BAR PILOT

Roll Out the Barrels!

A modest roundup of short subjects from the Bar Pilot bag

Posted by: John Chandler on Sep 17, 2010 at 11:00AM 6 Comments

At the new Cascade Barrel House, no beer will be served before it’s time.

ITEM: I was lucky enough to sample several of the sour beers created by Cascade Brewing’s Ron Gansberg in advance of the opening of the new Cascade Barrel House at 935 SE Belmont St (which should be any day now). And they are incredible. What Gansberg has done with his mix-and-match, cut-and-paste barrel-aging and ale-blending approach is to produce a whole line of brilliantly nuanced beers whose flavor profiles are much, much narrower than the standard lager, pilsner, amber, porter, and stout designations. By taking fresh cherries, raspberries, blueberries, oranges, and apricots, and introducing them to existing ales and then aging them for six months at a time, Cascade Brewing has embraced chaos theory and is on the threshold of establishing a beer-tasting aesthetic that’s going to be very similar to that of wine. More subtle, more organically unpredictable. My prediction? It’s going to be big.

ITEM: Another edition of MusicFest NW has come and gone. The best show I witnessed was the sensational and soulful Bellrays who were a face-melting epiphany as always. And for variety’s sake, it’s hard to go wrong with the evil speed metal of Toxic Holocaust at the Satyricon and the grimy Black Sabbath grind of Red Fang paired with the more delicate sensibilities of a resourceful troubadour like mbilly segueing into Big Freedia’s super-freaky butt-shaking cavalcade.The diversity angle worked in a big way this year.

ITEM: Just had a divine cocktail over at Santeria, the Mexican restaurant that’s attached to Mary’s Club (formerly El Grillo). It’s called Llorona, and presumably it’s named after the Latin legend of the crying ghost woman who haunts river banks searching for her missing child. The drink itself is a spirited blend of horchata (rice milk with assorted spices), cinnamon, and a hefty pour of Hatian gold rum served on the rocks in a pint glass for $7. Poverty stricken citizens may want to opt for the $6 version with Monarch rum, but that’s not how I roll. It’s simple, sweet, spicy, and satisfying, and the ideal accompaniment to a plate of carnitas.

The Llorona at Santeria. Don’t cry—just drink up.

ITEM: A note from retro hepcat deejay Drew Groove informs me that the SE Morrison space that once housed Maiden in the Mist (later abbreviated to the Maiden) just had a soft-opening shindig for its latest incarnation, the Star Bar. Not sure about the menu, but if they’ve got the good taste to employ Drew Groove, then it will be a certain stop on a near-future ramble.

ITEM: A congratulatory shout-out to my pal Michael Carothers and his Japanese bar/eatery Miho Izakaya on N Interstate Ave. They’ve now been open for one year and it looks like the best is yet to come. A Happy Hour report is in the offing. Keep the saké warm!

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Tags: Bar Openings, Craft Beers, Live, NoPo, Cascade Brewing

5 Questions for Kinky Friedman

Author, politician, songwriter, and cowboy philosopher speaks up

Posted by: John Chandler on Jul 27, 2010 at 11:00AM 7 Comments

Kinky Friedman is one cowpoke who doesn’t seem to mind wearing a whole bunch of different hats. He first attracted attention in the mid-70s as the leader of Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys, a rollicking revue responsible for such cockeyed country hits as “They Ain’t Making Jews Like Jesus Anymore” and “Get Your Biscuits in the Oven and Your Buns in the Bed.” The 1980s brought us Kinky 2.0, a best-selling writer of mystery novels that featured himself in the role of “consulting detective” along with a supporting cast of his actual friends and family. In sly tomes like Elvis, Jesus, and Coca-Cola, and A Case of Lone Star, the actual mystery that requires solving plays a distant second fiddle to Friedman and cohorts like former National Lampoon editor Larry “Ratso” Sloman, journalist Mike McGovern, and lesbian choreographer Winnie Katz arguing about food, espresso, and the sad fate of Hank Williams.

But wait, there’s more! Friedman, disgusted with the state of politics in his state, ran for governor of Texas in 2006, and with help from friends like Willie Nelson and the Dixie Chicks, he received 550,000 votes. Not bad for an unmarried Hebrew hick who loves dogs and cats and smokes a helluva lot of cigars.

