John Darnielle was in a good mood last night. Maybe it was the vegetarian platter he ate for dinner at Queen of Sheba (I was star-struck on the way to the bathroom when I ran across him eating, alone, at the MLK Blvd. Ethiopian joint), but I’ve never seen the Mountain Goats frontman so chatty. He lectured, in his breathless, endearingly geeky style, about the prophet Jonah, the psychological phenomenon of confabulation, the romantic tragedy of Mario Brothers and his realization that the city of Portland, where he spent a year of youthful dissipation, is not out to kill him. More on that later.

These days it really makes sense to call Darnielle, who recorded and performed solo under the Mountain Goats bandle for years, a frontman. The band has now expanded, at least for this tour, to include a fourth member, axman Perry Owen Wright. This formulation of the group is most definitely a rock band, and the show boasted new, loud arrangements of “Handball,” “Against Pollution” and “See America Right.” (check out the whole setlist at the forums).

Darnielle still takes a solo break in the middle of the show, allowing for a nice blend of his old arrangements and new, full-band material. During the solo stretch last night he described the experience of returning to the apartment building on Northeast Broadway where he lived the terrible year that he describes on We Shall All Be Healed. It’s a brick apartment building near the intersection with Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd., with one of those clunky call phones at the front door, which Darnielle stared at until a woman walked out, and he walked in. “I found a door I left a scuff mark on when I lived there,” he said. “The mark was still there.” That experience became a song on the new album, “Genesis 3:23.”

By the end of the show, which included a larger-than-usual quantity of biblical imagery, Darnielle was pacing the lip of the stage, reaching out to touch fans, singing through an ecstatic grin. He’s become a sort of preacher of self-revival, unaffected, unselfconscious, apparently reluctantly agnostic. His Gospel consists of rock ‘n’ roll and poetry and no small amount of actual Gospel, and he sells it with inspired fervor. You want holy spirit? The Mountain Goats are possessed.

A word about the opener: In Wednesday’s paper, I described Final Fantasy as “cheery electropop.” This is an inadequate label, drawn from a cursory listening to Owen Pallett’s MySpace tracks. The band’s (it has 1.5 members) live show involves an impressive layering of bloopy keys, tapped drums and violin trills over Pallett’s airy tenor voice. It’s a complex, often dissonant sound, not really my thing but impressive nonetheless. Pallett coaxes a surprisingly broad atmospheric range out of his fiddle, from echoey thrumming and electric rain to big bass thumps and shrieking moans. Some of the tunes were quite beautiful.

John Darnielle with Owen Pallett in Seattle last weekend:

The Mountain Goats + Final Fantasy from CakeIn15 on Vimeo.

Links:
The Mountain GoatSpace
Final FantasySpace

Photo courtesy of the Mountain Goats

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Club Akab—Rome, Italy 11.03.09

I had forgotten how good it feels to smoke a cigarette in a club. These Romans are used to it and I envy them. They’re over-dressed, wearing $500 spectacles and looking healthier than ever.

Acting Italian before they even arrive, Glass Candy is running a bit late. The dinner hour extends into the double-digits here, even on a dreary fall Tuesday. I arrive at 11 expecting to be greeted by the magnetic trance of openers Desire, but I’m met by two bouncers and the following loosely translated line: “Yeah, there’s a guest list, but we won’t even look at it until 11:30 or so.”

Jump ahead an hour. Club Akab’s dingy exterior gives way to a sparse but polished interior. Neon lights provide the little illumination around and the layout is a bit like Berbati’s. Two bartenders man the watering hole, one collecting strange green drink tickets, the other pouring Pilsner from a Peroni tap.

The crowd grows steadily during Desire’s speedy set. Glass Candy’s Johnny Jewel is at the electronic helm, testing the venue’s electrical grid with heavy-handed synthesizer bass lines and a laser battle’s worth of effects. A human-activated drum kit adds some muscle, though the softness of the vocals keep Desire somewhat cagy. I wait for a one-liner about the fitting record label the two bands share (Italians Do It Better), but to no avail. People are contemplating a dance move or two, but such actions are still only thoughts.

