Now, I’m about to embark on an honest-to-God adventure. In a week, I am moving onto a 27-foot sailboat headed for Mexico’s Sea of Cortez with my boyfriend (see “High Seas, Low Wages,” WW, June 25, 2008). Perhaps not surprisingly, my introductory column as music editor was all about how I have a tendency to skip out on jobs and towns, how I’ve always rather vainly been in search of the right fit. Being a music writer, especially one in the ever-growing musical mecca that is Portland—a scene small enough to be manageable, fresh enough to stay interesting and friendly and communal enough to be both weirdly inviting and endlessly captivating­—was by far the closest thing I’d found. It kept me here longer than I’ve lived anywhere (outside of my parents’ house) and at WW twice as long as any other job. It made my first and longest-standing love—music—my life. Then I met something that I loved even more (yes, a boy), and things got complicated.

It started with a trip to nearby Scappoose Bay to scout out a Chicago-style hot dog joint for WW. Afterward, my guy and I whimsically rented a canoe from Scappoose Bay Kayaking—turns out, we enjoyed being on the water so much that we bought a raft, then our own canoe, then…we conjured up this crazy scheme to buy and move onto a sailboat. At first, it seemed like a pipe dream; how could we give up good jobs (he works at Intel) and a great city for something completely unknown? It might have been a moment in Todd Haynes’ Dylan epic I’m Not There that gave me resolve enough to realistically consider the idea; Richard Gere’s Billy the Kid character says, “The more you live a certain way, the less it feels like freedom.” His words have stuck in my gut ever since.

Sure, it’s sappy, but it’s also true: The impetus for this trip was our desire, as a couple, to simplify our lives to the point that all we’d have to do is be together. As such, I’ve eliminated rent, bills and material things from my life, keeping only a box of clothes, some photo albums and my record collection (hey, I just said I love him more). I had, for so long, let work muscle out my life; for a little while, at least, I’m letting life, and love, take precedence. I’ve realized that it’s OK to do something different, even if what’s left behind—a music section that will now be ably led by longtime WWer, fellow music fanatic and all-around swell guy Casey Jarman—doesn’t suck. Oddly enough, when the thing you do every day is your dream job, it still rings true: “The more you live a certain way, the less it feels like freedom.” Freedom, here I come.

MORE: Amy’s going-away show, featuring Aqueduct, BOAT and Graves, takes place Wednesday, July 30, at the Towne Lounge (also see Clublist Spotlight). 9:30 pm. $8. 21+. Check out her farewell muxtape as part of LocalCut’s “In the Mux” series.

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Though Seim once aspired to make Lackthereof his “main gig,” the success of Menomena—which culminated in last year’s Friend and Foe—eclipsed his solo efforts. But, thanks to a partnership with high-profile Seattle indie label Barsuk Records (which struck it big with Death Cab for Cutie and released Friend and Foe), Seim’s being thrust into the singer-songwriter spotlight with Lackthereof’s ninth release, Your Anchor—on which he plays everything. The album features tracks ranging from upbeat, textured pop songs with plenty of percussive elements, repetitive mantras and clever lyrics (“I’m not gonna say the/ Say the/ Same thing twice today” on “Ask Permission”) to brooding, dreamlike numbers (including a dissonant cover of the National’s “Fake Empire”).

While the Barsuk deal ensures a much larger audience for Lackthereof (most of its previous records were self-released on CD-Rs, with two on smaller-distribution Portland label FILMguerrero), it also leaves Seim, as he puts it, “feeling really vulnerable.” “It’s pretty horrifying. With Menomena, if it totally fails, there’s two other guys to blame it on. Now, it’s all on my shoulders.”

But Seim, a 31-year-old Hawaii native who spent his formative years in Portland’s suburbs playing Christian rock in a band called Bede (after “the Venerable”) with future Menomena bandmate Justin Harris, had bigger obstacles to overcome than just stepping out from behind his kit. For years he struggled with the concept of being a secular musician. Raised Christian, Seim says his first encounters with pop music were associated with Satanism. “It was just so, so catchy. [I thought,] it’s catchy because Satan is digging his claws into my brain; that’s the only reason I’m being so pulled to this music. I didn’t understand: Oh, it’s a pop hook.”