Friedman is doing the music thing again, performing a set list of his finest tunes (“I haven’t written a new song in 25 years,” he confesses to me) tomorrow night at the Roseland. He’ll also be hawking books, telling stories, and shooting the bull with a roomful of clamoring fans. On a bummer note, he was hoping to have his buddy John Callahan, Portland’s most famous quadriplegic cartoonist open the show for him, but it was not to be. Callahan passed away last weekend.

The illustrious Mr. Friedman was kind enough to answer five questions for me in a phone call from his ranch in the heart of Texas.

Where’d you first meet Callahan?

It was about 10 years ago when I was in town at—what’s the name of that venue? The Roseland? I met John there and since then he’s illustrated a few of my books. And I’ve got a Callahan story in my book Kinky’s Celebrity Pet Files. But I’ve got a guy who might be interested in Callahan’s songs—some of them are excellent—Billy Bob Thornton. I think he has the vision, but I’ve got to get a copy to him. We’re working on a book deal together. Actually it started out as a book, but now it’s looking like a musical tour of Australia. It’d be Billy Bob, Billy Joe Shaver and myself.

You’re returning to the stage to play music. Is that something you’ll always come back to despite your many other commitments?

Oh yeah. Success distances you from your art and you can see the examples of Willie (Nelson), Bob (Dylan) and Kris Kristofferson—three really great writers who arguably haven’t written anything great in a while. Once you’re an icon you lose whatever you had that was making you miserable and most great work is made by people who don’t feel good. I strive to be significant. I’m 65 and I read at the 67-year-old-level and I’ve got my last will and testament down. When I die I’m to be cremated and my ashes thrown in Governor Rick Perry’s hair. I’m pretty well out of politics and I think if you fail at something long enough you become a legend—that’s what’s happened to me. It’s a giant step down from a musician to a politician, you know, it really is. And I’m ready to get back on the road. There’s something about music that has more truth to it than anything you hear in politics.

So you’re not going to run for governor again. What’s your take on politics at the moment?

I’m very disappointed with the government, with what they’ve done. I didn’t expect anything from BP. But as far as Obama’s concerned, the “yes we can” candidate going down to the gulf and saying “what do you expect me to do suck it up with a straw?” This is not exactly Winston Churchill here. I’m calling for term limits. I think every elected official should be limited to two terms—one in office and one in prison. I think that would do it. And I’ve suggested a new law where nobody from Harvard, Yale or the state of Texas can run for president.

You’re a pretty restless guy. Are you looking for a new frontier to conquer?.

I’m just kinda wandering in the raw poetry of time. I’m a prophet in his own country that’s my problem. That and being multi-talented that’s the real problem.

I had an idea. Maybe you could just send out an actor to appear on stage as you, kind of like what Hal Holbrook does with Mark Twain. You could call it “An Evening With Kinky Friedman.” What do you think?

John, that’s an excellent idea. I’d just need a bunch of Kinky impersonators and I’d still get a good share of the profit. You want to give it a try?

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Tags: Live, Interview, politics, portland politics, 5 questions, five questions

Happy Hour of the Week

Duck into Ducketts

Posted by: John Chandler on Jul 09, 2010 at 09:00AM 9 Comments

Photo: John Chandler

This must be the place.

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This must be the place.

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Words to live by.

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The obligatory interior shot.

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The sun is starting to set on the patio crowd at Ducketts.

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Let me tell you about our specials.

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My perfectly serviceable quesadilla.

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Two-man band Ardis Udder, part of the evening’s entertainment.

My band had a show last night at a North Portland venue that I was unfamiliar with called Ducketts Public House. Believe it or not, their Happy Hour lasts from 4 till 9 pm Monday-Friday so I was able to get in on the tail end of it. This report has less to do with the specific deals ($2 well drinks, 50¢ off drafts—pretty standard really, as Dr Evil would say) and more to do with the place itself, a clubby little punk-rock sports bar that hasn’t really found a regular crowd yet. IMHO, this works to its advantage; a bar should be a place where everyone feels welcome and as I kept an eye on the broad cross-section of humanity ambling in and out the front door my heart warmed to this little neighborhood dive. Either that, or I forgot my Prilosec when I ordered the chili cheese fries ($5.95).