And then Glass Candy arrives. While Johnny tinkers with the keys to the tune of the house music blaring in the background, vocalist Ida No goes through an extensive series of stretches. Like athletes before a game, the two appear to be submitting to ritual. The crowd has found their Italian heroine in the form No, her long black hair and nonchalance settling in naturally.

Pouring out the hits, the once Portland band plays a vibrant set smartly catered to Europe’s love of dance and disco. The crowd is small and cramped, perfect subjects for a round of punches in the form of “Rolling Down The Hills”—the band’s party starting, horn adoring track – and “Geto Boys,” their crackly, swinging number full of universal hoots and hollers, perfect for cracking the language barrier.

During the always uplifting “Candy Castle,” I can’t help but shadowbox. It’s the soundtrack to the last level of your favorite childhood video game in which you’re pitted against the baddest boss 16 bits of graphics can create. By “Beat’s Alive,” their fuzzy, spacey jam that showcases No’s tender, encouraging, kid-like vocals, the Romans are looking for places to set their drinks. A rousing version of “Animal Imagination,” with its disco percussion and steady build unofficially brings the house down.

It becomes official seconds later when the club’s power shorts for the third time in as many songs. Johnny holds up his arms and shrugs as Ida prances laterally on stage to create a distraction. Like the confused Germans who walked out just as fast as they walked in to the club before the music even started, I think the people at Akab had no idea what to expect, what to prep for.

When Glass Candy comes to a town near you, conserve electricity. They need it more than you do. And you need them more than anything.

Photos by Mark Stock

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Standout tunes were the sad, delicate “Laughing With” and the eerie, seemingly 1984-inspired “Machine,” where Spektor darkly chants “I am part of a composite/hooked into machine.” But it wasn’t all doom and gloom: Spektor’s humor shone through in an a capella song about plaid and polka dot eyeballs (”Silly Eye-Color Generalizations”), singing brassily into a single mic like a 1920s torch singer in an underground speakeasy, and she whipped the adoring crowd into a rollicking, hand-clapping, foot-stomping frenzy with her last self-proclaimed “country song,” entitled “Love, You’re a Whore.”

Link:
Regina SpektorSpace

Photo courtesy of Regina Spektor

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You seemed totally startled at the fanatical devotion the crowd at Berbati’s Pan poured at you on Friday. Why was that? You are, after all, you—and this is, after all, Portland.

Seriously, have you been here before? Have you gone for a drink and some Tetris at our barcade? The one next door to our schmancy Japanese toy store, kitty-corner to our “record store of comic shops.” and around the corner from the hip coffeehouse with a backroom entirely composed of people playing World of Warcraft and Left4Dead? This is Portland, otherwise known as Geektopia USA. There was a year where the billboard you could see out the window from Backspace ran nothing but ads for your TV alma mater Adult Swim. We’d love you for your roles in Aqua Teen Hunger Force and Sealab 2020 even if you didn’t write surprisingly clever hip-hop about the nuggets of pop culture we’re devoted to.

Oh yeah, and when you did your last West Coast tour? You totally skipped us. Some of us had to drive to Eugene for our Chris fix. We may forgive, Chris, but we are geeks—our memories for meaningless minutiae are the stuff of legend.

But forgive you we did…as you clearly noticed three songs into your set when we started chanting your name as though it was already time for an encore. And then people in the crowd kept vying for your attention and you had to keep making fun of them for it. (My personal favorite was when that dude requested “Fett’s Vette,” and you exclaimed, “Yes, I’m going to play my hit! Settle down, retard!” That was quality.)

I hope we didn’t go too far with it all. For a while there you seemed like you were just enjoying it—like when you said there’s usually only about five good gigs in any of your four month tours, and that this was looking like one of them—but after a certain point you seemed to be getting kind of weirded out. But it was pretty flattering when you came out for your encore and had them turn up the house lights so you could film us with your iPhone.

