January 31, 2005
Jan. 26 Hangar 18/OneBelo show; Opinion #2
HUSTICIOUS:
I was terrified at the start of this show that it was going to be the saddest hiphop performance of my short life. Ice Gorilla and I walked into Berbati's at 10:30 to find a crowd of approximately eight people milling around in the corners. Aware that the culture of hiphop demands that the performers "get the party started" through a combination of audience shout-backs and arm raises, I couldn't imagine anything sadder (except perhaps for 150,000 innocents killed in a terrible natural disaster) than a rapper struggling to get a tiny, bedraggled group of white Portland hipsters to shake their groove thangs. Upon mounting the stage, OneBelo promptly informed us that he had just had his nice coat stolen out of his car, which also happened to have his wallet in it. He made a funny joke about how if he was in his hometown of Detroit he would've been wearing the jacket because of the ass-cold climate, but you could still tell he was really down and out. On top of it all, he sounded deathly ill. The odds were, to say the least, stacked against this show.
To my delighted surprise however, OneBelo bounced back and threw down a great performance. He's a talented rapper with witty lyrics about the disparity between mainstream and underground rap, and then some weird, funny stuff like his riff on falling in love with an extraterrestrial. The beats had little flair and seemed designed to be simply rhythm sections for the words, though my brother swears that on OneBelo's records as his other persona OneManArmy and also with his group Binary Star, the beats are "hella tight." The mellow beats were fitting on this night anyway, though, as OneBelo was definitely low energy, but he seemed pensive and focused, and it was fascinating just hearing his thoughts on things. The audience was quiet but animated and engaged, and as the show went on, more people arrived until by the end, there was actually a respectable and extremely appreciative crowd in attendance. Relatively speaking (as in, the ratio of how good the show was to what the performer had to overcome), OneBelo was stunning.
Then Hangar 18 hit the stage, a crew that I felt like everyone was skeptical about. Ice Gorilla claimed their beats are "from what I've heard, weird and experimental" and the Mercury gave them a rather cynical writeup that I guess they read aloud later in the show (after I'd left, reluctantly). Word on the street was that OneBelo was going to steal the show, and he certainly could have had Hangar 18 not been so AWESOME. This was the one of the stranger assortments of hiphop artists I've seen: a big, fat white guy with a goatee (name: Alaska), a super preppy black dude in jeans and a wool sweater (name: WindnBreeze; Yipes.), and the most unlikely hiphop DJ imaginable, a short, squat white guy with this Burning Man-style chin beard (name unknown). And together, they completely lit the place on fire. Alaska is an amazing rapper, spitting rapid-fire lyrics with amazing speed and precision. He could have been rapping alone, with no supporting help or beats, and he would have dominated. But the weird DJ and WindnBreeze (God, I can't get over how lame that name is) fleshed things out nicely. WindnBreeze was a less stellar rapper--when things got fast he just shouted jibberish in a rap-like manner--but he had great stage presence and humor. He's the party starter in the group. And the Burning Man DJ was off the hook; I'm not an expert so maybe he was doing what they all do, but I couldn't take my eyes off him--he scratched and flipped with the smoothness of a machine, as if the turntables were an organic part of his body and mind. I've never heard Hangar 18's albums but their live performance is truly impressive, and it seemed like the songs were well-written and arranged, too, and not just fluff with a charismatic delivery.
ICE GORILLA:
The second half of the recent Hangar 18 show at Berbati’s was as shocking, or more, as the first. I had expected prog-rap emcees drably flowing over electronic garbage dumps of beats courtesy of the increasingly annoying El-P. What I got was two good-natured, extremely talented emcees happy to be enthusiastically ripping mics in front of a crowd of maybe 40 people.
Near the end of the show, Alaska whipped out a recent issue of the Portland Mercury and read quotes condemning the group and their fans as “lifeless” rappers and their fans as “robots.” Incredulously, the paper claimed that the group was “wik wik wack” (in the words of Rakim) because of their inability to “move the crowd.” If anything happened on Wednesday night at Berbati’s, it was that the crowd got itself a movin’ and a shakin’.
