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Musical Interlude

Drinking Songs!

Got a favorite? Let’s hear it.

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Somehow my office posse got onto the subject of classic drinking songs.

Not my favorite, but I’ve always been partial to this one.

How about you drinking buddies? If you were making a mixed tape (Ha, ha, ha! He said, “tape”) or “play list” as you kids call it, on the subject of booze, beer, and drunken regrets, what would be on it?

Suggestions thus far:

“Whiskey River” by Willie Nelson
“More Beer” by Fear
“White Lightning” by George Jones

Sing out! Sing from the heart!

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Tags: music

Rock the Clubs

Go-Go Garagefest

Scion event draws a crowd

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Photo: Cammie Toloui

The trick to navigating Garagefest was planning your itinerary down to the minute.

View Slideshow » Photo: Cammie Toloui

The trick to navigating Garagefest was planning your itinerary down to the minute.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

The line at Berbati’s Pan was long all day. Soon, event staff would only let a person in if someone left the club.

View Slideshow » Photo: Cammie Toloui

Live from Scion Garagefest: The Dirtbombs took the stage with two hammering drummers, adding a thunderous backbone to their rip-roaring attack.

View Slideshow » Photo: Cammie Toloui

Live from Scion Garagefest: Many of the concertgoers I spoke with proclaimed the Dirtbombs to be the best band at the fest. I would not disagree. Guitarist-singer Mick Collins absolutely scorched from beginning to end.

View Slideshow » Photo: Cammie Toloui

Perhaps taking a cue from Monotonix, one of the Dirtbombs’ drummers moved his kit down to the floor toward the end of their set.

View Slideshow » Photo: Cammie Toloui

Trying to keep the hyperactive Mick Collins in frame was no easy task.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

For some reason, Elvis was not asked to perform at Garagefest. But he took it to the streets—even in the rain.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Live from Scion Garagefest: Kid Congo is a guitarist and bandleader who’s been a member of the Cramps, Gun Club, and the Bad Seeds. Resplendent in a cool cape, Kid Congo played a spine-tingling mix of R&B, psychedelia, and rock en espanõl.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Live from Scion Garagefest: Cute band alert! Tennessee vixens Those Darlins displayed punk moxie, house-party chutzpah, and a tuneful approach that belied their tough-chick persona.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Live from Scion Garagefest: The strangest thing about the Strange Boys, from Austin, was the front-and-center presence of a gal who didn’t sing but kept time tapping her umbrella.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

This is me and some guy named Ross. I told him he could be in the slideshow if he bought me a beer.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Live from Scion Garagefest: Goodnight Loving deserved a bigger crowd than the spotty attendance at Satyricon. The Wisconsin combo’s blend of twang, fuzz, and harmony was scintillating.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Kid Congo and his drummer get up close and personal. Nice mustache!

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

I loved Canadian combo Simply Saucer’s honest, bar-band approach to psych-pop, but I was apparently in the minority. Someday Lounge was jammed for this set.

View Slideshow » Photo: John Chandler

Memphis legend Jack Oblivion’s set at Dante’s was a great way to finish off the night. Rough and soulful like the Stones, a hard voice of authority like Springsteen or Warren Zevon.

An entire day devoted to fuzzed-out, three-chord 1960s-style bashing? Kind of. It became evident early on that Scion’s Garagefest was operating under a fairly spacious umbrella, from the Dirtbombs sweaty riff riot, to Goodnight Loving’s sweet, twangy trash, to Kid Congo’s Latin-fluenced sonic spook show.

Speaking of umbrellas, there was more than one occasion where a bumbershoot would have come in handy, as Saturday’s weather proved to be as unpredictable as the 40-odd bands playing at the four Burnside corridor venues. I got soaked waiting for the Dirtbombs, and re-soaked making a dash for a slice of pizza an hour or so later.

Honestly, I was a little leery of a corporate-sponsored fest. Besides hardcore punk and Scandinavian black metal, garage rock is probably the most snotty, anti-authoritarian musical idiom known to mankind. And I do have a complaint to register with Scion. The swag bags left a lot to be desired. Other than the earplugs, socks, and a little package of mints that I haven’t been able to open, everything else was car propaganda. On the plus side, the socks are quite comfy.

While the lines to get in to see big names like the Black Lips and Roky Erickson at Berbati’s Pan were ludicrously long, causing many to give up on the early side of Saturday night, the Satyricon and Someday Lounge were usually an easy fit, making the fest a golden opportunity to see some little-known acts, among whom were several pleasant surprises. Those Darlins, Goodnight Loving, and the Strange Boys all delivered memorable—and varied—sets.

