I've been there before and so have you, no doubt. You're at a show, perhaps even up front a few feet from the band, when two people next to you decide to hold a conversation. They're completely oblivious to the music and, despite the fact that they're shouting to be heard, are behaving as if they're passing time in a cafe. Their motivations are unknown and their reasoning is oblique. Where are they there? Why did they pay for a ticket and all the annoying fees that go along with it just to ignore the performance? Do they really, really need to bitch about their boss rightthatbloodyminute?

Either I'm a magnet for these people or they're far more prevalent than I've previously surmised. These chatterboxes have tarnished plenty of nights at the Crystal Ballroom and the Roseland. I've stopped going to acoustic shows entirely. There's just no point.

Is this just a Portland phenomenon? Is there something about the city's venues that work like the Blarney Stone?

My conclusion: nope, nope and more nope.

This strange behavior is also a common occurrence over here in the Netherlands. The crowd at a September Josh Ritter show at the Paradiso in Amsterdam was well behaved but a group of Dutch guys were so obnoxious during an acoustic portion of Delorean's set in Haarlem earlier this month that the lead singer cut it short. Tift Merritt, a singer/songwriter who opened for Iron and Wine last Tuesday in Amsterdam, became visibly riled by talkers during her set. She complained to Samuel Beam backstage afterwards. During Iron and Wine's performance, he demanded that the crowd apologize to her. "All together now," Beam disdainfully announced. "SORRY, TIFT!" The audience begrudgingly went along with this.

That's not to say that crap behavior at shows is limited to talkers. There's also people who spill beer all over the place and those who film everything on their iPhone with the screen as bright as possible. Oh, and there's my personal favorite: sweat-soaked, overly-affectionate stoned couples who dance salaciously while obliviously bumping into everyone around them.

Which of these categories do I fall into? I'll give you three guesses.

Here's a video from Iron and Wine's stint. Please, enjoy!

Labels: Europe, music

Portland band Dolorean is currently on their first European tour. I managed to catch their set at a club in Haarlem last Thursday.

No, that's not a typo. The name of the city is, indeed, "Haarlem," or so I'm told.

It was a solid set and the crowd, with the exception of two Dutch guys who would not shut-up during the acoustic numbers, was supportive. My friend Marie attended Willamette with a member of the band and she managed to talk with him a bit before they went on stage.

Between sets, I started chatting with a local promoter who is a huge fan of both American baseball and Neil Young. He had a few beers in him and was buzzing on both the brew and the music. Between sets, he told us about his goal to visit every MLB stadium in the US and the thirty times he's seen Young in concert. "I saw him do the Harvest Moon album in 1995, yes," he said. "It was a night in the summer months and the moon rose up over Neil Young. It was amazing! I say to my girlfriend, 'Look, it is a HARVEST MOON!'"

Anyway, here's the band performing "Beachcomber Blues" and dishing out some banter about ordering beers in France and English vs. Dutch:

Labels: Europe, music

Labels: music

The show had been sold out for days, if not for weeks. I arrived at the Doug Fir around 6:45 to grab dinner. I figured I could just saunter over to the box office about 15 minutes before it opened to snag a rush ticket. No dice. There was already a line 50 people standing out front.

And so I joined them in the mist and chatted with a guy in front of me and three girls huddled under an umbrella. It was well worth the wait. After the opening acts wrapped up, Sleater Kinney alums Carrie Brownstein and Janet Weiss casually strolled out onto stage to set things up. The crowd politely left alone as they ducked backstage before an introduction.

I'd never been to a show before where no one in the crowd was familiar with the band's music. Wild Flag, comprised of members of Sleater Kinney and Helium, don't even have a website up yet and have yet to release so much as a single, let alone an EP. There is a Facebook page though. Brownstein acknowledged this between songs and apologized for some early snafus during the first song. "We're still on training wheels up here."

Still, sweet Jesus, what a show. Wild Flag is like a pop-ier, funner version of Sleater Kinney with a dash of AC/DC tossed into the mix. Brownstein's much more unrestrained with her guitar work so there was plenty of shredding/solos between her and the other lead guitarist, Mary Lou Lord.