Nothing seemed robotic or lifeless about the damn good time Hangar 18 was having on stage, tiny crowd or not. At one point when an overzealous fan stole a Hangar 18 beer coozie, intended for giveaway, from the stage, Windnbreeze directed the crowd in a group-booing of the offender. Minutes later, all was forgiven when Alaska, a portly white guy, chicken-walked across the stage in response to the same fan's fervored dancing.
As the final song was cued and the hard rocking steel of a Guns ‘n’ Roses sample poured from the speakers, Windnbreeze said, “it’s a little different than the album, but it’s a hell of a lot more fun live,” and tore into “Where We At.” It highlighted the message of the whole show: whatever Hangar 18 sounds like on CD, in concert they’re just down to have a good time.
Drinks Drunk:
Husticious: 1 bottle PBR
Ice Gorilla: 2 bottles PBR
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Posted by H & IG at 01:22 PM | Comments (0)
January 28, 2005
Hangar 18, OneBeLo / Majestik Legend at Berbati's Pan, Portland OR, Wednesday, Jan. 26
My friend Javan is from Ann Arbor, MI, as are my three other friends Steve, Andrew, and Mark (another one). They also all went to high school together, which is kind of weird given that they all now live in Portland, OR, but such is the strong connection between these two lefty playgrounds.
Lately, Javan has been saying how we need to go to more hip hop shows, so when I saw this one at Berbati's I was already thinking of him. Then I noticed that openers, Majestik Legend and OnBeLo (AK One Man Army) are both on Ann Arbor-based Subterraneous Records (named in reference to their invented slang term for Michigan : "Water World"), and the deal was sealed.
I mentioned OneBeLo to Javan, and he recognized the name from Binary Star, apparently one of the bigger underground-type rap groups in Michigan. Javan said when he lived there these dudes were merciless performers, gigging any house party or stage they could get on, often multiple times a week, oftentimes donning an oven mitt as a sign of regional pride (Michigan is shaped like a glove). The result of all this was semi-legendary status state-wide (I think).
So I went. Javan did too, but only after breaking the holy "bro's before ho's" maxim, forgetting about the show, and going out with his new lady friend for pasta. Turns out OneBeLo and Majestik Legend were performing together, with the latter mostly performing DJ-duties, which mostly consisted of pressing play on a CD player. They were great. OneBeLo has a great flow, able to stop and turn a phrase on a dime, changing up rhythms with perfect timing. The subject matter was mostly braggadocio, except for one song equating love with extraterrestrial contact, and another about media propaganda (or something). The alien lover song was my favorite of the night, both for the clever metaphorical device and the beat, which reminded me of Souls of Mischief's classic "93 Till Infinity". The rest of the beats didn't match this one, and some of them fell into the bin marked "generic underground".
I had no idea what to expect from Hangar 18. They're on Def Jux which is a label I know people freak out about, but I haven't really followed. They weren't what I think of as Def Jux sounding. They had two MCs named Winterbreeze and Alaska, so right off the bat you know it's going to be a little less "manly" than the Michi-rap. Both of these dudes were dorky in the extreme, and slightly effeminate. Maybe they weren't really effeminate, but in a genre as gender-loaded as hip hop, the occasional girly giggle stands way out (yeah, rock is loaded too, but we'll leave that for now). Being an un-macho myself, I did my best to put aside whatever lame preconceptions might keep me from embracing my own, and focus on how much fun everyone was having.
Stylistically, Hangar 18 reminds me of the Beastie Boys, or maybe their little cousin, Ugly Ducking. If you hate the Beastie Boys, you'll hate these guys; if you love them, you won't. I'm somewhere in between, and that's pretty much how I felt about their set.
Unfortunately, the rest of my Michigan crew showed up right after the Michi-rap and just in time for Hangar 18. This was really their own damn fault for showing up at 11:30 on a weekday for a two-act bill. Some of them were pissed, and some didn't care.
Drunks drunk: 3 beers (brand names withheld/forgotten), I think.