So next time, please don’t just drive right past and play Eugene instead. We have weed here too, you know. Didn’t you see the clouds of it rising off certain portions of the crowd?

Link:
MC ChrisSpace

Photo by Brandon Seifert

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That declaration is backed up by Vapours, Islands’ third disc. A gorgeous collection of songs, Vapours features instantly danceable tracks like album and set opener “Switched On,” lead single “No You Don’t” (one of my favorite tracks of the year) and the Elvis Costello stomp of the title track. There’s quieter moments, too, like the near ballad “On Foreigner,” which sounds something akin to ’50s crooner Dion doing Rod Stewart’s “Young Turks” at a karaoke bar on Tatooine. Running through it all are the hallmarks of Thorburn’s songcraft—non sequitur poetry about love, death, and paranoia over lots of squeegy keyboards, shiny guitar, and shifting, pulsating, rhythms from drummer Jamie Thompson. There are streaks of danger in Islands’ music, but there’s warmth too. To dance to Islands is to dance at the apocalypse. Thorburn himself even got in the action Wednesday night, taking to the dance floor of the Hawthorne during the first parts of the band’s “Vapours” performance.

Thorburn’s dance floor cameo was a friendly gesture in an evening rich with moments that strengthened the bond between performer and audience. There was lots of dancing in the audience but, aside from the occasional shouted request, the loyal and attentive crowd was pin drop quiet between songs. By the end of the show, Thorburn repeatedly remarked how sweet we were and teased that he would call all our mothers and tell them how well we’d all turned out. Judging from Wednesday nights performance, Nick Thorburn’s turning out pretty well, too.

Link:
IslandSpace

Photo not from the show, but from a magic land called the Internet.

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Friday

Local legend and troubled grunge born songwriter Daniel Johnston plays a sobering set of hits. His arms shake violently and he can barely bring a bottle of water to his face. The guitar he plays convulses as though being electrocuted, the work of wheelbarrows worth of medication. “There are a lot of you out there,” he continues to note. And while Daniel can hardly strum anymore, his lyrics amaze. The guy wrote some of the best—and most repressed—songs of the ’90s. What a pleasure to finally see him live, if only to show my gratitude. The crowd shouts encouragement, referring to him by his first name and guiding him along like a child on his first bike ride. Again, sobering.

Bassnectar, widely considered to be San Francisco’s best DJ, makes a lot of noise off in the distance and Thievery Corporation is readying for a main stage show. The drive to Austin from Los Angeles was a lengthy one and I’ve already missed Portland’s beloved Blitzen Trapper, who played at 1:30. The chatter around the beer tent is that they played well at last night’s after show, but their pairing with the Walkmen was a little off (the two played a show at Emo’s Thursday evening). I would not miss Andrew Bird, an artist I’ve been tracking all the closer since viewing his mind-bending Cemetery Gates performance on pitchfork (link?).

He played mostly from his latest, Noble Beast, wowing the audience with his hasty transitions from violin plucking and layering, to guitar strumming to songbird whistling. His classically trained instincts come forth in everything he does, especially the swirling “Effigy” and epic baroque meets operatic, eclectic rock “Anonanimal.” The new incarnation of John Paul Jones and company Them Crooked Vultures can be heard in between tracks from a stage that’s too far away to see, but Bird’s got our full attention. He’s a hurricane of delicate activity, with the speed and precision of a hummingbird.

I forfeit Kings of Leon for the long and entertaining walk down Barton Springs Road to town. It’s like MFNW on performance enhancers, street vendors dancing to reggae, bars jam packed and blaring live music and bike taxis shuffle in and out of traffic.

*The night ends up abruptly thanks to a mishap at La Zona Rosa, where Devotchka are set to play an after show with Venezuelan disco group Los Amigos Invisibles. I am told my camera could potentially be used to transport drugs into the venue and is therefore not allowed admittance.