Get a gander at our web-exclusive slideshow from Scion Garagefest and soak up the sights, sounds, and smells of a full day dedicated to no-frills, no-nonsense rock ‘n’ roll. Sadly, we failed to get pictures of the matronly prostitute who asked me for a date or the drunk guy from Florida that tried to bite me while I was waiting for a late-night burrito. I guess you had to be there. Note: You may notice a drop in quality from the early photos, shot by ace photographer Cammie Toloui, and those that follow, captured by my Sony digital. Still, I firmly believed I was a triple threat, just like Peter Parker: fighting crime, reporting, and snapping the pics.

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Tags: Slideshow, band, music

Rock the Clubs

Forever Fresh

I never knew I was a Young Fresh Fellow before.

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Young Fresh Fellows rip it up at Dante’s.

Below, From Words to Blows casts its spell.

For me, going out to a rock show means looking straight into the cruel, bottomless eye sockets of death. Yes, I know I’m being a melodramatic wuss.

See, I don’t go out much anymore. Covering the local music milieu for more than a dozen years has taken its toll on both my hearing and my patience, and these days my love of rock ‘n’ roll is mostly platonic. If I’m seeing an up-and-coming band, I am invariably the oldest duffer in the room, except for the odd parent or two. Being reminded of your dwindling vitality is a drag, and having to get jacked on Pepsi to stay alert wreaks havoc on my stomach. If I’m seeing an old standby, I’ll run into people I’ve known forever, but they’ll be out the door early because they have to get the sitter home. Or, more likely, they’ve become broken-down shells of their formerly dynamic selves. I put myself in this category. Hand me my shawl and help me into my rocking chair, won’t you, young fellow?

But a blazing set by the Young Fresh Fellows at Dante’s, part of a lethal triple-threat lineup last Saturday, was invigorating. I felt like Don friggin’ Ameche in Cocoon or something. I may even have danced, but that part could have been a dream.

It’s such a bonus to get three worthy bands at one show. Nothing kills an evening’s momentum more than having to sit through an endless set by some no-talent friends of the doorman who managed to weasel their way onto the bill. And can we agree that four bands on one bill is too many? Good.

It was a pleasure seeing From Words to Blows, the new group led by Jesse Emerson, a cool guy who’s patiently stood in the background playing bass for bands such as the Flatirons and Amelia. Now he’s got a guitar and a whole string of songs that fly out of him like subtle, puzzling pop darts that always hit their target. Still trying to come up with a decent style description. Can music be dark, pensive, and fun? Apparently. The lovely Susannah Weaver (aka Little Sue) plays bass and sweetly sings backup, and Steve Drizos from Jerry Joseph and the Jackmormons hits the drums like they owe him money. Normally the two of them would be joined by Decemberists’ keyboardist Jenny Conlee, but she’s currently on tour making loads and loads of cash.

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From Words to Blows casts its spell.

The Tripwires, fronted by Jon Ramberg, are an enviably catchy group that sound like Squeeze or Elvis Costello with just a hint of roots-rock toughness baked into the crust.

As for the headliners, if you’ve never seen the Young Fresh Fellows live, you are truly bereft. Showering the crowd with everything from loony power pop to rude riffage, and showing no signs of decrepitude after 25 years of servitude to the dark gods, this wily ensemble boasts a four-star songwriter in Scott McCaughey, who’s usually busy with his primary band the Minus 5. Bassist Jim Sangster (also a member of the Tripwires) bounces on the bottom end, pushed along by one of my favorite manic (maniac?) drummers, Tad Hutchison, who likes to tell corny jokes like, “Hey Scott! Did you hear I got laid off from my job at the orange juice factory? They said I couldn’t concentrate!” Lead guitarist Kurt Bloch is not only a primo songwriter in his own right, he can also play Queen’s “Brighton Rock” note for note. Mixing YFF staples such as “My Friend Ringo,” “Taco Wagon,” and “I Don’t Let the Little Things Get Me Down,” with zesty material off their brand-new release I Think This Is, this quartet of geezers my own age, entirely satisfied with modest achievements and a terrific repertoire of songs, relentlessly kicked ass and jumped around like grasshoppers on a griddle. It did my old baboon heart a world of good.

Hell, I’m getting the band back together! Look out world! Never mind the Metamucil!

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Tags: Night Life, band, music

Feelin' Sad

RIP Bob Bogle

Ventures guitarist passes at age 75.