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Posted by TRMW at 01:06 PM | Comments (0)
January 25, 2005
The Classical Mystery Tour, Arlene Schnitzer Hall, January 24th
Oh my God, oh my god. I'm free! Free from editing! Free to express my hyper-wordy soliloquies and scatter grammar! Free to use nine too many exclamation points per entry and most of all... free to write about artists that have already been written about or that DON'T have some new release out that everybody is shitting themselves over. Thank you Team Tinnitus for pulling me into the world of unpaid and lightly read blogging! Okay, enough of that. I'm just so excited to write about the one thing I love doing, and finally it has a purpose for humanity: drinking, showing, and blowing.
Anyway, so last night I saw The Beatles. Yup, every single one of them was there, even the dead ones and best of all they were backed by the masterly Oregon Symphony. Okay, so maybe they weren't the Beatles and they had fake British accents but MAN, I've never seen such a worthy cover band in my life, which is probably why they are being paid upwards of a grand each a night. Not only did they produce a sound that mimicked the best band in rock history but they looked like The Beatles too (facial structure and all), which is just bordering on mind-blow territory. Richard Harrison was acting all shy and slightly turning away from mic, while McCartney held his guitar at exactly the right height and his hair flopped from side to side exactly like the old footage, the only thing I had to hold on to until now. Luckily, being seated in the upper-upper balcony (but tickets were still more than a Modest Mouse show) in conjunction with the ensemble's ephemeral Beatles' era costume and wig changes was enough to tether me to reality land. They went from tight black suits to Sgt. Pepper uniforms, to mature-solo get-ups in pace with the music they were covering.
The first set was much more enjoyable than the second, the highlight being "Eleanor Rigby" and "Hard Day's Night". After intermission, too much Paul McCartney solo snooze territory was covered and the man who was "playing his part" probably had the least convincing vocals of them all due to his generous use of vibrato. Lennon however, was uncomfortably close to his incarnate, even in his speaking. Imagine dedicating your entire life and being to being someone else so much to the point where it became reality. The second set was more than redeemed with a beautiful orchestral rendition of "Imagine". Of course, after two standing ovations and one left to go, the closing "Twist and Shout" encouraged the asses of the entire Oregon Symphony out of their seats in a genuine attempt to twist about and take advantage of the only opportunity to do the Watusi on the Arlene Schnitzer stage... except this one cellist, he wasn't having that shit.
Drinks: 2 Stoli-Sodas 1 Stoli-Tonic --------
Posted by at 03:39 PM | Comments (0)
January 24, 2005
Three Strikes and you're RTX
RTX
Saturday, January 22
Doug Fir--Portland, OR
It’s twenty-minutes after the scheduled start time for RTX and the only thing keeping me sane is the hope that maybe, just maybe, lead singer Jennifer Herrema is living up to her reputation, dropping soup ladels of heroin into her arm.
The events leading up to a show can ruin a concert even more than a bad band. This is especially true when I go by myself. Saturday at the Doug Fir three things bummed me out before a note was played, then RTX stepped under the lights and made it worse.
If you missed out, Royal Trux totally nailed it in the 90s. One of the few bands that was as good as advertised, with an urban legend to back em up. The strung-out Stones vibe of the band’s 10 releases ranged from chaotic noise to rusty blues stompers all fed through a syringe full of smack. Herrema and Neil Haggerty were Generation X’s Jagger/Richards, both with a Keith-sized drug habit.
I was excited to hear that the Herrema put her wheels in motion recently as RTX. I expected she’d be a dim-light version of the original recipe, but I had to find out for myself.
STRIKE ONE:
Virtually overnight, Doug Fir devolved to a meat market. Scattered outside the log cabin, clean cut dudes, virtually all in starched white gelato salesmen shirts, scouted for chicks. Inside, the smell of perfume and hair gel was like inhaling airplane glue. Was someone taping an episode of Blind Date tonight?
STRIKE TWO:
The Fir is the most reliable venue in town, their shows usually go military precise. Half an hour after Blitzen Trapper finished their set, RTX’s roadie accomplished little more than reorganizing cables on the stage. The rock star treatment lasted another ten minutes before anyone from the band popped out to set up. And possibly another twenty before the show actually began.
SRIKE THREE:
I knew I was in for it when the guitarist set his gear up. Dressed in a medieval cloak of sorts, he tuned up a guitar Rikki Rocket would have been embarrassed to play. Glossy and spiked at odd angles, it looked like a deformed Christmas Star. But I knew what it really was: guitar you find in the back pages of Musician’s Friend-- a heavy metal guitar.