I recorded a few of songs and about half of a cover of a Rolling Stones tune before my iPhone ran out of juice. I wish I had held out until Brownstein's "Race Horse" song. Combined with cheesy lyrics straight out of a frat anthem you might find on "The Brew, it may as well have been stadium rock tossed into an angry, jilted lady shredder. "I'm a racehorse! I'm a racehorse! Get on and ride! But, no, you better run! You'd better ruuuuuuuuuuun!"

As you can see in this video, captured by another attendee, Brownstein jumped around a bit and was really into it. And then she collapsed to her knees. Mary did the same and they both sat there on stage waling/straddling their guitars for a bit, totally lost in the music.

Afterward, Carrie sheepishly smiled and looked over at Mary.

Mary: "What?"

Carrie: "Oh, nothing."

Mary: [EYE ROLL]

Carrie: "Yeah, as you can tell, Mary's really shy."

Wild Flag's first album is due out in the early part of 2011.

Labels: music

Time mellows us all, whether you want to admit this or not, even quote/unquote "riot grrrls." A lot has changed since Corin Tucker and Sleater Kinney tore through Washington and the world with their "unique brand of post-punk, all female, ovary-powered rock n' roll music." The reviews of Tucker's new album 1,000 Years make note of this (over and over and over again) and are, for the most part, outright dismissive of a woman, now in her late 30s and a married mother of two, still making music. I'm baffled by the one over on Pitchfork, which gives the album a positive review and then inexplicably slaps it with a measly 6.5 out of 10. Entertainment Weekly gave the album a C+, mostly because it's "not a substitute for Sleater Kinney."

[eye roll] There's a reason why Tucker's project is called The Corin Tucker Band and not Sleater Kinney, people.

It was dispiriting to see only 2/3s of the Aladdin Theater filled during the first show of the band's tour, right here in Tucker's home base of Portland. As an audience member posted on Twitter, "what the hell?!! I though everybody in this town loved Corin?!!" Well, maybe five years ago when Sleater Kinney was coasting on the waves of their seminal album The Woods. Another local band, The Golden Bears, opened with their lead singer Julianna Bright all dressed-up in a Pete Townsend-inspired jump suit. Only a few dozen people were up front at that point, glumly nodding their heads along with the music.

Those who did show up at the Aladdin seemed like friends and family of the bands or local rock journalists. There was a lot of hugging going on and Bright caught up with some folks in the crowd before her set. Altogether, it all seemed more like a house party than a show, with most of the crowd north of 30 and in no mood to bounce around, with their minds likely on how much they'd have to pay the babysitter when they got home. We've all had those bittersweet moments with married friends and their kids when we realize that, yup, we're no longer in our 20s and we're supposed to all be adults now. That vibe was definitely in the air at the Aladdin on Thursday night.

Not that this is a bad thing. You wanna stay on this planet past the age of 30, well, everyone around you is gonna grow up and do adult-type things. We can't all pretend it's the late-60s or the late-90s forever (although there's plenty of gray hippies and Gen Xers willing to try, goddammit) but that doesn't mean you have to sit at home every night with your Capri Sun-soaked offspring and a Netflix copy of "How to Train Your Dragon." I was glad that people brought their kids to the show and dressed up like they were still in their 20s. One gal, in her mid-30s, happily spun around the theater in a pair of tall, leather boots. Some might have found the sight of this woman dancing and twirling her hair in the air pathetic but, hell, I found it inspiring.

During The Corin Tucker Band's set, the lead singer stopped the show during the encore to wave to a child sitting up in the balcony's general admission section. I can't remember if it was her own son or another member of the band's. I could hear him up there squealing with glee as Tucker dedicated a song to him.

I think this is the real reason why the response to the tour and 1,000 Years has been so lethargic. It's not that the music is bad or mediocre, it's just different. It's more laid-back and more mature than "Little Babies" and "No Rock n' Roll Fun," just like most everybody in the audience at the Aladdin last week.

