ANDRE WILLIAMS, THE FLASH EXPRESS, THE ONES, THE BEAUTY
(Dante's, 1 SW 3rd) See My, What a Busy Week!, pg. 19.
MIDDIAN, MINSK, RABBITS
(Tonic Lounge, 3100 NE Sandy) "No more death roars for me." So says former YOBster Mike Scheidt, who left Eugene's cosmic metal YOB for the equally dooming Middian. From now on he'll handle the "clean" singing, while bassist Will Lindsay takes over the heavy, throat-damaging stuff. Regardless of who provides the deathly moans, it's Middian's punishing and precise instrumental breakdowns that make this band so appealing to heshers and metal novices alike. It takes a lot of chutzpah to build up such grand arrangements of riffs and drums, only to gleefully destroy them with such ease. Don't they know that stoner metal bands shouldn't show this much initiative? No matter who handles the roars, Middian, you're making your competition look bad. EZRA ACE CARAEFF
BIG BUSINESS, MAGICK DAGGERS, THE BETTER TO SEE YOU WITH
(Doug Fir, 830 E Burnside) "Fuscular." That's the word a Scottish friend of mine coined to describe band dudes like Jared Warren, bassist and vocalist for Big Business. Guys who carry around a bit of heft, but also have plenty of muscle coiled between their flesh and bones. "Fuscular" sums up the sound of the duo—which also features Coady Willis behind the drum kit—damn near perfectly. Their second album, Here Come the Waterworks, offers up more of the propulsive, progressive punk-metal that earned them full-time membership in the Melvins. Like some creepy sci-fi slime monster that crawled out of a meteorite (or prime Black Sabbath), the music of Big Business moves with startling speed and deadly accuracy for something so bottom heavy. Brace yourself. KURT B. REIGHLEY
CHROME, HELIOS CREED, SMEGMA, SORIAH, I AM THE ARM
(Rotture, 315 SE 3rd) Since 1976, Chrome has held the distinction of being one of rock's most unclassifiable bands. Teetering on the line between industrial, art punk, and psychedelica, their early albums—Alien Soundtracks, Half Machine Lip Moves, and Red Exposure—are absolute must-haves for lovers of truly damaged music. I won't lie to you, I've heard reports that Chrome performances in recent years can be a bit dodgy. However, with this year's re-releases of the band's classic albums, and frontman Helios Creed's renewed touring vigor, Chrome seems to be riding a new wave of momentum, so here's hoping some of that will spill out onto the stage tonight. JOSH BLANCHARD
HUNGRY MOB, THE BETTER TO SEE YOU WITH, STRENGTH, THE HUGS, ASHES TO ASHES
(Hawthorne Theatre, 1507 SE 39th) See My, What a Busy Week!, pg. 19.
MIRAH, MECCA NORMAL, LOVERS
(Aladdin Theater, 3017 SE Milwaukie) See Music, pg. 21.
CSS, BUSDRIVER, DJ BEYONDA
(Doug Fir, 830 E Burnside) See Music, pg. 23.
AWOL ONE, JOSH MARTINEZ, GRAY MATTERS, ROCKET ONE
(Berbati's Pan, 10 SW 3rd) Backpackers rejoice! Your prodigal son—AWOL One—has returned! That's right, the man who inspired more Jansport purchases than a back-to-school sale at Wal-Mart is coming to rap/mumble his way through a set of cerebral hiphop madness. Holding it down for the LA underground since the late '90s, both as a solo act and as a member of the seminal collective the Shape Shifters, AWOL One has continuously pushed the bounds for what can be considered hiphop. Occasionally using a slow, deep, possibly stoned-out drawl, AWOL One can sound like he's a chopped and screwed parody of himself, but he also has the ability to strike with some aggravated force. ROB SIMONSEN
THE QUEERS, THE METHADONES, THE MANGES, THE ANXIETIES
(Satyricon, 125 NW 6th) The Methadones are quickly becoming Chicago punk rock legends, which is fitting, since their membership includes the duo of Dan Schafer/Vapid (ex-Screeching Weasel, Sludgeworth, and Riverdales) and Mike Byrne (ex-Vindictives). They've certainly got a bit of the Ramones' vocal stylings—the very same style that Chicago pop-punk bands have reworked and revised since the '90s. But don't attribute their longevity to pedigree or to latching on to pop-punk's popularity, as their anthem-loaded singles—like "TV World" ("I see commercials for DeVry and ITT/But they just make me want to go back to sleep")—still make all the aging punks turn up the volume, much the same way Rancid did back when you were still in high school. JIM WITHINGTON
YOUNG GALAXY, ADAM GNADE & THE CONFEDERATE YANKEES, STARFUCKER