*Not a jab at La Zona Rosa, I should have deposited my camera before attempting an entrance. Or actually placed drugs in it so that their paranoid theory proved right, at least once.

Saturday

I start the day with a split between !!! and Mute Math, thrown off in a good way by the latter, expecting noise rock and getting explosive soul. Grizzly Bear take to a smaller stage and start slowly. But after golden piped Ed Droste eats a Tootsie Roll a crowd member throw on stage, the band lightens up and directs the sugar high toward a memorable set of Veckatimest wonder. Every member of Grizzly Bear carries the vocal load, the big picture being a chorus of Brian Wilson inspired, waterfowl born magic. They play a confident take on “Ready,” running through the song’s pulsating crescendo an extra time just for good measure.

By the time Bon Iver takes his place on the same stage, the rain is coming down in sheets. Whomever is responsible for Zilker Park’s million dollar makeover is punching every person he sees. Texas doesn’t do well with heavy precipitation, especially when it’s falling on acres and acres freshly planted grass. ACL shifted back a week this year to avoid the heat typical of late September. They had not forecasted three inches of rain in a day at the time.

In unison, everyone at ACL either put on a poncho or extended their umbrella. Suddenly, the park was a colorful collage of nylon, to see it from the air would have been remarkable. Yet, stage visibility was sacrificed in this malay and one could no longer see Justin Vernon’s mangy beard. We could only hear his tearful incantations.

My sanctuary came in the form of the press tent, where chicken wraps and whisky greeted me like a mixed up old friend. The rain was tropical and the patience of the people was wearing thin. People began to debate the merits of Dave Matthews, the headliner of the night. I decided a trip to South Congress for some local punk would be best. One can hear – or overhear – Dave just about anywhere.

Sunday

Sunday morning in Texas can mean only two things: Football and God. I’ve chosen the latter, as religion tends to get along more favorably with music. Which brings me to Stubb’s, Austin’s top shelf barbecue joint and venue. Brisket, Bloody Mary’s and gospel. A band three generations deep plays the lower stage, chiming in and out with each song’s backstory. It’s rich, wailing, gospel blues powered by four well dressed vocalists and an aggressive rhythm guitar.

The rains of yesterday have turned into the swine flu infested swamplands of today. Six inches of mud top every square foot of Zilker Park and the Nickelodeon-like sound of mud squishing through toes is almost unbearable. It’s a shoe graveyard, abandoned sandals and low top sneakers left for dead or swallowed hole by the earthy beast beneath. It’s literally Woodstock here.

I trudge close enough to the AMD stage to witness the B-52s play a smattering of their karaoke friendly numbers. They look exactly the same, which terrifies me, and the hypnotic background art coupled with the smell of wet hay used to absorb some of the ground moisture makes me want to vomit. Better grab a beer.

Jostling for position at Passion Pit proves difficult and it’s clear the Boston synth adoring band is this year’s MGMT. The glow sticks come out in force and the average age of the festival seems to plummet instantly. They start in on a slow and safe set, not enough to keep me around, and I paddle over to Dirty Projectors.

Which turns out to be the best decision of the weekend. Their clang and clamor is beautiful, their obscure guitar work creative, their shared vocals swift and infective. It’s the first time at ACL ’09 I feel a band is doing something entirely new and their own. It’s as though Clap Your Hands Say Yeah and Beirut shared a basement for a set. Dave Longstreth’s voice is baritone and beaming, playing off the angelic backup vocals os his two female counterparts. It’s often a funky, reverb rich guitar riff that begins their material, chased by dueling soul and dirty percussion (try, “Stillness Is The Move”). What’s most impressive is how many tangents each track visits without being lost. Hats off to my pick for band of the festival.