Just because you've got a few gray hairs doesn't mean you have to stop making music, going to shows, etc. It just means that you have to do it differently, unless you're still Metallica or Weezer or Green Day or one of their perpetually young fans and you want to keep pretending that you're still 25 and can do tons of coke and play a 100 beats a minute while your aching, aching fingers scream in pain.

For those who doubt all of this, well, have fun staying home with the kids and whatever CGI fest Jack Black is doing voiceover work for these days. Here's a video for the band's first single, "Riley."

Labels: music

I had the opportunity to chat with the Watson Twins before their show at Lola's Room back on August 5th and recorded the conversation for what should have been Another Portland Blog's first ever podcast.

Then, fate intervened and decided to make my iPhone crash. I lost the 25-minute interview with the twins, on top of seven other podcasts. I'm still livid.

The Watsons were friendly and charming. We talked about everything from the '80s punk scene in Louisville, Kentucky (yeah, Louisville apparently had a punk scene at one point) to collaborating with Jenny Lewis on Rabbit Fur Coat to how they deal with audience chatter. I can't remember their favorite type of whiskey but they said that Maker's Mark is a reasonable substitute. They cite their parent's cool LP collection as a major influence on their music and mentioned that Portland reminded them of home, because both places maintain a small-town vibe despite their girth.

They were also kind enough to step away from their dinner table to pose for a photo in front of the Crystal Ballroom's beer vats. The brewery was serving as their green room since Matisyahu's crew, who were playing a gig upstairs, were hogging all the proper ones.

It's a dang shame that the recording has been lost to the ages. There's a slim possibility I might be able to recover it from somewhere deep in the recesses of my laptop's hardrive. If that happens, I'll be sure to post it here.

Labels: music

I thought this was a shameful secret. I remember seeing Lady Gaga on the cover of a Rolling Stone over a year ago in her bubble costume. I remember thinking, "Oh, look, Yet another forgettable blonde pop star." Then, a few months later, Cartman performed "Poker Face" on South Park, which convinced me give her album The Fame Monster a shot. I can't deny the impeccable taste of that animated, prepubescent jerk.

Is Lady Gaga's music revolutionary? Not really. Are the lyrics anything special? Nope. But are the tracks incredibly catchy? Yup. "Poker Face." "Paparazzi." "Alejandro." "Telephone." "Bad Romance." These are all great pop songs. Sure, that's like saying they're a slightly more healthy form of Frosted Flakes than regular Frosted Flakes but still....

Like plenty of other pop stars, Gaga comes from a rough and tumble background. Her beloved father is an alcoholic with heart problems. She stands a serious chance of developing hereditary lupus. She paid her dues in a roach-infested Manhattan apartment and owes her career to a disastrous personal relationship that has since led to a $30 million dollar lawsuit. So she's got the whole "tough-girl, survivor" thing going for her.

What sets her aside from Britney Spears and a million others who have come before her, however, is the level of creativity that goes into her act and persona. I'm not saying anything that hasn't already been said but, still, I feel compelled to prattle on. Consider the weird costumes made out of everything from nun habits to police caution tape to lit cigarettes. The ear-worm songs that practically force you to get up out of your seat and shake your ass. Her sociopathic, "take-no-prisoners" demeanor and "Mona Lisa on coke" smile. Her deer-caught-in-headlights interview with Barbara Walters. Her tireless campaign to promote gay marriage and encourage everyone, especially teen girls, homosexuals and the transgendered to be themselves. At the end of her show at the Rose Garden last night, she introduced two of her back-up dancers who are in a committed relationship and want to get hitched but legally can't. The crowd of nearly 20,000 shouted their approval.

And, yeah, there's also the video for "Telephone" where she terrorizes the state of Arizona in the "Pussy Wagon" from Kill Bill with Beyonce as her accomplice. As Stephen Humphrey put it in this week's edition of The Portland Mercury, "say what you will about Gaga (perhaps that she's a shameless, faux-artsy Madonna knock-off?), but spectacle-wise, she's still the best thing we've got going these days."