(Towne Lounge, 714 SW 20th Pl) For Canadian band Young Galaxy, somehow their name says it all. Stephen Ramsay and Catherine McCandless have brought together a group of musicians that have successfully helped congregate milky ways and constellations into the grooves of the needle. Jace Lasek, the lead singer of the spectacular Besnard Lakes, recorded the band's self-titled debut album and it feels expectantly expansive and warm-blooded. It's Ramsay who leads the rest of the five-piece—which goes out of its way to find state parks and greenery on the road—in belting out the declaration that "life's not a rehearsal." They've just made a record that could be the next big thing to come from our peace-loving neighbors to the north. But for now, just bring some cookies to the show, as Ramsay's nursing a broken wing. SEAN MOELLER
SLEEPWALKERS R.I.P., THE ESTRANGED, BURIED BLOOD, PHANTOM LIGHTS
(Tonic Lounge, 3100 NE Sandy) For my money (of which there ain't much), the Phantom Lights are the best all-girl band in town. But wait a minute, since I don't have much money, I guess that would mean the Phantom Lights are all that much more impressive, right? Yeah, I think so. The three ladies trade instruments, each takes her turn at the mic, and every permutation spits out its own inky signature, from dark '80s pop and punky garage to some dissident, spaced-out shit. If that weren't enough, tonight marks the release of the band's new 10-inch on Hovercraft Records. Not bad, eh? Pretty much the only way you're not going to dig the Phantom Lights is if you hate girls or rock 'n' roll. And in that case, I hate you. ANDREW R. TONRY
LAURA VEIRS, LAKE
(Aladdin Theater, 3017 SE Milwaukie) You're up in your Southeast apartment avoiding cooking or doing the dishes or really doing anything aside from sitting in the path of your box fan's breeze, and you hit up Laura Veirs' latest, Saltbreakers. "Don't lose yourself/don't let yourself be lost," she sings with her backup band, sounding like a more personable Imogen Heap, or maybe what Jenny Lewis would sound like if she stopped being so maudlin all the time. You crack open the champagne of beers that you bought because it was cheap, not because it's hip, put on some headphones, breathe in the summer, and forget about the heat. JW
JOEY PORTER'S TRIBUTE TO SLY & THE FAMILY STONE
(Goodfoot, 2845 SE Stark) Pop quiz, hotshot: Name the best American band. First off, Dylan does not count. We want a band here, not a solo artist. Secondly, if you say the Dead or the Doors, I will punch you in the neck. It's actually a harder question to ponder than you'd think. My nomination? Sly & the Family Stone. From '67-'74, Sly Stone's motley posse represented a fantastic hybrid of rock, soul, and funk, and—if sampling is a sign of respect—they were a monumental influence on the birth of hiphop. Plus, the group was a melting pot of race and gender, one that represented the hope of the Flower Power Generation, plus the seething darkness that came with the dawn of the '70s. Tonight, eight local musicians pay a loving tribute to Sly, Cynthia, and the whole gang. Do your country proud and don't miss this tribute to our nation's greatest band. EAC
(Slabtown, 1033 NW 16th) Mmmm. Sex Robots. Virtual vagina and digital dick. That shit would be HOT! Alas, these Sex Robots are from St. Louis, and they seem more adept with power-pop chops and snarky choruses than inducing electronic ejaculations. It's kind of a letdown, until you find yourself all alone on the MAX with a Replacements-esque, power chord-fueled glucose-riser stuck in your head instead of a nasty raw spot down below from rubbing your hard-on against a hard drive. While I may decide to stay home and think of more dirty words that start with the same letter as electronic devices, you may want to help the Sex Robots pay for the gas to get back home. They're a long way from St. Louis, after all. MATT DRISCOLL
(Someday Lounge, 125 NW 5th) The addition of five (count 'em, FIVE) full-time members to Ritchie Young's pet project Loch Lomond has done wonders for this band. At one point, I found Young's solo work to be tedious, and at times pretentious. It could've been Young's lack of a sounding board for his ideas, or maybe just an ego thing, but Loch Lomond sounded restricted before, shackled by the limits of a musical master's brain waves. Now with six members (a veritable think-tank of musical ideas), there's a warmth present that was lacking in previous recordings, a fullness that raises Young's previous work to the top shelf. It's like an embittered bachelor marrying into a family of five. All of sudden it's group hugs, family dinners, and board game night around the cracklin' fire. The singular mind of the group patriarch is forced to expand, and with that expansion comes a much-needed evolution in sound that I promise you'll appreciate. NOAH SANDERS
THE ROSEBUDS, LAND OF TALK
(Doug Fir, 830 E Burnside) See Music, pg. 21.