Ducketts, situated within spitting distance of PCC on N Killingsworth, is a snug and clamorous hive (three TVs, pinball, video crack, live music starting at 9:30), that fortunately empties out into an equally cozy patio that feels like one of those postage stamp-sized parcels affixed to a condominium for your (minimalist) barbecue and entertaining needs. Rather than feeling uncomfortably close to that table full of baseball capped college students simultaneously yammering away about how much LeBron sucks, you feel inclined toward good will and bonhomie. After all, this is somebody’s party, you’re all invited, so belly up and relax. Clustered in various convo pods nearby were boisterous Latinos, a black dude on his cell, peroxide punks, skaters, a few nervous squares, and one old hippie with an open shirt who seemed incredulous and offended that my band wasn’t going to be playing anything by the Doors.

Oh, and there’s a ping pong table if you feel up to it. Had to conserve my energy for playing the bass last night, otherwise I would have happily thrashed the house.

At the moment, owner Dustin Berkholtz is the only staff in sight, and he’s remarkably efficient. Bartender, server, cook, busboy, and restroom supply guy all rolled into one, he still manages to perform all these duties in a timely manner, never leaving a customer hanging at any of his stations. I appreciate hustle, and Berkholtz seems to be a relentless dervish of task handiness. Gotta hand it to him.

There are craft beers on tap (Ninkasi, Rogue, Sierra Nevada, Lagunitas), but they feel out of place here. Instead, $5 pitchers of PBR and Rainier (one of my favorite blue-collar brews; sturdy and reliable) flow like Type O from a freshly nipped jugular on True Blood. Eeew! Sorry, I didn’t get much sleep last night.

There are menu curiosities I didn’t get a chance to sample (steak and baked potato, $9; mac ‘n’ cheese bites $4; bowl o’ chili $3.50; jello shots $1) but I can report that the quesadilla ($5; $6 for chicken), the service, and the prices were all a-ok. Tall boys of Tecate for $2? Here’s a twenty. Keep ’em coming.

Ducketts is still a nebulous entity, a nascent hangout waiting for that one clique to claim it and plant their flag. Frankly, I hope none of them does. You’ll never learn anything drinking with the same ol’ slobs. No offense, drinking buddies.

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Tags: Happy Hour, Beer, Cheap Eats, Live

Happy Hour of the Week

Groovin’ at the Blue Monk

Posted by: John Chandler on Jun 18, 2010 at 11:00AM 4 Comments

Gambling is a fool’s errand. Intellectually, I know this to be true but sometimes the idea that I can beat the odds seizes me uncontrollably—usually with disastrous results.

I was looking over the cocktail menu at erstwhile jazz bar the Blue Monk on SE Belmont when my eyes fell upon a drink named after former Cincinnati Red great (and now disgraced degenerate gambler) Pete Rose. The drink contained vodka, Red Bull, and grenadine, a dismal proposition at best. The ingredients were followed by a challenge: if the customer can roll a 1, 2, or 3 on a six-sided dice, they are entitled to the top-shelf vodka of their choice. If they roll a 4, 5, or 6 then they must content themselves with well vodka. I was hooked.

The bartender, knowing a pigeon when he sees one, ambled over with the die and said, “Go for it, Mr. Lucky.” I rolled a 5. Bottom shelf, here I come. Pete Rose tastes like a glass of sickly sweet tonic water that came from the Dollar Store. The house always wins.

Aside from learning a bitter lesson about the evils of gambling, I happily mark down the excursion to the Blue Monk as one of my more successful Happy Hour campaigns. Happy Hour is from 5 till 7 daily (all day on Sunday), and if you’re willing to move yourself downstairs to the basement bar (they need the upstairs for the dinner crowd, I’m guessing), you are entitled to an extra 60 minutes of discounted goodness. The downstairs bar has free pool, a TV tuned to ESPN, and a stage for low-key serenades from local combos. Upstairs everything is blue and the walls are populated with several portraits of hepcat pianist Thelonious Monk (hence the name).