On Sunday, I decided I'd make a half-hearted attempt to get a last minute ticket to her show in Portland. I jumped on Craigslist got a call from "Charlotte" in Vancouver. She was a gal "of a certain age" and needed to sell her ticket, ASAP. She had fallen for someone in California and had decided to run off to be with them. After another buyer fell through, I drove up I-5 to snag it. Charlotte was a somewhat apologetic Lady Gaga fan. "Can you imagine me being there, at my age, with all those kids," she said. "Still, I love her. She's accomplished so much in just a little over a year."

That said, there were plenty of women well over the age of 50 in the Rose Garden last night. All in all, I'd say the audience was comprised of 85% females, 10% "men of a certain persuasion," 5.9999999% boyfriends/husbands that got dragged to the show and .0000001 me. I was completely out of place, wedged up on the 300-level between a blonde lady and her husband and three teenage girls who arrived in leather and ballerina outfits. It seemed like everyone in the building was dressed in a cocktail dress, an elaborate sci-fi outfit or a colored wig. My vote for Best Costume of the Night: the chick who came in a prom dress while wearing not only a bondage mask but a Hannibal Lecter mask too.

Lady Gaga sure knows her way around an arena. She hosted an elaborate stage show worthy of Madonna in her prime. There was a loose plot about Gaga and her crew trying to find their way across Manhattan in search of the "Monster Ball," the premiere party of the year. They get sidetracked after their car breaks down, forcing them to take the subway while dressed as nuns for some reason. They get knocked further off course by a hurricane/chandelier attack and find themselves trapped in Central Park.

Gaga gets attacked by vampires and jumps into a Fountain of Youth adorned with a flaming angel statue during "Alejandro" and cures her wounds. She spends the rest of the show covered in stage blood as the band tears through her best known songs, culminating in a showdown between her and the "Fame Monster," a giant puppet that looks like a cross between an octopus and a unicorn. Click the YouTube video below to watch this bit. Gaga slays the beastie while wearing a bra-powered by fireworks and with the power of the crowd's flashbulbs. For the encore? She rolls out on stage in a sphere and tears through "Bad Romance."

At this point, the entire crowd was in rapture and she had them in the palm of her hand. The girls next to me were acting like it was 1964 and the Beatles were on stage, screaming themselves horse and singing along to every number. During the show, Gaga referred to the crowd affectionately as "motherfuckers," "assholes," and "monsters." Before "Telephone," she called an audience member with a cell phone and chatted with her on the video screens over the stage. She offered to tongue kiss her after the show. No idea if the girl took her up on the offer.

The show also has its more intimate moments. Gaga rolled up to a piano lit ablaze for a few torch songs as a tribute to her father and "the sexiest bastard on the planet." Oh, and I should note the creepy, between-song videos that feature her getting a tattoo and eating a heart.

The argument could be made that Gaga is just another manufactured fake or merely resurrecting Madonna's shtick, right down to the Catholic League-baiting antics. Open up the summer double-issue of Rolling Stone and you'll see a high school photo of Gaga dressed up like a cheerleader. A far cry from the "ugly girl that used to get made fun of by the popular bitches" as she described them last night. Still, she's a hell of a lot more interesting than anything in pop music in nearly two decades. I'd say she has immense potential to transcend her genre and create an album that one need not apologize for if caught listening to it. I guess we'll see....

Click here to see more footage from the show, including "Bad Romance," and "Show Me Your Teeth." Also: a hat tip goes out to Natchiya Hunt for the photo above. She caught the performance from just a few rows back in general admission and brought her camera along.

Labels: music

School is back in session, which means most of my time lately has been devoted to reading case law and trying to figure out why a certain professor didn't order enough books for a class on political theory.

