alexi murdoch Doug Fir, 2/25

THURSDAY 2/22

JAMIE FOXX, SPEEDY

(Rose Garden, One Center Court) See My, What a Busy Week!, pg. 15.

DAVID BOWIE TRIBUTE: LOCH LOMOND, THE SORT OFS, LAEL ALDERMAN, THE UPSIDEDOWN, THE ONES, JIM BRUNBERG, GINA NOELLE, DAVE CAMP, THE VERY FOUNDATION, MIRAFLORES

(Doug Fir, 830 E Burnside) I remember when they used to call these "Hoot Nights." The premise is simple enough: Choose one artist to cover, then get a whole mess of bands to pick a song or two and BAM! Instant theme night! While all the acts on this bill are doubtlessly capable of plucking gems from the Thin White Duke's greatest hits songbook, what's most intriguing is the presence of less rock-centered artists, like indiefolkers Loch Lomond. It really starts to get the mental gears turning—how cool would it be if these tribute nights opened their doors to a wider swath of genres? Imagine a Rasta take of "Rebel Rebel," or an epic Gamelan rendition of "Heroes"... JOSH BLANCHARD

THE DAN BAND, BUTTERY LORDS

(Roseland, 8 NW 6th) Buttery Lords—three local white guys doing jokey hiphop—are annoying. (It's important, there, not to confuse "jokey" with either "funny" or "fun.") Here's what I think of every time I hear these guys' album, Buttered for Her Pleasure: That fucking goof at the party. You know the kid: like 17, 18 years old? Baggy cargos and Hot Topic T-shirt? Baseball cap with the brim at a 45-degree angle? The kid who walks into a party—uninvited, but tagging along 'cause he's like somebody's cousin or something—and he's like "Par-TAY! Where my niggas at?" and everybody's like, "Aw, fuck. Time to go home." But this kid just guffaws, and then: "Let's kick out some phat jamz, yo! Hey, who saw Family Guy last night?! Ha-HAW! Daaaamn! Who's got the chronic?" Then everybody goes home. Yeah: Buttery Lords are like if some malicious scientist combined the worst parts of the Beastie Boys, Pauly Shore, and that party-killing douche. Buttered for her pleasure, indeed. ERIK HENRIKSEN

CALI AGENTS, PLANET ASIA, RASCO, MYG, SANTOTZIN, SERGE SEVERE

(Berbati's Pan, 10 SW 3rd) After a seeming lifetime in the rap "game," it isn't easy recommending the emcee collaboration of Planet Asia and Rasco. Planet Asia was an underground darling briefly in 2001, and has since shakily woven himself into the bottom rungs of rap culture. Rasco, on the other hand, has burdened audiences with a handful of spotty, poorly produced albums, surviving only on Planet Asia's tattered coattails. Only Rasco's fiery stage presence makes a viewing of their live show worthwhile. Uninhibited by a studio's pressures, Rasco struts about on stage like a poor man's Boots Riley. The sizeable emcee both shakes and shimmies his considerable girth in a nearly hypnotic fashion, managing to draw your thoughts away from the generic West Coast thump and tepid lyrics oozing out of the speakers. NOAH SANDERS

VIKING MOSES, SAM HUMANS, FLASPAR, MORGAN'S ORANGE

(Artistery, 4315 SE Division) Some people emit a radiance that is unexplainable. You'll hear about it when they are mentioned by others, even see it in action from afar on occasion. Then your time comes and you find yourself basking in the same inexplicable glow that you found so bewildering before. To an extent this vibe is like a magnet or collapsing star, pulling all things to its center and shining the light of million-degree fusion just before infinite density and complete obliteration. Brendon Massei is just such a guy, warming all satellites at his fire. Somewhere along his crooked path he deemed Viking Moses a better conduit for his transmissions, and throughout the last decade he has traipsed across sand and sea, spreading the word. O.RYNE WARNER