Nowadays, the excitable drummer (who screenprints onesies for Southeast Portland’s Egg Press in an effort to “keep it real”) is plenty comfortable crafting his own pop hooks. And he’s recruited Matt Dabrowiak and Paul Alcott of Dat’r, as well as Boy Eats Drum Machine’s Jonny Ragel, for live support. “It’s pretty easy to be in front of the computer recording, ’cause you can sing 5 billion vocal parts,” Seim explains. “It’s the blessing and the curse of self-recording: ‘Let’s have 500 tracks! Let’s have 10 guitars! Why not?’ OK, now how are we gonna pull this off without hiring an orchestra?”

Seim is pulling it off, self-consciousness and all. And he’s overcome many of his issues with leading an “evil” rock-star life: “I’ve went through so many periods of selling all my secular albums, then rebuying them, then selling them again. I’m definitely kind of hyper-aware and embarrassed…. [But], it’s like, OK, this kind of made me who I am, for better or for worse.” For better, I’d say.

SEE IT: Lackthereof plays Thursday, July 17, with Dykeritz and Alan Singley & Pants Machine at Holocene. 9 pm. $6. 21+. Listen to Your Anchor’s “Last November” here.

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Mike Dixon doesn’t cater to just your average nerd. He may be a high-school accounting and introductory computer teacher in nearby Olympia, Wash., but the bespectacled 29-year-old spends just as much time selling limited-edition vinyl to record geeks as he does teaching adolescents the ways of grosses and algorithms.

The founder of bedroom label PIAPTK—(very) short for People In a Position to Know—Dixon moved to Washington from West Texas in an effort to escape its “flat and dusty and dry and ugly and treeless” terrain. And though he ran a CD-based label briefly in college and has booked shows at “VFW halls and random places” since high school, until two years ago, he was “just some dude in Olympia that wanted to put out a record series.” Now, he’s on the cusp of releasing his 30th record, a 7-inch by Dallas-based fuzz-pop band the Crash That Took Me. And he’s got an impressive array of talents on PIAPTK’s roster: Centro-matic frontman Will Johnson, Georgia power-pop outfit Casper & the Cookies, one-man blip-pop band Casiotone for the Painfully Alone and area heavy-hitters like Graves, Nate Ashley and Portland grim-rockers Southerly. “Generally, I just work with my friends. I have so many friends that are ridiculously talented. It’s not hard for me to find things I wanna release,” Dixon explains.

But it’s more than the music—often one-off, one-of-a-kind projects—that makes PIAPTK special. It’s an appreciation for something “a little different.” Take Fleetwood’s Hack: the frontmen for Graves (Greg Olin) and Norfolk & Western (Adam Selzer) covering ’50s-’60s Olympia doo-wop band the Fleetwoods (tunes like “Go Away Little Girl” and “To Know Her”). And Dixon, who says his label is “funded completely by me—and Visa,” painstakingly crafts handmade packaging for most for most of PIAPTK’s releases, be it silkscreening 490 covers for Casper & the Cookies’ Optimist’s Club LP himself, issuing records in burlap sacks (Will Johnson’s two-song 8-inch, released on clear, square-shaped vinyl), or recruiting band members (CATC’s Kay Stanton) to hand-knit covers that double as stocking caps. “I feel like people…respond to something that was obviously put together by someone who cares,” says Dixon—and he takes that caring to another level altogether with the vinyl itself.

While most records start with a master from which copies are stamped out with a metal plate (a mold made from the master), some of PIAPTK’s releases are what Dixon calls “lathe cut.” Lance Hahn, frontman for seminal ’90s punk band J Church, once referred Dixon to a New Zealander named Peter King, whose Luddite lore includes owning four record lathes (two he bought from the BBC and two he made from washing machine parts) and never using the Internet, at all. According to Dixon—who’ll be tagging along on Southerly’s summer tour as “comic relief/roadie”—King “cuts each one on a lathe, and then he’s done.” Essentially, every copy is an original.