But I did see Quasi and Explode into Colors back on March 27th at the Doug Fir Lounge. Quasi was having what could be simply described as a "shit night." Lead singer and guitarist Sam Coomes couldn't get his guitar to stay in tune causing drummer Janet Weiss to snap at him a few times. All in all, they were acting like miffed ex-lovers....oh, right, they used to be married to one another.

At one point, Coomes became so frustrated that he threw his guitar at the wall and opted to play a few piano songs instead. Janet's snippy response: "well, I guess we're going to have to pay someone to tune your guitar for you on this tour!" They got through the rest of the set and someone backstage gave him another guitar to use. They closed with "It's Raining," one of my personal favorites, and a ho-hum cover of "I Can See for Miles."

The opening act, local band Explode Into Colors, was a total surprise and played a great, short set. With two percussionists and a female lead singer, they sounded sort of like a tribal Yeah Yeah Yeahs with some old black magic from the Doors sprinkled on top. Definitely a band to keep an eye on.

Labels: music

I saw Monsters of Folk at the Schnitz last night. Here's a quick rundown, in a convenient, bullet point format:

The crowd was incredibly polite and acted like they were at a symphony. They politely sat in their in seats and nodded along to the music. The band even commented on how low-key they were and thanked everyone for behaving so well. Mosh pits? No, there were no mosh pits.

Monsters of Folk are a Traveling Whilburys-type "super-group" composed of (Portland's own) M. Ward and members from Bright Eyes and My Morning Jacket. Despite the talent on stage, the Schnitz was only about 1/3 full. It's a shame because it was a pretty good set. Maybe it was because Star Wars: In Concert was going down over at the Rose Garden. Can folk rock really compete against the awesome power of a full symphony orchestra, Anthony Daniels and Queen Amidala's headpiece from Episode 1? Guess not.

One of the guys from My Morning Jacket pointed out that the ornate columns that overlook the stage at the Schnitz look like two giant fish that are about to swoop down into the crowd. I never thought about them that way but, yeah, that's a pretty good description. What are those things?

That M. Ward? He can shred on acoustic guitar.

You can't kill folk n' roll. No matter how low-key or poorly-attended a set might prove. The band was still playing after being on stage for over two hours and thirty minutes.

Labels: music

I can't seem to stop listening to Up From the Below, the debut album from Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, in particular the sixth track "Home." The version that wound up on the final release is tighter than the demo version linked above but I think it's still worth a listen, if you're curious. It's a swell duet and a downright neat soundtrack for a road trip to a cider mill on an autumn day. Oregon has cider mills somewhere, right? Anyway, here's hoping the song doesn't wind up in a Prius commercial.

The album delves a bit too far into Polyphonic Spree territory but it's just the sort of '60s throwback ear candy that can serve as an antidote for a day of blustery, gray weather like the one we had in Portland today.

Labels: music

A few weeks ago, Beck began posting songs from his "Record Club," a series of collaborations with other musicians and producers where they attempt to cover classic albums in a single day. First up is Velvet Underground & Nico (one of my personal favs). Given the fact that they allow themselves little to no time to rehearse, the project is a mixed bag so far. "Sunday Morning" and "Venus in Furs" are both pretty solid but their run-through on "Waiting for My Man" isn't so hot.

A new track will be posted every week and the most recent was "All Tomorrow's Parties." Have a listen over at beck.com.

Labels: music

It seems like the only time I go to a show anymore is to see the Decemberists. I know, I know. A few friends were in Portland from out of town and we went to Edgefield to see the band play the first of two nights out there.

Much like their set at Eugene's McDonald Theater back in May, they played the entirety of The Hazards of Love before returning to the stage for a run through of tracks from their older albums. Sadly, the show wasn't equal to that fantastic barn burner a few months ago. Colin Meloy held back from staging any historical reenactments with members of the crowd and, at no point, did the band descend into the depths of a lengthy acid-rock jam session in the middle of "The Chimbley Sweep."

The cover of Heart's "Crazy on You" though? Fantastic. Maybe the venue has to wrap up concerts at a decent hour in order to avoid pissing off the neighbors at the correctional facility next door or the hotel's guest.