The Dead Weather finally do their thing, after days of hype and rumor. Alison Mosshart is as dark and brooding as ever and it’s nice to see Jack White in a more subdued role, in this case, drummer. Their material is sinister and simplistic, but expertly done, some of the murkiest blues – even goth rock at times – heard in a while. The crowd is not let down by their supergroup status. The guitar of Dean Fertita (Queens Of The Stone Age) steals the stage and I have to be told several times that he’s the one with the axe, not Mr. White. A solid, solid set.

Last up for the day and weekend at large is Dan Auerbach, the treble behind the Black Keys. His static blues is right at home in Austin, though the crowds have grown exhausted by the loose soil beneath their feet and it’s incredibly easy to get right up to the stage. He bounces from recent Black Keys tracks to his own material, never shying away from a split-second solo. His sonic personality is astounding. He plays until his fingers fall off.

The slideshow

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Photos by Nick Albertson

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The Red Bull Soundclash is less a battle of the bands, and more a musical obstacle course. Two bands compete in various events that stretch the members’ creativity and musical abilities, and at the end, yes, somebody gets declared a winner. But if the event at the Crystal Ballroom on Thursday, October 1 is any indication, the winners are actually the audience. The whole thing is a damn good time.

The Crystal Ballroom Soundclash—the first of its kind on the West Coast—featured two of Portland’s finest: The Builders and the Butchers and Viva Voce. Each band was set up on its own stage on opposite sides of the Ballroom’s floor, with the crowd between them. Each band played three of its original songs as a warm-up before the actual events began.

The Soundclash features four competitions: The Cover, The Take-Over, The Clash and The Joker. The winner of each competition is decided by the volume of audience applause (as measured by a machine in the middle of the room and displayed on various TV screens), and each round is worth a different number of points.

The first round, The Cover, was also the most obvious. The two bands had agreed upon a song beforehand—”Hungry Like The Wolf”—and the two took turns playing it in each band’s own style (although, admittedly, both covers sounded more like the original than they did like a Builders and Butchers or Viva Voce song). The second round, The Take-Over, was considerably more novel, and was definitely one of the night’s highlights. One band would start one of its original songs, and then, roughly halfway through, would stop playing… and the other band would pick up where the first left off and finish the song. Both bands made the whole thing look easy, with the only hiccup happening when an improperly-miced melodica made it sound like there was a gap between when Viva Voce stopped its second song and when The Builders picked it up.

The third event, The Clash, featured each band transposing its original songs into three different genres—reggae, country and dance music. Viva Voce’s fun, Johnny Cash-y version of “We Don’t Fuck Around” was definitely a standout, as was The Builders’ dance music version of “When It Rains,” featuring drummer Ray Rude showing off his electronic side on keyboard (Rude performs chiptunes—music played on video game systems—as Operation Mission, and used to front local chiptune-rock band Konami Defense System).

The final event was The Joker, where each band performed one of its songs with the help of special guests. The Builders and the Butchers chose to perform “In The Branches” with the members of local Americana act The Pancake Breakfast Singers. Viva Voce chose to go another route for its joker, calling up a guest drummer and a tambourine player. I’m afraid I didn’t catch the drummer’s name, because I was too surprised by the tambourine player—who was, according to the band, Academy Award-winning screenwriter Diablo Cody. (I was not, unfortunately, able to talk to the apparent Cody and verify her identity.)

The night’s winner was pretty easy to predict from the outset: The Builders and the Butchers, with a very vocal fanbase and several years’ experience involving crowds in the band’s music, took the Cover, Clash and Joker rounds, leaving Viva Voce with only the Take-Over. The Builders were presented with a prize—a giant guitar made out of Red Bull cans—and performed one last song for the finale, accompanied on stage by a magnanimous Viva Voce.

Links:
The Builders and the Butchers
Viva Voce
Red Bull Soundclash

Photos by Brandon Seifert

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“Hello Oregonians. Hello Washingtonians. Hello Port—where the fuck are we?”

Eddie Vedder wasn’t drunk. He’s just done this so many damn times he honestly could be anywhere and talking to anybody. In stadiums and clubs, on football fields and in recording booths. Pearl Jam has been doing this whole rock band thing for 19 years and over the course of nine albums and counting.