These smaller runs (anywhere from 20 to 100 copies) are a bit more expensive (about $20 compared with $4-$10 for PIAPTK’s 300-run non-lathe-cut records) thanks to “the totally weak U.S. dollar,” but Dixon just can’t get enough of their fantastic sound and unique qualities—vinyl in clear, psychedelic swirl, tan and mint green; shapes from triangular and hexagonal to square and heart-shaped. Though he hopes to eventually offer PIAPTK’s music via iTunes for those who don’t collect records (“I’m not a total elitist”), Dixon, recalling his day job, says it’s all about worth: “It’s getting to the point where music itself has no value, so you have to make the thing worth having, whatever format it’s on.”

HEAR IT: Visit peopleinapositiontoknow.com to check out a full discography and new releases by Casiotone and Golden Boots.

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I believe it was the Boss who so eloquently sung the praises of “human touch” back in the ’90s. And though husband-and-wife duo Viva Voce—whose discography includes such mushily titled numbers as “N Love W/U”—has never been hurting in the romance department, the Portland pair recently realized its expansive psych-pop could use a bit more of that organic stuff.

See, over the course of four full-length albums and nine tours, Viva Voce remained a duo (save for a brief stint in ’06 with All Girl Summer Fun Band’s Kim Baxter on bass). As such, Kevin and Anita Robinson relied heavily on pre-recorded backdrops, involved studio techniques and, as Kevin puts it, “electronic doodads.” In an effort to break from their semi-robotic pop mold, the couple decided to put Viva Voce on indefinite hiatus—forming killer quartet Blue Giant instead.

“It wasn’t like an army draft, but…we were really dying to play with other people,” says Kevin. “There were no official letters sent out: ‘Dearest Evan [Railton, of now-defunct Swords Project], your drumming services are required….’ But after everyone got together a few times, it was just sort of understood.” As for the music, he says, “There’s definitely an edge to it. We all come from very, very tripped-out musical backgrounds. So there will always be that element.”

Blue Giant, which features Seth Lorinczi (of local psych-rock duo the Golden Bears) as its fourth member, plays a similarly tripped-out brand of rock—built on Anita’s fret-burning guitar skills and the Robinsons’ knack for melody—but it also makes room for spacious, country-tinged jams and more harmonizing between Kevin and Anita. “[It’s] like handing someone a sketch and watching them turn it into something better than what you drew up,” Kevin says of the band’s collaborative, instinctual nature. “Using pre-recorded segments…you wind up hitting the ceiling of what that allows you to do. Sometimes you just want to yell, ‘One more time, take it to the bridge!’”

In the spirit of human interaction, the Robinsons recently invited a few press folks over to hear Blue Giant, which plays its first show this Friday, in person. We were greeted with bottled beer and boiled peanuts (a salty delicacy indigenous to the couple’s native Alabama), and got to meet Larry the border collie. Crammed amid journalists in his impeccably cool garage-cum-studio, Kevin sang of gray skies and a nonexistent sun (sound familiar?); meanwhile, Lorinczi pressed earthy, ’70s-inspired chords from an electric piano, Anita delivered fuzzed-out lead and Railton laid down stomping rhythms. It was the first sunny day in weeks, and I couldn’t help but wonder if all that communal warmth helped beckon ’er out.

SEE IT: Blue Giant plays its first show Friday, June 20, with the Shaky Hands and Lackthereof at the Wonder Ballroom. 9 pm. $10 advance, $12 day of show (includes EP). All ages. Photo: Vivian Johnson.