Oh, well. Maybe next time. I'm still hoping that one day I'll get to see the Decemberists stage a reenactment of the Boston Molasses Disaster.

Labels: music

A creepy video for a fairly creepy song. But why does the killer wind up on a Seattle talk show? Isn't Blitzen Trapper supposed to be a Portland band?

Labels: music

Pssst! You wanna bootleg or two for last Thursday's Decemberists' show at the McDonald Theatre? Here you go. Tell no one where you got these. Yeah, yeah, yeah, both files can be opened in iTunes or Quicktime.

The file for the first Hazards of Love set can be downloaded by clicking here.

And the file for the second singles/Oregon Trail reenactment/"let's go storm Spiller Hall" set can be downloaded by clicking here.

Please, enjoy these responsibly. Or not. I seriously doubt that anyone from Columbia Records is going to put forth the effort to send this wee little blog a cease and desist letter.

[Knock on wood. Wood that may or may not have been stepped on by the restless spirit of a 19th-century chimney sweep or a mythical shape-shifting womanizer.]

Labels: music, the law

I've now seen the Decemberists in concert something like six or seven times. Much of this has to do with the fact that the band plays in and around Portland a few times a year. It's like living down the street from a bootlegger. Easy access + boredom = lots of moonshine and/or folk rock band performances.

Feel free to go back and check my math on this. Proximity notwithstanding, the Decemberists are one of the best live bands out there.

Towards the end of their show last night at the McDonald Theatre in Eugene, lead singer Colin Meloy stopped "A Cautionary Tale" to stage a historical reenactment of life along the Oregon Trail with members of the band and the audience. Maybe this has become a concert standard for the Decemberists. Meloy paused a show at the Crystal Ballroom last year to educate the crowd with an impromptu production all about the Shanghai Tunnels.

With random University of Oregon fratboys volunteering to play oxen and other audience members representing the Cascade Mountain Range and the Columbia River, "pioneers" Chris Funk and guest vocalist Shara Worden fought their way across the floor and back to the stage. I can't remember who made it up there first but, at some point, Worden jumped onto the back of one of the fratboys and started slapping him on the head. Why various members of a local fraternity turned up at a folk rock concert, I have no idea.

This is the note the Decemberists ended their show on. Prior to this, the band traded instruments with one another for an acid rock jam session in the middle of "The Chimbley Sweep." Some bands come to a show, rip through a perfect imitation of their studio recordings and call it a night. It's the Decemberists' "what the hell, why not?" crowd interaction and stage banter that keep me coming back for more. Meloy also encouraged the audience to stage a sit-in at his old dorm at the university after the show. I wonder if anyone actually showed up at Spiller Hall last night.

The Decemberists played two sets, the first a run-through of their Hazards of Love concept album, complete with dry ice and lightening effects that made the stage's Macbeth-y forest backdrop seem to pop out over their heads. Guest vocalists Becky Stark and Shara Worden played their roles well, the latter stomping around the stage like something out of Where the Wild Things Are and howling like a legitimate wicked forest queen during "The Wanting Comes in Waves/Repaid." Stark and Worden also pounded on drums during "The Rake's Song," which involved no less than five percussion sets. 'Twas awesome.

After a break, the band returned for a second set of older tracks including "July, July," "We Both Go Down Together" and "Yankee Bayonet (I Will Be Home Then)."

My iPhone was busy recording the show so I didn't manage to take any photos. I'd be happy to share this bootleg with y'all here on the blog and run the risk of receiving a cease and desist letter from Capitol Records over the holiday weekend but iTunes has decided to stop syncing-up properly with my "Speak Easy Recording Application." The image above was pilfered from a review of their recent show in Oakland. Sorry about that.

Labels: music

"While all the other girls were putting Ken dolls on top of their Barbies I was having fantasies about bestiality and cannibalism."

"After being awake for four days straight and once the shadow demons started showing up I decided it was time to go."