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Just heard the news that Vancouver, Washington, resident Bob Bogle has passed away. Bogle played bass and guitar for Tacoma’s the Ventures, the best-known instrumental surf band in the world. They had their first hit in 1960, nearly fifty years ago, and were inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame last year. Anyone unfamiliar with Ventures’ classics like “Walk Don’t Run,” “Apache,” and “Fuzzy and Wild” should immediately sprint over to Music Millennium and stock up. Ride on, Bob. Our best thoughts to family and friends.

This cut isn’t all that surfy, but features some great interplay between Bogle on bass and drummer Mel Taylor.

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Tags: music

Lunch Music

Just Plain Folk

Are 12 Shades of Schwilly Silly the next big thing? Sure! Why not?

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Ah, the joys of communal street life in the summertime. I was just waiting for a couple of tacos at the SW Fifth and Oak food carts when this scruffy little ensemble struck up a merry drinking tune. They’re called 12 Shades of Schwilly Silly (sp?) and they’re a free-range musical collective with members from New York, Eugene, Boston, Louisiana, and wherever else they happen to land. Originally I just wanted to check out the cute girl playing the saw, but the Shades’ spicy camp stew of folk-gypsy-Tom-Waits-Pogues-Weill-pirate shanties proved totally captivating. Sal the guitarist described their music as “that feeling you have when you wake up from a great dream and realize you’ve wet the bed.” They’ll be around for a while, and their plans include a house party on Friday somewhere in Southeast. I assume they’ll be playing at it and not just soaking up the beer.

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And someone dug their sound so much that they tipped the band a pair of puppies!

Sigh. Theirs is a path I might have chosen had I not opted for four walls, three dogs, a fiancée, and crippling debt. As a middle-aged desk jockey, am I allowed to envy these rambling ragamuffins and their nomadic lifestyle? How say you, drinking buddies?

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Tags: music

Culture Calendar

Weekend Wonders

A night at the Crystal, a day at the parade, and a graceful pas de deux

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Get an eyeful of Escher at Portland Art Museum this weekend.

Courtesy of Portland Art Museum

What am I doing this weekend? Same thing I always do: Order up a half-dozen pazones and watch old episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000 till I slip into a cozy coma.

But that doesn’t mean you have to. In fact, it’s your civic duty to rise and shine on Saturday and plant yourself along SW Broadway (remember, no duct tape!) for the Rose Festival Grand Floral Parade. The fab floats, drum lines, marching bands, and assorted dignitaries waving from convertibles will get rolling at 10 a.m. sharp.

“But why aren’t you going to be there?” you may ask. “How come Bar Pilot isn’t part of the festivities, perhaps puttering across the Burnside Bridge on a float cunningly crafted to look like an enlarged liver?”

I see it’s time to share.

When I was a wee lad, my parents (bless them and keep them) made me attend each and every Rhododendron Festival Parade in Florence, Oregon, till I was old enough to escape and join the military. My twitchy brothers and I were forbidden to run off to the nearby carnival and have actual fun until the parade was absolutely over. This was a quaint, small-town (i.e., low-budget) affair: the floats, such as they were, consisted mainly of gas-guzzling Caddies and Lincolns transporting people I didn’t know down the main drag. Not so bad in itself, but the pace left much to be desired. The vehicles, drill teams, and community groups were spaced so far apart that every kid present believed the parade to be over at least thirty times before it actually wound up with the appearance of an anemic Santa Claus in the back of a jeep pelting the now-seething crowd with gumballs.

Look, all I wanted to do was go on the damn Scrambler a dozen or so times and stuff myself full of elephant ears! Is that too much to ask? Life is short, and I don’t care a fig about the local Rotarians chapter! I HATE PARADES!! LET MY PEOPLE GO!!!

OK, enough childhood trauma. On with the weekend itinerary.

FRIDAY: Sorry, the secret is out about howling country chanteuse Neko Case. No longer a figure of awkward cult adoration, the comely lass’s latest album, Middle Cyclone, made a pretty respectable dent in the charts, and she’s been turning up on the talk-show circuit. She’s a huge fan of Powell’s Books, so doing two nights at the Crystal Ballroom should enable her to expand her library. Whether she’s giving some skanky lover the big kiss-off, as on “Runnin’ Out of Fools,” or cooing a traditional number like “Wayfaring Stranger,” Case’s rafter-rattling voice is a pure, righteous instrument—and sweeter than Yoo-Hoo.