Then a stick of black metal dynamite went off on stage. This KISS reject axe turned out to be his back-up. His primary instrument was an official Dimebag Darrel, Pantera sponsored, Dean ML. The metalest guitar of them all.
A lid screwed onto my worries momentarily when Herrema, stumbling drunk and juggling a PBR, cigarette and mic, slumped onto the stage in a swirl of curse words. Junkie-thin with mayonnaise white thickets of hair, she is the woman Courtney Love always dreamed of becoming.
Finally, I think, the smack-blues siren is here and my day is saved. Unfortunately, her band started playing.
Further proving my theory that this night was a waste—Herrema apparently joined DIO. She traded in rusty switchblade blues for manicured fingernail metal riffs and seemed pleased, or drunk, with the results.
Disappointed, I left halfway through the set. Sometimes you just can’t rescue an evening, especially when someone you once respected turns to the dark forces of metal.
Drinks: two beers.
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Posted by Pat at 09:47 PM | Comments (0)
January 23, 2005
French Kicks at Doug Fir, Jan 20
Even though this French Kicks show received significant coverage from the major Portland media outlets (okay, the Mercury and the Willy Week, but really, what else is there?), I still managed to walk into it without ever having heard the band in my life. That's actually an experience I quite enjoy; it's like going to a movie without reading any reviews or having seen a preview, or even knowing who's starring in it. It's refreshing to have an open slate of perception, with no preconceived notions.
I was sick and my throat and face felt like they'd been run over by a truck, so I wasn't expecting to have the best of times. My date promised that the Kicks would put on a fun show that I would enjoy whether I enjoyed the music or not, but I found them to be pretty mellow, which fortunately fit the mood I was in. I guess they used to be more hardcore, post-punk, experimental, jump-around whatever, but they seem to have become more reserved, with catchy, melodic songs that are often even kind of beautiful. The lead singer--I think his name's Matt--is one sexy mofo, with this intense stare that he focused on the audience like a laser beam. He reminded me of The Band's Richard Manuel in their concert film "The Last Waltz," only way better looking and without a nasty beard and teeth. But he definitely seemed equally coked up; he kept "making love to the mike" and reaching to the crowd like he wanted to pull us into his wonderful drugged-out love zone. He also introduced the guitarist Josh Wise at least 6 times, which might have been a joke but I don't think was. He's a charismatic guy, though, and his smooth singing appealed to me, even if the songs all kind of ran together after a while. The band's best effort were actually their covers, (Fleetwood Mac and something else I liked that I can't remember) though those may also just have been the ones I recognized, and thus "got them." Punctuating everything were the scraggly drummer's cool beats, which were simultaneously off-kilter and militaristic, like a marching cadence. The Doug Fir's lighting was majestic and layered, like a sunset in a western, which combined with the hypnotically irregular percussion and buttery vocals made everything very dreamy. The more I drank the heavier my head and face felt with the sludge of illness, and the music did nothing to pull me from my top-heavy stupor, but that wasn't such a bad thing. No, not a bad thing at all.
Drinks drunk: 2 glasses of red wine, Makers on the rocks, two beers
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Posted by H & IG at 01:01 AM | Comments (0)
January 18, 2005
Telegraph Benefit at Holocene — Jan. 13
Okay, so I'm a bit late writing about this show, but I just got the sweet Blogger.com evite to finally work, and I'm STOKED to actually, finally write on a blog, so I'm just going to write about the most recent show I've seen, which was last Thursday. You see, I'm too goddamn lazy to create a blog myself, but have had multiple people offer to a.) create one for me, or b.) let me post on one already existing. But like a dark virus eating at my heart, those people have, one by one, not come through. And with each missed opportunity, the yearning to be a real, bona fide blogger has grown inside me. THANK YOU The Real Matt Wright and Mark Baumgarten for being kind and true, and not pulling me along like an ass to the proverbial carrot, and not yanking the carrot away at the last minute and sticking it up my ass. THANK YOU! GOD BLESS YOU!