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Fast-forward about 28 years, and Glover had not only become friends with Norman, but was set to release a 20-track career-spanning collection of Norman’s work on Arena Rock. That compilation, Rebel Poet, Jukebox Balladeer: The Anthology, begins with a Zombies cover (Norman’s Bay Area psych group People! broke out with a mellowed, Billboard Top 20-placing version of “I Love You”), touches upon six of the singer’s 60 or so albums and includes lyrics and liner notes for every song. Musically, it ranges from jangle-folk rave-ups recalling Van Morrison (“Peacepollutionrevolution”) and Dylan-esque stream-of-consciousness storytelling (“Nightmare #71”) to tender, psych-tinged ballads examining love and personal identity (“I’ve Got to Learn to Live Without You”). But Norman’s bread and butter—despite the “father of Christian rock” tag—was more morality and social commentary that straightforward religiosity.

“His songs weren’t just about ‘praising the Lord’ or ‘heaven,’” Glover explains. “They were social snapshots from a moral point of view. He didn’t beat you over the head with his beliefs, nor did he sound dated like all the other music in that genre.” But it was Norman’s ability to incorporate those beliefs into a rock ’n’ roll sound and image—he was a huge Elvis fan—that both earned him a fervent (if small) following and cast him as an outsider. Just as the Pixies’ Frank Black—who names Norman as his “rock ’n’ roll hero” and recalls dressing in head-to-toe black “just like Larry”—was fascinated with Norman’s persona, Christian music fans didn’t know what to do with him. “The lines weren’t as blurred 30 years ago as they are now,” says Glover. “Christian music back then was Jimmy Swaggart. It certainly wasn’t this long-haired, freaky-lookin’ guy who sang about Vietnam, Jesus and venereal disease. Larry was the ultimate paradox….”

And, much like Dylan or Van Morrison—who were Norman’s contemporaries rather than his inspirations (both have cited Norman as an influence)—Norman’s music still, perhaps unfortunately, rings true today. Glover, who describes Norman as “a control freak in a good way,” agrees: “Take ‘I Am the Six O’Clock News,’ for example. It was written over 35 years ago, yet applies to what is going on in the world in 2008.” Which is why Glover, 38, couldn’t help but approach Norman when he learned the songwriter was living in Salem. “I can’t tell you how nervous I was when I drove down for our initial meeting,” says Glover. Eventually, though, the two were close enough that Norman would call Glover to “make sure I had somewhere to spend Christmas or Thanksgiving, or to invite me to the movies or tell me to listen to the remastered edition of The Joshua Tree.” Which makes it all the more tragic that Norman passed away at the age of 60, due to heart failure, on Feb. 24, 2008—two months before the release of Rebel Poet.

Glover, who says the album’s release was pushed back a few times due to its extensive packaging, is understandably torn up: “I’m completely devastated that I can’t walk into a store with him and point to The Anthology on the shelves. He’d have smiled that big, goofy and kind smile of his and probably wanted to change the album cover just to drive me nuts!” Even so, when Norman’s voice asks in the song of same name, “Why should the devil have all the good music?” Glover—and anyone who’s spent time with Norman’s music—has an answer: He doesn’t.

“I Am The Six O’Clock News”
Download audio file (iamthesixoclocknews.mp3)

MORE: Rebel Poet, Jukebox Balladeer: The Anthology is out now. Read an extended Q&A with Glover here.

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1. He’s a romantic at heart: On “Help Yourself,” Jones—clad in black slacks, a sequin-adorned black dress shirt and cherry-red blazer—sang, “Just help yourself to my lips, to my arms/ Just say the word and they are yours.” His bold, hearty delivery indicated a sincere willingness to succumb to amorous whims. And “She’s a Lady,” which incited the first wave of panty-throwing, is an all-out celebration of love (even if he does call his gal a “wiener” in the first verse).

2. He’s playful: Light-footed jumps about the stage and vivacious dance moves (which, as much as his surely dyed dark locks, belied his age) proved Jones is frisky as ever—as did the occasional teeth-baring tiger snarl.

3. He’s comfortable with his sexuality: Completely unafraid to be provocative, even at near-70, the venerable and ever-confident Jones proceeded to graze his own loins (sort of tastefully, believe it or not) and flick open his shirt during “200 Pounds of Heavenly Joy.” He also took the liberty of pausing subtly (and decidedly lewdly) when delivering that last, “You and your pussy…cat nose.” Rowr!