Storm Large's one woman show Crazy Enough is filled with dark bon mots like these and they all sound like they were drilled out of the mouth of a Chuck Palahniuk character. Is it a coincidence that the show includes a cover of the Pixies' "Where is My Mind," a song that has become synonymous with the film version of Fight Club?

Probably, but Large's autobiographical hell ride through heroin addiction, mental illness and subsequent redemption sure sounds like the stuff of fiction. Here is a woman who was told at a young age that she was biological predestined to spend her adult life mired in the depths of crippling clinical depression. Her childhood is filled with stories like the time she was served chicken casserole mixed with household cleansers by her schizophrenic mother. Large has been a teenage sex addict, a San Francisco junkie plagued by halluciations, a lead singer, a reality show star and a rock n' roll goddess in a city without one to call its own.

Large's music career is filled with music industry cliches you can find in any biography in the music section of Powell's. Sex, drugs, poverty, gaining fame, losing fame but how many other lead singers, successful and otherwise, can say they once found themselves in an abortion clinic the day after 9/11? Or have a song like "Eight Miles Wide" in their catalog?

Crazy Enough is a show that might make you wonder if it's exploiting the traumas of its star and if Large might be better off telling all of this to a psychiatrist instead of a packed theater in the basement of a renovated armory. As she reveals in the second half of Crazy Enough though, Large once tried going to a therapist. When ghosts started showing up in the corner of the room during sessions she decided to bag it.

For those of us who have never attended a show this frank and confessional, it's fairly intense to watch someone pour their heart out like this. I was sitting a few feet from the stage and had a hard time watching the show at times, especially when Large reenacted the depths of heroin withdrawal while rolling around the stage a few feet from my seat.

From that vantage I could look across the stage at the audience on the other side of the room. One middle-aged couple caught my eye. They looked like they had driven down from Lake Oswego on the recommendation of one of the wife's more cosmopolitan friends. Throughout the performance, she had a hard time fighting back tears and laughter while her husband spent the entire time visibly cringing at every single one of Large's f-bombs.

The band and Large took a short break after a sing-along that sent her into the audience encouraging all the guys in the theater to join in the chorus of "Eight Miles Wide." I didn't think the couple was going to return from the intermission but they did. The theater was filled with husbands that night, some of them rolling with it, others just blushing and rolling their eyes. All the women in the theater though? They enjoyed the hell of everything, possibly even more so than that time they snuck a bottle of merlot into a showing of the Sex and the City movie.

If this sounds like your cup of black tar tea, I can't recommend Crazy Enough, er, enough. From now on I'll think of Storm Large's dark day on a beach near San Fran instead of Fight Club every time I hear "Where is My Mind?" on KNRK. Her cover can be heard here.


Crazy Enough plays in the Ellyn Bye Studio at Portland Center Stage through June 7th. Tickets, info and more can be found here.

Labels: music, theater

A post over at Monitor Mix covers the not-so-unusual phenomenon of using music as a weapon to annoy parents, significant others, office mates, etc. I can think of no other place where this is more common than in college dormitories. Reading the post conjured up some reverse-nostalgia for the hard time I spent in the Soviet-style dorms at the University of Oregon.

During my sophomore year I lived next door to a guy who was completely obsessed with the Grateful Dead. After learning that he absolutely despised the Beastie Boys, I fought back against the tide of his endless live bootlegs with "Professor Booty." He eventually moved out and was replaced by a gent who couldn't get enough of Madonna's "Ray of Light." Precisely at the stroke of 10 AM he would play the song at top volume after returning from a morning class. This served as my alarm clock for the duration of that entire term.

I tracked down a copy of The Immaculate Collection in the hopes that if I fired back with a few of Madonna's older singles it might encourage him to at least try one of her other hits. "Papa Don't Preach" didn't do the trick and neither did "Material Girl" or "Like a Prayer." All of these years later I still wonder why he was so infatuated with that random pop song and if he ever ditched this peculiar morning ritual.