SATURDAY: After you’ve had your fill of the floral fest, hike over to Portland Art Museum for the opening of two exhibitions worth a lengthy look. Virtual Worlds: MC Escher and Paradox, will give museum mavens the chance to consider the world from the perspective(s) of the Dutch printmaker best known for his illusory globes and staircases that inspired much stoned dorm-room contemplation. And PNCA at 100 is a retrospective of works from thirty-two artists who either taught at or attended the Museum Art School (now Pacific Northwest College of Art). Feast your eyes on works by local notables including Louis Bunce, Jay Backstrand, and Sherrie Wolf.

SUNDAY: Fans of the terpsichorean arts should be out in force at Oregon Ballet Theatre’s final program of the 2008-09 season, Rush + Robbins, which includes a trio of works from legendary Broadway and Hollywood choreographer Jerome Robbins. There will also be a staging of Rush, an intimate and lovely dance from Christopher Wheeldon, a former student of Robbins.

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Tags: Art, Events, Weekend Plans, music

Rock the Clubs

Slabtown Salute

Rockin’ fundraiser brings in the bucks for a local nonprofit.

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Coco Cobra & the Killers blast the house with a roaring version of the Sonics’ tune “Cinderella.”

Photo by Della Slowik

Just a quick round of applause for all the bands that played Nuggets Tribute Night at Slabtown last Saturday night. Fans of three-chord garage rock shimmied to the likes of Coco Cobra & the Killers (pictured), featuring the incomparable Viva Las Vegas, the Foxgloves, Beyond Veronica, Purple Owsley, the Strange Effects, and the Welfare State—whose version of the Paul Revere & the Raiders hit “Just Like Me” brought the house down. The event raised $1,000 for Ethos Music Center in North Portland, a nonprofit that seeks to promote music and music-based education for youth in underserved communities. Organizer Sam Soule and the staff at Slabtown also deserve bear hugs for a smoothly run evening and for keeping the musicians hydrated with a veritable ocean of Pabst.

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Tags: band, music, viva las vegas

Pop Culture

Mystery Men

MST3K cast is coming to town for two nights of movie mayhem

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Mystery Science Theater fans rejoice! Cinematic Titanic is coming to Portland.

Photo courtesy the Glen Schwartz Company

Wow. Just wow.

This post is a little off my usual bar beat, but I just couldn’t sit on it any longer. Joel Hodgson and most of the cast of Mystery Science Theater 3000 (pictured) are coming to town at the end of this month for two live shows at the Newmark Theatre.

This may rate a “ho hum” on your “wow” scale, but for me it’s like Zeus, Bob Dylan, and the Harlem Globetrotters dropping by my condo for Little Debbie cakes.

Hodgson’s Mystery Science Theater 3000 ran on Comedy Central and the Sci-Fi Channel from 1988–1999, though Hodgson left the show in 1993. It was MST3K that introduced the concept of “riffing” on bad movies—essentially making snarky, off-the-wall comments throughout—thus making them infinitely more fun. And thanks to MST3K, the world came to know the wonder and majesty of really, really awful films that Hodgson and his co-horts rescued from some obscure Hollywood Dumpster. Now when you mention flicks like Mitchell, starring rotund tough guy Joe Don Baker, or Manos: Hands of Fate, starring … nobody you’ve ever heard of, a glimmer of joyful recognition will register on the face of 1 in 10 or so. Italian muscle-man movies, guy-in-rubber-suit epics from Japan, and excruciatingly bad drive-in fare from gloriously inept filmmakers like Ed Wood, Coleman Francis, and Al Adamson were all fair game for Hodgson and company’s rapid-fire razzberries.

I worshipped this show like a devout pilgrim, as did thousands of other die-hard fans (known as MSTies), and dutifully programmed my piece-of-crap Emerson VHS player every Saturday morning to record as many of its 199 episodes as I could. As a result, and as anyone who knows me will attest, my absolute dream job would be to sit in a dark theater hurling insults and epiphanies at Z-Grade horror and fantasy films. Hell, I’ve got over 40 years of experience!

Hodgson, and original cast members Trace Beaulieu, Frank Conniff, Mary Jo Pehl, and Josh Weinstein -(also a writer for The Simpsons)- will be here under their new moniker, Cinematic Titanic, firing puns, pop culture references, and zesty zingers at two different movies May 29–30; the kung fu blaxploitation flick East Meets Watts, and a mad-scientist stinker from the Phillipines called Danger on Tiki Island. I doubt you’ll find much info on either film from Google, as they’ve probably been renamed a bunch of times.