4. He’s versatile: From gospel numbers like Bill Withers’ “Grandma’s Hands” to classics of every variety—“Green, Green Grass of Home” (which found a youngish blond fan waving a Welsh flag throughout), unrequited-love waltz “Delilah,” hot ’n’ bothered rave-up “Sex Bomb,” aching ballad “I’ll Never Fall In Love Again” and “It’s Not Unusual”—Jones makes sure you’re anything but bored.

5. He’s honest: It doesn’t get much more straightforward than the lyrics to Earl Thomas’ “Git Me Some,” which Jones called a “downhome—no wait, sexy” blues number: “Don’t want to be your best friend…truth be told/ I only want to get me some.”

6. He’s aware of his own shortcomings: Sure, Tom Jones has plenty going for him: a robust, striking and emotive voice, a warm and earnest smile, a James Bond theme under his belt (“Thunderball”). And he was once pretty cute—bodified hair; big, dreamy eyes; Welsh accent; pimped-out Vegas style. But this husband of over 50 years knows he can be a handful, too (as any ladies’ man can). Last Thursday, when he sang, “She can take what I dish out” during “She’s a Lady,” he followed it by quipping matter-of-factly, “And that’s not easy.” Musically, at least, it ain’t that hard, either.

PHOTO ILLUSTRATION: Cliff Li.

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At the end of the South Park episode where the Cure’s Robert Smith defeats a giant, monstrous Barbra Streisand—she plays “Mecha-Streisand” to his “Smithra” in a battle of Godzillian proportions—Kyle yells, “Disintegration is the best album ever!” as Smith walks off into the sunset. It’s an unabashed declaration of love for the Cure’s 1989 gloom-pop masterpiece, and it sums up how I was feeling Sunday night at the Gorge Amphitheater’s Sasquatch! Festival.

Amid all my excitement over Austin folk-rockers Okkervil River, Modest Mouse and electro-pop ravers Ghostland Observatory, I’d sold short my Cure fanhood. But after Death Cab For Cutie finished its last set on Saturday, which culminated in an epic performance of “Transatlanticism” that found the whole crowd chanting “come ah-ah-on” as the sun dipped below the Columbia River Gorge’s rolling hills, I was positively giddy. Robert Smith and crew were about to come on, and I found myself humbled and surprised at how I’d brushed off the weekend’s most legendary headliners (R.E.M. closed out the previous night).

After Death Cab, I had thought, man, that’s a tough act to follow. What’s the Cure gonna do? Then, I realized: duh, they’re gonna play “Love Song” and “Just Like Heaven.” They’re gonna wear ridiculous hairdos and outfits (guitarist Porl Thompson looked decidedly ghoulish in alienlike black eye-paint). They’re gonna rock the Gorge’s expansive stage with equally expansive sounds and a voice that’s so pop culture-familiar it seems insane to hear it live, in person. They’re gonna be awesome. And they’re gonna blow the ears right off Death Cab—a band that has a lot in common with the Cure: Dreamy soundscapes? Check. Poignant lyrics? Check. Irresistible pop hooks? Check. Locked-down bass grooves and inventive, busy guitar? Double check.

I imagined DCFC frontman Ben Gibbard, who’s not much older than I, listening to Disintegration in his first car, lamenting lost high-school loves to the tune of “Pictures of You,” and I realized this show was a dream come true for both of us—the chance to joyfully revisit a legend with no shame. Because, unlike so many bands that’ve survived a handful of decades, the Cure is still good. Even on songs I was less familiar with, the band’s complex, textured rock was entirely captivating, and those old faves were downright magical: All of the above-mentioned tracks were delivered with fervor, as if the Cure hadn’t played them thousands of times, as if they were excited to show us how excellently they could be executed. They also played a killer “Fascination Street” and an unexpected, amped-up second encore of “Boys Don’t Cry.”

They even looked cool, not like old guys awkwardly dressed up as rock stars, but like actual rock stars. Because that’s what they are. And when Smith occasionally said, “Q!” (that’s British for “thank you,” apparently, as in, “(than)-kyou!”), I couldn’t help but feel he should’ve been saying, “You’re welcome.”