Labels: music

You know whosa great, now defunct NW band named after a highway in Olympia? That thar Sleater-Kinney. And you know whatsa great song by Sleater-Kinney? That thar "Modern Girl." But, dang nabbit, the distortion durin' the last 30 seconds ruins the whole durn thing. I went and paid a whole .99 cents to buy a bona fide copy off iTunes, thinkin' the one I got off Mininova was all banged up but it was all banged up too. Tarnation!

But the YouTubes, they got a great music vider version without all the noise at the end and it's real purty. I think you should listen to it. Just click the button thing up thar and let the waves of pure pop angst and existentialist ennui seep right into yer noggin'.

Labels: music

So I've been officially flipped off by successful recording artist Colin Meloy. Why? Because I asked him to and he kindly obliged. This one is soooooo going up on Facebook.

I went to the Decemberists signing over at Music Millennium on Tuesday night. The store was handing out free posters with copies of The Hazards of Love. Eager to support a "local, independent music store," a "local, oddball rock band" and the "local, empty wall spaces in our respective living rooms" Shanna and I bought two copies.

A line snaked around the store. When we got up to the band Meloy was soliciting opinions about the proposed 12-lane interstate bridge over the Columbia River. No, seriously. I can only assume that random political inquiries are what most indie rock lead singers start muttering after two hours of singing posters for hipsters. Shanna told him she's willing to endorse the proposal provided she doesn't have to pay for it. This earned a nod from Meloy.

I should have asked him about the MLS deal but I was too busy dinking around with the settings on my iPhone.

Labels: music

Dear Savage Love,

I'm a young damsel living in a fictional fantasy world. The other day I was merrily skipping through the woods when I came across an injured fawn. I rushed to its aid and it transformed into a strapping, young lad. I allowed the fire of my loins to trump my otherwise upstanding moral fiber. Caught up in the passionate embrace of this mystical (and quite virile, I might add) woodland creature, I completely forgot about using protection. Now I've got a shape-shifting bun in my oven and I'm in love with its father. What should I do? I fear my unborn might decide to transform into an elephant in utero. And how might I best relate this unusual turn of events to Father?

Signed,

Probably Pregnant With Bambi

There's enough fodder in the Decemberists' The Hazards of Love, to fill a dozen of Dan Savage's advice columns. I'm sure this letter would earn the album's heroine Margaret his standard, go-to response: "dump the mother#@#! already." Of course, she doesn't do this, plunging her further into an hour-long musical odyssey involving an unrepentant con man, a wicked forest witch, ghost children and power cords aplenty.

If a folk-rock concept album that mixes equal parts Little Red Riding Hood with Juno sounds ridiculous, well, think back to the plots of The Wall and Tommy. Not to reveal any spoilers but, at no point, does Margaret form a cult centered around pinball machines or spend any time in a metaphorical courtroom lorded over by a gigantic butt-shaped magistrate.

Like those albums, The Hazards of Love is grand in scope, ambition and marinated in pretentiousness. Singer-song writer Colin Meloy took the kitchen sink approach here. On top of slide guitars, harpsichords, banjos and pump organs there's a kiddie choir straight out of "Another Brick in the Wall Part 2." The music deviates from country to folk to metal to chamber music to prog rock to any given Andrew Lloyd Webber musical and back again.

Like the band itself, the album shouldn't work but it does and it does so harder than a hundred chimbley chimney sweeps. Is The Hazards of Love relentlessly cheesy, cheeky, dark and unlikely to win the Decemberists any new fans? Probably. For those that can handle the not-so cheery subject matter, there's "The Rake Song," the best (and likely only) radio-friendly pop song that will ever be recorded about flicide. FYI: according to this, the Decemberists average death count per song currently stands at 0.92. I wonder how that number stacks up against Johnny Cash's catalog.

And how long until a local theater group decides to produce a stage version?

Grade: A-

The Hazards of Love is already available on iTunes and will be released in stores on Tuesday the 24th. The band will be at Music Millennium that evening for a signing and will play the McDonald Theater in Eugene on May 21st and at the Sasquatch Festival on May 23rd.

Labels: music