BOYSKOUT, LKN, HEY LOVER

(Holocene, 1001 SE Morrison) The last time I saw LKN was at the Tonic Lounge opening for Thee Emergency and Kleveland. I found myself in a room full of women who could kick my ass, including, of course, Lauren K. Newman. It was an intimidating situation, to say the least, but oddly enough one that I found appealing. Newman owned the stage. The room stood at attention as she held court, cursing her malfunctioning pedals, her cold, and anything else in her way, all the while beating the holy hell out of her guitar. She kept apologizing for how "bad" it sounded, but I tuned her out. First of all, she was wrong, and second, all I could think about was how, if I ever do get my ass beat by a woman, I hope it's one as legit as LKN. I'd totally brag about it. MATT DRISCOLL

KILAUEA, FLOATING GOAT, WHEEL OF PAIN

(Tonic Lounge, 3100 NE Sandy) Growing up on a goat farm, and being a metal connoisseur, I have run across a lot of "goat bands." LA's Goatsnake were one of the best. BC's Goatsblood, too. I have a very cool Darkthrone record called Goatlord (they're Norwegian). Goatwhore were pretty cool when they started, but I lost interest after one album. SF's Lost Goat was a personal favorite, but they broke up. So now San Francisco offers up Floating Goat, who are ably keeping the dream alive, playing metal-tinged stoner rock in a tight and professional manner. They say goat cheese is much better for you than normal cheese, right? NATHAN CARSON

FRIDAY 2/23

BOOMBOX FRIDAY: DAT'R, E*ROCK, DJ P. DISCO, DJ BJ

(Holocene, 1001 SE Morrison) See My, What a Busy Week!, pg. 15.

JOHNNY CASH TRIBUTE: JOSHUA JAMES, TREVA JACKSON, KATE MANN, MYRRH LARSEN, MARS NEEDS WOMEN!

(Ash Street Saloon, 225 SW Ash) When people gather to honor Johnny Cash, why do they always have to cover the same era of his life? Sure, The Man in Black was quite the badass when blaring through "Ring of Fire" and "Jackson" with June by his side, but why does no one cover The Johnny Cash Show days? I want to see someone tip their Stetson in honor of Cash at his rhinestone peak, complete with the studio audience, Jim Varney, and those goddamn Statler Brothers. You do that, and I'll be there. EZRA ACE CARAEFF

BRIGHTBLACK MORNING LIGHT, WOMEN AND CHILDREN, MARIEE SIOUX

(Doug Fir, 830 E Burnside) Listening to Brightblack Morning Light, I cringe as I stare down into the abyss of the pigeonhole these souls must endure. In truth, words like "stoned," "sleepy," "groove heavy," and "psychedelic" provide service neither to the band nor the hackneyed music writer employing them. Brightblack Morning Light is better than that. In fact they are the decoratively feathered shuttlecock in an opiate-friendly badminton match between Harry Nilsson and Curtis Mayfield. They are nimble-fingered Southern hippies channeling the ghosts of Billy Jack's ancestors into today from tomorrow and yesterday, providing a beautiful aesthetic payoff. LANCE CHESS

SCISSORS FOR LEFTY, WET CONFETTI, THE SHAKY HANDS

(The Rusty Nail, Lewis & Clark Campus) San Francisco's Scissors for Lefty are incredibly slick and come armed with an arsenal of confident, if not pretentious, tunes. Like a Left Coast the Walkmen, Scissors for Lefty are not afraid to untuck those prep-school uniforms and get a little dirty. No wonder Rough Trade UK recently signed the band. Kate Moss, get ready, your new boys are coming. EAC

NICKELBACK, BREAKING BENJAMIN, THREE DAYS GRACE

(Memorial Coliseum, 300 Winning Way) Twenty-five million copies, give or take a few million. That is how many records Nickelback has sold the world over. Think of your top three favorite bands ever—unless they are the Eagles, Pink Floyd, and Led Zeppelin, odds are Nickelback has out-sold them all. The generic "hard" rock, the poodle hair, the whole Canadian thing... none of this matters. Nickelback is your god. You will struggle your entire existence and rest forever in a pauper's grave, never achieving a sliver of the wealth and success of this band. Here is how life works: You lose, Nickelback wins. The end. EAC