That said, they do it incredibly well. The “Elder Statesmen of Rock” label gets tossed around a fair bit, but with the band’s latest tour, which will trundle on through California and New Zealand through November, they are firmly placed in the ranks of outfits like U2, REM and Rolling Stones. They’re pros: They show up, do their job, thank their fans and go home. And put on an excellent show in the process—one that may not capture the hysteria and passion of their ’90s era performances, but a show that provides an intense overview of what a fully functioning group of musicians can accomplish together in the course of two and a half hours. (With an unending supply of wine for its lead singer).

The Seattle grunge icons kicked off their set last Saturday night at the Amphitheater at Clark County with the tight, anthemic opener “Gonna See My Friend” from their notorious new mostly-sold-in-Target release Backspacer—the lights of the new, typewriter themed set blinking in time. The new songs, aside from a somnolent rendition of “Amongst the Waves,” work great live—especially the pop-punk “The Fixer,” with Vedder jumping and jittering like a skinny, bearded Jesus on happy pills. But, as one might imagine, the crowd—a legion of mostly ball-capped and be-fleeced idolaters in their late 30s (some with their own kids in tow)—came for an earful of the accumulation of the band’s work, from “Even Flow” to “Yellow Ledbeter,” and they weren’t disappointed. That is, if they ever happened looked up from Tweeting concert updates on their iPhones long enough to actually watch the band playing in front of them. Seriously, it was creepy.

Best moments: A full house singalong of “Black”—Vedder’s voice blasting out and above the crowd, packed with the kind of heartbreak that decades don’t heal. The alt-countryish lament of “Off He Goes,” performed with the heart-vibrating thrum of a double bass. A monster version of “Not For You,” the whole band sweating and swaying and screaming in time. And last, but not least, a special appearance by former tourmate Corin Tucker, of Sleater-Kinney, who joined Vedder onstage to sing a winsome duet—John Doe’s excellent “Golden State.”

Worst moments: Fuck you, technology (see iPhone comment, above). Lead guitarist Mike McCready’s noodling Hendrix-rip off of a “Star Spangled Banner” sendoff.

Most entertaining moment: Generations collided as a tall bo-hunky guy in his 20s shepherded his four lady dates to the two seats in front of me—steamrolling past two ladies with expensive highlight in their ’40s in the process. The seat hijacking led to a shouting match with one of the Highlights’ date, a meaty older dude, who demanded to see Bohunk’s tickets. “Are you fucking kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me? My tickets? MY TICKETS!?!” Bohunk screamed, his voice spiraling higher and higher. “Do you wanna fight? Why can’t you let me enjoy the last 10 minutes of the show! I will get you!!!” It was the most excellent live music video ever devised for Pearl Jam’s frenetic “Do The Evolution.”

And, for those of you who care about these kind of things, here’s the full set list for last Saturday’s show.

01. Gonna See My Friend

02. Last Exit

03. Why Go

04. The Fixer

05. In Hiding

06. Johnny Guitar

07. Green Disease

08. Amongst The Waves

09. Even Flow

10. Off He Goes

11. Unthought Known

12. Daughter

13. Supersonic

14. Present Tense

15. Got Some

16. Once

17. Life Wasted

Encore Break 1

18. Golden State w/ Corin Tucker-(John Doe)

19. The End

20. Red Mosquito w/ Ben Harper

21. Inside Job

22. Go

Encore Break 2

23. Do The Evolution

24. Not For You / Modern Girl-(Sleater-Kinney)

25. Black

26. Porch

27. Yellow Ledbetter/Star Spangled Banner

Photos of Pearl Jam performing at the Clark County Amphitheater on Saturday, Sept. 26 by Karen Loria.

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Links:
CongratulationSpace
The Old BelieverSpace
The Red RiverSpace

Photos by Nick Albertson and Clara Ridabock. Top photo of a crowd surfing Nelson by Nick Albertson.

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