So what do I do? Ah yes, the show, the show... As the title indicates, this was a benefit at Holocene for the new nonprofit arts group TELEGRAPH. I went to school at Lewis and Clark with the people behind this group (and also with The Real Matt Wright; Go Pios!), so I'm a little biased, but I think it sounds like a pretty cool thing. They're basically trying to connect artists on a whole new level, offering tons of events like one-minute film fests and this upcoming show called CHROMA (see www.telegrapharts.org for more info) that are specifically designed to bring artists of different mediums together. They're also going to put together this huge artist database where you'll be able to find tons of artists/musicians/filmmakers/anything else artistic and get in touch with them to collaborate, to get advice, or to invite them to your sex party. So yeah: Cool. Keep your eyes out for them in the near future.
And the show was really sweet, too. Again, I'm friends with a lot of these people, but pretty much all of them are genuinely good. The headliners Adelaide are this stunningly gorgeous instrumental group that combine laptop-fueled beats with live instrumentation. The music is hauntingly beautiful, but what takes the group to the next level are their backdrop film projections put together by one of this town's hidden filmmaker gems Ryan Jeffery. The first time I saw them I barely noticed the film footage, but the more I've gone to their shows, the more I've noticed the carefully crafted interplay between the songs and the projections, and it's really something to see. Like all the great bands, Adelaide is a group that gets more interesting every time you hear them/see them. They're going on this pretty huge nationwide tour in late Spring, and I predict will have a pretty strong following by the time they get home again.
Other highlights were Cadence, a three-piece composed of Will Helfrich singing and playing keyboard and guitar, Lisa Bogan (the mother of his children) on drums, and Adam Porterfield (also of Adelaide) on bass. I've been a Helfrich fan for years; the dude has no idea how good his voice is and how far it could take him if he ever got the time to really hone it. He's a great lyrical songwriter, too, and it was nice to hear his songs fleshed out by the drum n' bass. His girlfriend POUNDS those drums.
Then there's John Weinland, who's another singer/songwriter that has benefited from a full band. Weinland writes catchy, beautiful little tunes that are reminiscent of Nick Drake and His Master Elliott Smith. I've seen him before and enjoyed, but on this night the band had jelled like never before, and had added a terrific keyboardist. It wasn't anything to dance to, but it was just really pleasant to listen to. Weinland has some songs that could be bona fide hits Iron and Wine style, but it's a matter of time I reckon.
In between there was some weird ambient stuff from the Matt Marble and the Portland Vampires. Marble I couldn't see very well because I was too busy drinking and talking, but he seemed to be doing something with discmans to produce kind of chirpy electronic noise. The Portland Vampires were a tagteam guy/girl, the guy playing SUPER slow guitar and the gal emitting creepy wails. Again, I was very busy drinking and talking. It was a good night in that regard; I had two people buy me drinks unsolicited and a girl so drunk she could hardly stand pushed her boobs against me.
Drinks Drunk: 4 Pints of Black Butte Porter
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Posted by H & IG at 01:37 AM | Comments (0)
January 14, 2005
Karaoke From Hell at Dante's in Portland, OR, Monday, Jan. 10
First off I would like to dispel any notion that a karaoke night does not belong in a live show reviews blog by stating that it's very likely that the best performance in any club in this city on this night took place on Dante's stage. Backed by the not-quite-erudite, but impressive nonetheless, Karaoke from Hell band a woman with buzzed hair took the stage and nailed "Barracuda." Now, when I say "nailed" I don't mean that she just got all the words right and stayed in key--which is the definition used when I proclaimed that the Real Matt Wright and I "nailed" "Don't You Want Me" by Human League in Minneapolis a couple months ago. No, for three minutes this woman appeared to be the missing third Wilson sister that would have given Heart the power to conquer the world. Every inflection was there, every minute pause, and yet, she wasn't aping a performance by Heart. She was performing as Heart. It was the type of performance that makes you believe in things like American Idol. If I were Simon Cowell, she would be going to Hollywood, and I would be going home to wax my chest and read GQ.
...and then there was the rest of us. Excited by the attendance of our buddy Michaelangelo Matos from Seattle--who had a reading earlier in the day at Powell's Bookstore--we were all eager to get our lips against a mic and a bottle. Unfortunately, the place was packed and karaoke opportunities were far between, but Matos was able to sneak in two songs, including a steamy rendition of Elvis Costello's "Watching the Detectives" and an incendiary performance of "Love is the Drug" by Roxy Music. He quickly had a sweaty throng of dancers at his feet and proceeded to freak the fuck out, in a very good way (see photo).