MORE: Read a play-by-play of Amy’s Sasquatch! adventures—including Shaky Hands butt grabbing, Wren cameos and bacon bartering— right here on LocalCut.

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The resulting Curbstock, which he hopes will raise more than $20,000 for Portland Public Schools, brings artists like blues regulars Norman Sylvester and Curtis Salgado, Thermals offshoot Hutch & Kathy, chamber-world ensemble 3 Leg Torso and Irish folk band Darby O’Gill to Oaks Park this Sunday. It’s a lineup he thought would unite students and adults over a good cause: “In our district,” he explains, “students [can] opt out of their failing school and switch to a different one…[but] the failing school is still failing and the school they go to is now one person more crowded.” When asked if students resent his do-goodery, Harris-McCoy quips, “People have always been jealous of my stunning good looks, charming attitude, grace and modesty. I welcome their resentment, but they’re probably maxed out.” Wonder how he has time for homework? “I don’t,” he says. “But I get it done anyway.”

Steve Otis, on the other hand, has been out of high school for a good 10 years. But the 28-year-old office worker, pop musician (with local band Matinee) and sometime-KJ says he was “looking for positive ways to funnel [his] creative energy” when a Brownsville-dwelling cousin told him the Willamette Valley burg’s Central Linn High School was struggling—cutting down its school year, even—due to lack of funds. BrownPort fest was born.

This Saturday, two of Portland’s best dark-folk artists, Run On Sentence and Nick Jaina, as well as pop faves Climber, will take the 90-mile trek down I-5 to play the 1,700-population town’s Pioneer Park Amphitheater—where Otis says the pie-eating contest in coming-of-age flick Stand By Me was filmed. “With two members [of Climber] currently teaching high school,” says Otis, “they were happy to get involved.” But historic Brownsville, he says, is a draw in itself: “There are photos from the late 1800s that look almost identical to current photos.” Claiming little to no fundraising or booking experience, Otis says he was simply “shooting in the dark for a good cause.” Guess that’ll happen—to the best of us.

SEE IT: BrownPort Festival takes place Saturday, May 17, in Brownsville; Curbstock takes place Sunday, May 18, at Oaks Park. See music listings for further details. Photo (right): Lindsey Hiefield.

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But Cooke is tricky. He’s one of the most charismatic singers ever. His music embodies hope (I mean, the man alone assured his gospel-singing cohorts that God wouldn’t strike you down for writing pop songs) as well as a deep, visceral humanity. Even the oft-objective Allmusic.com calls him “the most important soul singer in history.” Meloy needn’t be Cooke, of course, but his new tour-only EP, Colin Meloy Sings Sam Cooke, ought to at least capture his spirit. But, despite the poignant effect Meloy’s voice has on his own material, its taut, controlled delivery and highbrow flourishes just don’t translate to the language of Mr. Soul. Meloy’s poker-faced take on five Cooke classics (including “Cupid” and “That’s Where It’s At”)—though an enjoyable departure for Decemberists fanatics and a clear labor of love on Meloy’s part—ends up feeling dry, plain and, well, pretty darn un-Sam Cookelike.

The EP is very Colin Meloy, which is exactly why it doesn’t really work. While Meloy’s take on Morrissey (Sings Sam Cooke is the third in a series of tour-only covers EPs) borrowed and re-envisioned the original artist’s bread-and-butter (melodrama), this EP fails to convey Cooke’s essence. On “Good Times,” for instance, Meloy’s restrained “lat-tah-dahs” don’t, by a long shot, give you the impression he’s set to party “all night long.” Instead, they leave you with the usual image of Meloy: in leather armchair with ascot and monocle, reading a Norton Anthology of English Literature.