LUCINDA WILLIAMS, KELLY JOE PHELPS
(Crystal Ballroom, 1332 W Burnside) Lucinda and me parted ways on that gravel road somewhere around the end of the last century. I was just too damn young for her, and while I had some growing up to do, I wasn't ready to cash in the chips of my youth for Williams' wonderful, yet very adult, take on country music. I wanted more shit kickin' from my cowboy boots, which, given my age back then, wasn't really too much to ask. It was nothing personal, of course, as Williams' sultry singing has always taken a backseat to her vivacious songwriting, which to this day—with this year's West—is as good as it's ever been. But now I'm ready to head back down to Lake Charles and get reacquainted with Ms. Williams. To be honest, all I have to remember of these past few years we've been apart is the regret of not paying closer attention to the excellent music she has been making. EAC
BLACK SUNDAY: BRAVE PRIEST, POSEIDON, DJ NATE C
(Ground Kontrol, 511 NW Couch) In the last year, whenever I've been asked who my new favorite Portland band is, the answer has been Dark Yoga, with the response invariably being, "Who?" More than any of their local peers, Dark Yoga presents a full-spectrum psychedelic experience that boasts equal mastery of epic Komische
journeys and subdued sonic meditations. Sadly, Dark Yoga seems to have fallen into an open-ended hiatus, but thankfully we still have Brave Priest, a stripped-down unit culled from their sister band's melodic core. While significantly less exotic, this power trio chomps the jams down to the bone and gristle with their sincere take on acid-tinged American boogie rock. JB
MICE PARADE, TOM BROSSEAU, KIRA KIRA
(Someday Lounge, 125 NW 5th) Fun music fact of the week: The name Mice Parade is really just an anagram for founder Adam Pierce's name. If I tried that with my own music project, it'd be called either I'm Señor Snob, Men Sin or Sob, or Be in Mrs. Soon, all of which don't quite have the same ring to it. No matter though, I'm happy letting Mice Parade control the anagrammed music market. Their electronic brand of folk-ridden post-rock is sublime, and as they rely heavily on percussion, Mice Parade have created a sound not unlike the Books or Four Tet. But where the latter incorporate more experimentation, Mice Parade use straightforward melodies, often leading to smooth, post-rock-like transcendence that is nothing short of inspiring. RS
HOT CHIP, PLANNINGTOROCK, DATAROCK
(Wonder Ballroom, 128 NE Russell) See My, What a Busy Week!, pg. 19 and Music, pg. 23.
WE'RE FROM JAPAN, JOY WANTS ETERNITY, BRIGHT RED PAPER
(Towne Lounge, 714 SW 20th Pl) Seattle's Joy Wants Eternity unfurl gasping instrumental freakouts on top of a warmed-over bed of guitar swirl and crackling hiss. This friendly assault on your senses continues, as the band beams films over themselves as they perform. I'm not one for the hallucinogens, but if I was, their tempered post-rock might be the ideal situation to partake in some mind-melting good times. Of course, such activities are highly illegal, and I could never condone them. Me? Well, I'm a tall-glass-of-milk kind of guy, thanks for asking. Why don't more bars serve up a frosty mug of some two percent? My, that would be swell. EAC
ENDWELL, DESTROY THE RUNNER, CALICO SYSTEM, BLOODLINED CALLIGRAPHY
(Satyricon, 125 NW 6th) Female-fronted Christian thrash bands are few and far between, so it's faint praise to anoint Bloodlined Calligraphy as the best of the bunch. However, the group's esoteric categorization doesn't matter on disc, where Ellen Hoffman's guttural vocals cloak her sex and render lines such as "Save us, oh God" indecipherable; or live, where Bloodlined Calligraphy's sheer brutality renders tangential concerns irrelevant. Eric Cargile's rumbling bass lines, often isolated as the prelude to seismic breakdowns, give this group an unassailable rhythmic foundation, while guitarists Ryan Hampton and Shawn Williams shred and chug with equal ferocity. Bloodlined Calligraphy's latest album Ypsilanti pays titular tribute to their hometown and musical homage to early Sick of it All and DRI. ANDREW MILLER
ALAN SINGLEY & PANTS MACHINE, THE QUIET ONES, HURAH HURAH
(Towne Lounge, 714 SW 20th Pl) Oh, my aching teeth! The sugary-sweet pop of Hurah Hurah is syrupy enough to rot out your cynical chompers, like it or not. Their adorable sound is a trip back to when twee was king (or perhaps, queen), and it was totally acceptable to pepper each song with an never-ending supply of "ooohhh" harmonies, bells, whistles, and whatever percussion instruments you could find lying around. Plus they are young—at least, judging by their MySpace snaps they are—which means that while the Hurahx2 crew might be playing Towne Lounge's stage, they won't be lingering at the bar when finished. Instead, you can probably catch them lingering outside on the sidewalk, the dreaded holding pen of all underage performers stuck in a town ruled by the cruel fist of the OLCC. EAC
IMA ROBOT, TIGERCITY, HAIRBRAIN SCHEME
(Lola's Room, 1332 W Burnside) See My, What a Busy Week!, pg. 19.