There is a healthy selection of food priced at $5.50 during Happy Hour, and everything ordered up by my party of miscreants and troublemakers earned a thumbs-up. I punished a zesty chicken parmesan sandwich, smothered in melted cheese and marinara, served on a robust crusty roll. Around the table, the beet salad, pasta primavera, and pesto cheese bread (pictured) were similarly praised and disappeared in a jiffy. We didn’t get around to the meatball sub, but a fellow two tables over was lustily tearing into one with grizzly bear gusto. Food-wise, the Blue Monk’s kitchen is by no means an epiphany, but it’s far better than serviceable for folks looking to offset their binge-drinking with some sustenance.

Behind the bar are a dozen worthwhile rotating taps—and as long as the brewery is from these United States, pints are a paltry $3 during Happy Hour. If you find nothing to your liking on draft there are another 50 or so offerings by the bottle ranging from good ol’ PBR to pricey monastic imports. In addition to the Pete Rose—which is more of an object lesson than a cocktail—the 20 signature drinks ($4.50 during HH) are mixed strong and tend to be on the cloying side, though the powerhouse French Connection (Bulleit bourbon and Grand Marnier shaken and served up) is recommended if, for some reason, you’re going to limit yourself to “just one.”

Since the demise of nightly jazz, the Blue Monk has a slightly subdued air, but the confident sophistication lingers in the ace food preparation and lickety-split service. And if you get bored and don’t want to roll the dice, you can speculate about the presence of a dumbwaiter in the corner. But no rides unless you like gambling—and sign a waiver.

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Tags: Live, Happy Hour, Cheap Eats

Friday on My Mind

Stuff to do in the next 72 (hours)

Posted by: John Chandler on Mar 20, 2009 at 03:11PM 3 Comments

Drunken Prayer’s Miss Audra and Morgan Geer testify about temptation.

Photo courtesy Drunken Prayer

Normally, our weekend cultural roundup is the purview of man-about-town Bart Blasengame, but he’s currently “out on assignment” as we say in the journalism biz. We’re not exactly sure where he is at the moment, but it’s undoubtedly someplace chock full of danger and intrigue. Bart, if you don’t come back, dibs on your office.

Decisions, decisions. Tonight there are a pair of dynamite shows, and your preference my boil down to your drug of choice. At Crystal Ballroom, the Brian Jonestown Massacre, possibly the most dysfunctional band on the planet, will favor the crowd with its trademark maraca-shaking hallucinatory grooves. Watch as volatile front man Anton Newcombe loses his cool over something trivial and has a hissy fit with his bandmates. For further explanation, cast your peepers on the pop documentary Dig for more of his manic moments.

Over at the Doug Fir, local hicks Drunken Prayer salute the release of a new Live EP recorded with legendary Wipers and Napalm Beach drummer Sam Henry, called, …with Sam Henry. Drunken Prayer singer Morgan Geer is like a 21st-century Elmer Gantry—a righteous and spiritual man on Sunday, but Saturday nights are reserved for whiskey, women, and other unavoidable obligations.

If you can’t abide that twangin’ gee-tar, Saturday night sees former Count Basie trumpeter Byron Stirling sitting in with the Oregon Symphony. Stirling’s jazz cred is top-notch, having blown his horn with the bands of Lionel Hampton, Dizzy Gillespie, and Louis Bellson. “Soul of New Orleans” is the name of the show, and will feature Stirling paying tribute to some of the Big Easy’s best, including Fats Waller, Louis Armstrong, and Cab “Hidey-hidey-hidey-ho” Calloway.

But enough about you and your constant need for distraction! How about giving a little something back? Down at the World Trade Center, World Water Day fun and festivities will be going on all afternoon and into the evening capped by a performance from radiant songbird Stephanie Schneiderman, one-third of melodious local trio Dirty Martini. All of the cash you cough up at this hydro-happening will go to bringing H20 to drought-stricken communities in West Africa. So c’mon already! Those wells ain’t gonna dig themselves.

Oh, and Portland Farmers Market opens this Saturday at the PSU Park Blocks. We sow the seed, nature grows the seed, it’s the circle of life, baby.

Without further ado, here’s the Easybeats with the best weekend anthem ever.

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Tags: Weekend Plans, Live