And Laura Gibson’s backing vocals—which appear on every track—don’t do much to help. Her voice is lovely as ever (and can be found to better effect on her own recent tour-only EP, Six White Horses), but it’s similarly restrained. It simply mirrors Meloy’s vacant-sounding renderings of Cooke’s tunes. On “Bring It On Home to Me” (a ballsy move considering its recent covering by fellow Portlander and true soul man Britt Daniel), for instance, Meloy and Gibson’s call-and-response “yeahs” lack passion—exactly what makes Cooke’s music so inspiring. Meloy’s version of “Summertime,” on the other hand, at least does something original—its ethereal, echoed backing vocals and minor, creeping guitar setting a far eerier mood than you’d expect.

Don’t get me wrong, I like this record: Meloy and Gibson’s voices are some of today’s best, and I can’t help but enjoy Cooke’s songs. It’s a welcome novelty, and endless kudos to Gibson and Meloy for revaluing tangible music by issuing modern collector’s items. I just don’t think the songs of Meloy and Cooke—both great talents—are in the same wheelhouse. Still, if I hadn’t already begged a publicist for a copy of Sings Sam Cooke, you could bet your ass I’d be at the merch table this Saturday, cash in hand.

SEE IT: Meloy and Gibson play Saturday, May 3, at the Wonder Ballroom. 8 pm. $20 advance, $23 day of show. All ages.

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Last Monday night, I found myself wandering under the Fremont Bridge’s industrial east side. The block I was pacing—between North Albina Avenue and Tillamook Street, just off the MAX’s yellow line—was as empty as a ghost town. Half expecting to see tumbleweed roll by, I stood under the glow of streetlights repeating “1121 North Loring” to myself and feeling utterly lost. I was looking for new venue/gallery Exit Only, and the space’s logo—a road sign of clusterfucked arrows and dead-end turns—was beginning to make a lot of sense.

A desperation text later (to Carcrashlander frontman Cory Gray, whose organ-led folk-rock band was just about to go on), I stumbled upon the warehouse space, where curator Zach Barnes met me at the door and quickly noted our matching Midwestern accents. A 23-year-old Chicago transplant, Barnes intended Exit Only to be a haven for all sorts of “underground arts,” a place where you’d just as likely catch a puppet show or indie film screening as a rock concert. But, thanks to Portland’s startling lack of all-ages venues (thanks, OLCC!), Barnes found himself bombarded by requests from bands wanting to fill the cavernous, plywood-lined space with music.

“Honestly, I had no idea the response the place was gonna get,” says Barnes, who describes Exit Only as an art gallery that’s open when bands play. But he and “jack-of-all-trades volunteer” Nate Sloss agree they’d like to see the venue, which opened in February, turn into a nonprofit “community art space.” While Portland’s alcohol-serving venues will find out this Friday whether or not the OLCC approves proposed changes to rules regarding minors in liquor-serving establishments (enabling 21+ clubs to host more all-ages events), Barnes says he’s not interested in running a bar; he’d rather skip the hassle and welcome all tastes and ages straightaway.

In the one evening I spent at Exit Only, I witnessed an all-out rock show; Carcrashlander’s moving away from sad-bastard music, according to Gray, whose set was ably embellished by the insanely cool guitar stylings of experimental hip-hop artist Alexis Gideon. I also met a musician I’d just written about (country crooner Shelley Short was among the off-night’s few attendees) and, later, sat in a folkster-friendly circle while Ohioan’s Ryne Warner played a low-key set of acoustic covers (from Dolly’s “Jolene” to Townes Van Zandt) and originals from a neighboring room’s plaid couch.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor to my right was local blues-folk singer Down South Sallie, chiming in on the songs she knew. As trains rumbled in the distance, Warner played a mariachi-tinged number with a refrain along the lines of, “Let’s get the fuck out of this town!” But, when Gray grabbed his trumpet for a bit of impromptu accompaniment and a couple of youngish fans apologized for having to split (it was “past their bedtime”), it was hard to imagine ever wanting to leave. For a chilly warehouse in a barren corner of North Portland, Exit Only sure feels like home—if you can find it.

MORE: Alexis Gideon plays Friday, April 18. 9 pm. $5. All ages. Visit myspace.com/pdxexitonly for upcoming shows. Photo: Jenna Biggs

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