SATURDAY 2/24

GLENN KOTCHE, NELS CLINE

(Doug Fir, 830 E Burnside) See My, What a Busy Week!, pg. 15 and Music, pg. 19

GRAYSKUL, BASTINADO, BUILT BY GIANTS, NO RED FLAGS, COOL NUTZ, FRANK FURTER & THE HOTDOGS, DJ NO REQUEST

(Berbati's Pan, 10 SW 3rd) There is a certain epic spectacle to a Grayskul show that can be enjoyable. The butt-rock lighting effects, the emcees clad in goth-worthy black monk robes, and the pulsing bass guitar of faux-rocker Rob Castro. And in terms of enjoyment, that's about it. The rest of the show seems to exist in some sort of faux-goth dimension, populated only by weepy, white make-up sporting teenyboppers and Onry Ozzborne. The "spooky" lyrics and "spine-tingling" howls emitted by JFK are thankfully washed out by the overly orchestrated, rock-rap mash-ups Grayskul claims are hiphop beats. Those drawn by the allure of stage theatrics, be warned: They grow stale quickly, and then all you're left with is—gulp—the music. NS

TALL BIRDS, THE AX, THE LIGHTS, THE GIRLS

(Rotture, 315 SE 3rd) Maybe last time you went to see the Tall Birds you found a note on the door of the Towne Lounge that said "something happened, show's cancelled, don't worry." You had nothing to do so you wandered around the cold wet Portland streets with a bottle of beer in a bag, the only thing separating you from the bums is at least you had a plan. Or maybe it happened when you went to see the Ax at Tube last go-round. Well not tonight, dammit. Both bands are here to make it up to you; Seattle's Tall Birds with their ripping, raw pop jabs and the Ax with their thunderous, manic, heavy swipes. ANDREW R. TONRY

TARA JANE O'NEIL, ILYAS AHMED, GROUPER

(Valentine's, 232 SW Ankeny) The strange and elusive Grouper makes a special appearance at the intimate downtown alley eatery Valentine's. Her one-woman psychedelic dronescapes are druggy electronic dreams. Good for making out, or just tripping out. She will create a very nice ambience prior to the main event. Tara Jane O'Neil is one of the most welcome transplants Portland has gotten (and we've had a lot lately). Her voice is sweet and aching. Her guitar style complements quiet feedback and sad, finger-plucked arpeggios. Her years of experience lend an evocative potency. This is a special evening of raw beauty. NC

JUCIFER, ACID KING, BLACK COBRA

(Dante's, 1 SW 3rd) Grunge bands with lady singers. Not so edgy these days. But Jucifer buck the trend, and Ms. Amber Valentine's poisoned bitching is surprisingly tuneful over all that heavy fuzz. Valentine's rhythm and phrasing is reminiscent of other vocal greats, and there's a look in her heavily made-up eyes that says, "Damn right, I'll put this shotgun in my mouth." Yet, even on such thrash-fests as "Long Live the King," she might be thinking, "I'm sweet, I'm innocent," inside—even as she belts out the nastiest fuckwords. Heavenly, sinful ambiguity—that's how she sounds. Long live Jucifer! And their faithful Fender Jaguar! MATT DAVIS

SUNDAY 2/25

THIS BIKE IS A PIPE BOMB, DEFIANCE OHIO, AUTISTIC YOUTH, RED HERRING

(Satyricon, 125 NW 6th) See Music, pg. 19.