Stay tuned for more details as I’m hoping to snag an interview with Hodgson some time this week. Tickets are available through the PCPA box office or Ticketmaster. Meanwhile, here’s a shout out to fellow MSTies everywhere.

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Tags: Weekend Plans, music

Rock the Clubs

Holy Cow! It’s Sleepy LaBeef!

Rockabilly legend hits Dante’s next Tuesday.

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The man, the monster, the music

Damn, I knew this was coming up, but I completely spaced the fact that this show is one week from tonight! Seventy-three-year-old Sleepy LaBeef, the six-foot-seven country and rockabilly singer from Smackover, Arkansas, will be at Dante’s, April 14. Not only has this big man with a booming voice been recording for more than 50 years, he knows thousands of songs, and once played a swamp monster in the 1968 horror-musical film The Exotic Ones.

In the words of Elvis biographer Peter Guralnick, “Over the years I’ve seen countless performances by Sleepy LaBeef. Whether it’s opening a big air open concert for Willie Nelson, playing an out-of-the-way New Hampshire roadhouse, headlining at a punk club or a European rockabilly festival, or making one of his regular stops along the endless road, Sleepy never fails to satisfy. Rearing back into his well-publicized knowledge of over six thousand songs, Sleepy moves easily from country to blues to rock ‘n’ roll, gospel, Cajun, or rhythm and blues: uniting them all under the all-encompassing definition rockabilly—which to Sleepy represents nothing less than freedom.”

Do not miss this man.

Take It Away Sleepy!

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Tags: music, Elvis

Drink Locally

Say Again?

Yo, barkeep! Give Ted Nugent the night off!

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Attention bartenders and bar managers: on behalf of everyone in the known universe, I’d like to respectfully request that you turn your music down to a conversational level.

Last night I was working my way through a pint of Hopworks Lager at Gold Dust Meridian, when it occurred to me that I was losing every other word spoken to me by my friend Anne Marie (happy birthday!). Normally, I just shrug, smile, and continue to nod my head emphatically at the appropriate dialogue gaps. See, my hearing isn’t the greatest under optimal conditions. I’ve been playing bass in bar bands for more than 20 years, and this stratagem has resulted in about a 15 percent hearing loss. Not only that, I still listen to heavy metal and punk on a daily basis. Fine. You make your choices and you live with them. Curse you, Celtic Frost!

However, Anne Marie was having trouble hearing me, too. As far as I know, her hearing is flawless. So why were we both shouting?

Because the bartender (or other authority figure in the back) was blasting the tunes. On a Monday night. I don’t know if it was the bar iPod or the jukebox, but it was effin’ cranked to eleven! And this isn’t the first time my “relaxing” evening out has been hijacked by some employee’s infinite playlist.

I understand that music adds to a convivial atmosphere and general sense of merriment that induces the clientele to roister just a a little bit harder, to perhaps throw caution to the wind and order another sazerac. On a Monday night.

However, if listening to music was my ultimate goal, I would be at a venue where rawkin’ out was the primary attraction. I would be at the Roseland having my eardrums obliterated by Motorhead, or whatever ensemble happened to be in town that night. But when I go to a neighborhood watering hole for a beer (on a Monday night), my mission is to share pleasantries with my pals. Vent. Unwind. Palaver. Shoot the bull. That sort of thing. This can be difficult to do when the bartender is going through an ironic Journey phase.

At this point, feel free to make disparaging comments about my advanced years. “Just turn down your hearing aid,” or “Don’t bring your ear trumpet to the bar with you, Grampa,” are both excellent. But I know the difference between loud music and LOUD MUSIC. This same situation came up at the Sway Bar a few weeks ago as well. Hardly anyone in the place, and the bartender (or other authority figure in the back) is laboring under the illusion that what a table full of chatty customers wants, more than another Makers and soda, more than free beer nuts, is to be introduced to the sonic wonders of Shellac or Slipknot, to the point where an amiable exchange between comrades becomes an aural impossibility. Our party of eight ended up walking down the street to the Morrison Hotel where we weren’t being pummeled by somebody’s “extreme” musical tastes.

OK, give me some feedback here. Am I being unreasonable? It wouldn’t be the first time. I was an alternate on the 1996 Olympic unreasonable team. When I get a bee in my bonnet, I’m worse than Andy Rooney after his third Red Bull. Should I simply take my business elsewhere? Or can I use this blog to make a braying ass out of myself the way God and Al Gore intended?

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Tags: music, Bar Culture

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