words and cleavage. [7 & 9:15 p.m./Clinton Street Theater/$6]

SATURDAY
Theater: The Hobbit
With a big-screen adaptation of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit already in the works, the time seems right to brush up on your knowledge of Middle Earth with this presentation by Northwest Children’s Theater. Get reacquainted with the rambunctious dwarves, the mysterious wizard, and the titular hobbit, a reluctant thief called Bilbo Baggins. Surely the name has a familiar ring to it? [2 p.m./Northwest Children’s Theater/$16-20]

SUNDAY
Music: Portland Symphonic Choir
After a weekend of hockey fights and pipe-smoking, furry-footed little people, why not catch a little religion with the Portland Symphonic Choir’s performance of Rachmaninoff’s “All Night Vigil”? Rachmaninoff wasn’t an enthusiastic churchgoer, but his fascination with Russian Orthodox chants served him well during the composition of this 1915 liturgical masterpiece. Considered to be among his most beautiful works, “All Night Vigil” will be rendered in all of its beatific glory by the Portland Symphonic Choir, with solos by local singers Scott Tuomi (tenor) and Sherry Olson (alto).

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Meet the new Shins

(not exactly the same as the old Shins)

Posted by: Bart Blasengame on May 06, 2009 at 10:41AM 0 Comments

Apologies for the radio silence. Things have been…int-er-esting…around these parts for the last little bit. Couple that with the Blazers exit from the playoffs, a weighty workload, and the fact that I’m going to Lowe’s today to purchase gopher wood with which to build an ark, and there’s been little time for blogging.

And then today happens and a whole big chunk of news about our beloved Shins falls from the sky. Remember back a few weeks ago when we told you about the band leaving their old label, Sub Pop? Well, that was just the tip of the iceberg…turns out there’s bigger news…like newly ex-members, new members, a huge backlog of fresh songs, collaborations with Modest Mouse and Carrie Brownstein, and a baby. Whew. Exhale.

Well let indie music blog Pitchfork, who broke the news, do their thing.

“When the Shins took the stage at Western Washington University on Saturday night for the first night of their spring tour, fans discovered that the band had changed. Keyboardist Marty Crandall and drummer Jesse Sandoval had been replaced by Ron Lewis from Grand Archives and Fruit Bats on bass and Joe Plummer of Modest Mouse on drums. Crandall, Sandoval, and Mercer had been playing together since their mid-90s Flake Music days, and Mercer decided it was time for a change. “I started to have production ideas that I wanted to do that basically required some other people,” he said. “It’s mainly about that. It’s an aesthetic decision. It’s kind of hard to talk abut stuff like that, isn’t it? Because I don’t want to bum anybody out. I’m on good terms with those guys, I hope to maintain that.”

For the entire story, head over the Pitchfork

And, of course, don’t forget that the newly made-over Shins play tonight and Thursday at the Crystal Ballroom.

On to the weekend:

FRIDAY
80s Video Dance Attack
You don’t think they use that bouncy retro floor at the Crystal Ballroom just for rock n’ roll, do you? Jump in the time machine and venture back to the Golden Age of MTV, when Duran Duran, Toni Basil, a normal Michael Jackson and Lionel Ritchie ruled the airwaves. At this weekly dance happening you can shake, bounce, shimmy, and diddy-bop just like you did during the Reagan years. Nostalgia: it’s a cheap high. [9 p.m./$5/Crystal Ballroom]

SATURDAY
Oregon Sesquicentennial Film Fest
You’re no doubt sick of hearing about Oregon’s 150th birthday. We don’t blame you. But when given a visual record of the great state’s history, the taste of old birthday cake is quickly washed away. For ten days Marylhurst University will do its part to honor our state by hosting the Oregon Sesquicentennial Film Festival. Various evenings dedicated to screenwriting, directing, acting, animation, short films, and more, will include discussions and screenings of work by Oregon natives including James Ivory (of Merchant-Ivory fame), Bill Plympton, Jim Blashfield, Gus Van Sant, and Penny Allen. [7 p.m./$10-15/Marylhurst University]

SUNDAY
Benefit for Portland’s Leadership and Entrepreneurship Public Charter School
There are all-star benefits and then there is this world-beating lineup of do-gooders. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah frontman Alec Ounsworth, the Minus 5, Steve Malkmus, former Spinanes singer Rebecca Gates, and Los Lobos sax man Steve Berlin will lend their talents to the cause. Memorabilia from the Decemberists, Elvis Costello, and G. Love, among others, will also be auctioned off. [8 p.m./$30/Mississippi Studios]

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