Matt and I managed to get on stage for "Don't You Want Me,"--which is now officially "our song" in a completely hetero sense--and while I can not be objective, all indications were that we did Human League justice, which, I realize, is not hard to do.
A fitting cap to the evening came with our friend Lily's performance of "Lola," a tour de force effort that had the MC, and backup singer Tres Shannon imploring the band to play the outro for an extra minute just so every one of us in the audience, our necks stretched upward like hungry chicks, could shout out the last remnants of our voices.
Drinks Drunk: 1 shot of jag, 3 whiskeys, 6 beers
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Posted by at 05:37 PM | Comments (0)
Mirah, Tricrotic, The Blow, Rigamortis at Nocturnal, Portland OR, Thursday, Jan. 13th
It's a freezing-ass night in Portland, and I just got back from seeing Mirah at Nocturnal, a brightly-colored all ages on top / 21+ below nightclub on East Burnside. The last time I saw her was at the PDX Pop Now! festival, at the Meow Meow last summer. I was one of the organizers of that event, and I remember her set distinctly, a sweaty and still oasis in the midst of an exciting, panicky weekend. This oasis might have had something to do with drinking beer in the green room with my co-blogger immediately before the set, but I digress.
On that day she was accompanied by a full band, complete with drums, strings, the works. Tonight she was alone, just her and a guitar, sometimes a piccolo. No matter: what makes Mirah Mirah is that voice. Clear as a bell, with this gorgeous, resonate midrange. Which I suppose could also describe the sound of a nice acoustic guitar, which might explain the perfectly unified sound they make together.
Her music fits like that. The words cut deep, squaring life and death and the small enormity in between. Small enormity; that's what I heard tonight. Her lyrics are short and sharp; stark wisdom delivered in lucid tones, over pretty, stark guitar lines, the arrangement also stark, pretty. These simple, perfect parts make room for silence, and nudge towards infinity.
But that's a lot of words and the three that kept coming to mind throughout this show and the last are enough: such beautiful music.
Drinks drunk: 2 Pabst
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Posted by TRMW at 01:49 AM | Comments (0)
January 07, 2005
The Divorce, The Carolines and Climber at Berbati's Pan, Portland OR, Friday, Jan. 7
Some nights you feel like Digital Underground, some nights you feel like a random assortment of struggling young Pac Northwest pop bands. Tonight was the latter, so I skipped on the DU and headed to Berbati's to be washed in melodramatic guitar rock from the Divorce and the Carolines.
The place was surprisingly packed with a lot of beautiful women and ugly guys (local boy pop=low level groupies, and guys attempting to catch from the spillover). The Carolines sounded like my band would have sounded in high school, if I would have had a band. The guys are young and have a lot of fun, but the songs aren't quite there. AC/DC licks and Robert Smith vocals. They do have some moments, including sparse and penetrating trumpet parts, played by the otherwise prepubescent guitarist with mutton chops. Thank god the trumpet is acceptable in the rock community now, shedding all those bad ska vibes its been carrying for far too long.
Most of the women left after the Carolines, which I was surprised at, considering the high cheek bones and dramatic name carried by the headliner, the Divorce. These guys--from Seattle--had some moments, but all the overt sentimentality and glaring frontlighting were a bit too much, as well as the fact that the leadsinger had a synth which he barely every played, opting instead to play superficial guitar parts completely overshadowed by the lead guitarist (and rightfully so). Whether a band has a synthesizer or not isn't crucial to their quality, but if you've got a keyboard on stage, in front of you, play it. Leave the guitar parts to the guitarist. You must rock out on the keyboards and make me believe in you.
I didn't believe in the Divorce, which is pretty much what I told the lead singer when I ran into him at Magic Gardens later that night. I'm surprised he didn't slug me.
Drinks drunk: 2 glasses of wine, 1 shot of jag, 4 beers, 2 whiskey on the rocks
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Posted by at 06:01 PM | Comments (0)