ALEXI MURDOCH, MIDNIGHT MOVIES

(Doug Fir, 830 E Burnside) Never been to Glasgow. It would take a plane ticket, some connecting flights, and would result in a pair of legs falling painfully asleep a bunch of times. It's probably a lovely land to visit, but if we can take Alexi Murdoch's Time Without Consequence as any kind of indication as to the lay of it, Glasgow is an older Wyoming or Montana, where a sky is bigger than an imagination and soaked in the kind of terrific melancholy and comfortable sadness that is mostly available through isolation. Murdoch can silence you with romantic sentiments of all varieties that—even with his thick Scottish accent—sound like they might be coming from one of our American country and western heroes, Randy Travis. SEAN MOELLER

MONDAY 2/26

ATOLE, DAGGER OF THE MIND, DJ NATE C

(Tube, 18 NW 3rd) See My, What a Busy Week!, pg. 15.

SNOW PATROL, OK GO, SILVERSUN PICKUPS

(Memorial Coliseum, 300 Winning Way) If you haven't realized this already, you missed the Silversun Pickup boat. Bummer, bro. It's way too late to start claiming you've been with them since the beginning. And name dropping them among your musically in-the-know friends won't do much good either. Christ! They're on tour with Snow Patrol and doing stints on Leno and the Carson Daly show. You can say they sound like they're from LA (which is true). You can say they sound like Smashing Pumpkins. Or if you're feeling risky you can even whip out a Wheatus comparison. But calling them unknown, at this point, just makes you look dumb. Sorry. MATT DRISCOLL

TUESDAY 2/27

CARTEL, COBRA STARSHIP, BOYS LIKE GIRLS, QUIET DRIVE

(Roseland, 8 NW 6th) See Music, pg. 17.

BIG HEAD TODD & THE MONSTERS, RECKLESS KELLY

(Crystal Ballroom, 1332 W Burnside) In my book, Big Head Todd and the Monsters are perhaps two rungs above the Spin Doctors on the musical ladder—but I'm kind of a dick. Logic tells me there must be something to their nearly two-decade career and low-level cult following. Then again, cult followings don't always equate with coolness, and there's a lot of crap that's been around forever. Logic tells me there must be something to the fact that people continue to pay to see Big Head Todd play. Then again, people will pay for almost anything these days. Why is Todd's head so big? I'll probably never know. I guess one way to find out would be to trek down to the Crystal Ballroom for the show, but, thing is... I don't really give a fuck. MATT DRISCOLL

WEDNESDAY 2/28

THE ANNUALS, PILOT SPEED

(Doug Fir, 830 E Burnside) See My, What a Busy Week!, pg. 15.

LAMB OF GOD, TRIVIUM, MACHINE HEAD, GOJIRA

(Roseland, 8 NW 6th) It's common knowledge that Lamb of God is the heavy metal equivalent of the virgin piña colada. The Richmond, VA band goes through all the motions of being heavy metal, but never quite delivers on that dark promise—instead they just act as some band that opens for Slayer, who you totally don't see because you're at the bar waiting for Kerry King to take the stage. They are the type of metal band that is nominated for cheesy awards like MTV2's "Ultimate Metal God," only to lose to a Christian band clad entirely in Diesel jeans (As I Lay Dying). You can't hate a band like Lamb of God, you just sort of feel sorry for them. It's okay guys, walk it off. Someday if you wish and pray hard enough, maybe you'll be a real metal band. EAC

THE CASSETTES, SIMPL

(Towne Lounge, 714 SW 20th Pl) The Cassettes have a really interesting and intriguing idea for their gimmick: steampunk as a musical genre. But for all their trying to feel like ye olde musick (including a podcast called The Cassettes Radio Hour, radio commercials and all), the music just sounds like any normal, serious band that has been around the block in Your Town, America. I want the Cassettes to feel like a new version of old music (or even just feel like old music); instead I keep thinking about the fictional band Blueshammer from the movie Ghost World, claiming to play "authentic Delta blues" and then launching into bombast about picking cotton all-day long. This is a perfect example of a band billing themselves as something but actually coming across as something else, and it's just too bad. JIM WITHINGTON