DOSH, ANATHALLO, CARS & TRAINS
(Doug Fir, 830 E Burnside) See Music Feature.
DUANE JARVIS BENEFIT: BLACK FRANCIS, WILLY VLAUTIN, BILLY
RANCHER'S UNREAL GODS, NVRSAYNVR, JON KOONCE & ONE MORE MILE, THE
(Wonder Ballroom, 128 NE Russell) Singer/songwriter Duane Jarvis spent many years in Nashville—where he worked with Lucinda Williams, John Prine, and countless others—but he's originally from Portland and was recently inducted into the Oregon Music Hall of Fame. Jarvis has been diagnosed with colon cancer, and as he is a uninsured professional musician... well, you know where this is going. Tonight's HOME (Help Offset Medical Expenses) benefit show features a pretty spectacular bill, including former collaborator Frank Black, local songwriter/novelist par excellence Willy Vlautin of Richmond Fontaine, and a reunion of Jarvis' old band from the '80s, the Odds, which features Duane's brother Kevin Jarvis alongside Jim Wallace and Ben Davis. So come out and relive some of Portland's musical past, and support a very worthy—if familiar—cause. NED LANNAMANN
FOGHORN DUO, HUCK NOTARI
(Mississippi Studios, 3939 N Mississippi) Caleb Klauder and Stephen "Sammy" Lind have branched off old-time bluegrass ensemble Foghorn Stringband to record the Lonesome Song album on their own. Appropriately enough, they call themselves Foghorn Duo, and if you've ever spent a moment with Foghorn Stringband's authentic folksy revival, you're going to like the duo just as much. It's timeless music, played with guitar and fiddle, with occasional mandolin and banjo, and it'll shake loose some long-dormant part of your ancestral soul to get you thinking about traveling railway lines, or courting fair young maidens, or minding how you're going to feed your trusty horse, let alone yourself. The songs are mostly standards, with the occasional original seamlessly thrown in, but it's no time warp—Foghorn Duo's pickin' and singin' anchors you perfectly in this precise moment of being alive. This is the second-to-last show ever in the original Mississippi Studios before they rip it down to rebuild a venue three times bigger and better. NL
FLOBOTS, DEBASER, ILLMACULATE,
ONLY ONE, GRAY MATTERS
(Berbati's Pan, 10 SW 3rd) Rock radio needs to keep its dirty hands off of hiphop. I'm sorry, but if I never have to hear 311, Linkin Park, or the Bloodhound Gang again, I will die a happy man. Now I can add a new name to that list—Denver's Flobots. Their song "Handlebars" has somehow managed to become a top 10 hit on the rock charts (and is subsequently missing entirely from the rap one), and holy hell if it isn't awful. With vaguely political lyrics layered over a cheesy simplistic beat (that comes complete with the necessary operatic vocals, of course), it really sounds like some rejected Rage Against the Machine B-side as covered by Cake. RS
THE CHICHARONES (9
(Berbati's Pan, 10 SW 3rd) See My, What a Busy Week!.
ISLANDS, DESPOT, CRAYONSMITH
(Hawthorne Theatre, 1507 SE 39th) See Music Feature.
LASERS ALL THE TIME, SHIM, HOCKEY
(Slabtown, 1033 NW 16th) See Once More with Feeling.
(Aladdin Theater, 3017 SE Milwaukie) There is a connective tissue that bonds people of African descent across bodies of water, but it's one fashioned by work and wounds, not genetics. So when Africa is heard in the Americas, as in the resurrected '70s Senegalese band Orchestra Baobab, it's because someone carried, preserved, and reworked a tradition in a new place. Baobab's mostly middle-aged members continue to generate the culturally, harmonically, and rhythmically dense hip-rockers that once charmed off-duty Senegalese government officials at Dakar's Baobab Club and heavily influenced the world music scene since their mid-'80s sabbatical. Mostly recognized for their Cuban strains, the manifold cultures of Senegal pulse powerfully in the band's well-worn repertoire. JALYLAH BURRELL
JEREMY ENIGK, DAMIEN JURADO, BRYAN FREE
(Dante's, 1 SW 3rd) The seminal touchstones of Jeremy Enigk's career have been pontificated upon enough by the popular media to fill volumes of post-punk tomes. However, the relevance of his larger umbrella of output allows for Enigk's regular citing as a major musical entity since Sunny Day Real Estate's demise. After the initial hiatus of SDRE, Enigk's release of Return of the Frog Queen reminded longtime listeners that it was his fearlessness in embracing a wide-ranging cadre of rhythmic influences and ethereal spirituality that made his past projects so unique. The subsequent solo releases of World Waits and The Missing Link only furthered the allure of Enigk's brash sentimentalities in a scene that could have swept him under the proverbial rug, had it the broom to follow through. His live shows are unmitigated inspiration, and he's showing absolutely zero signs of slowing down. Score one for all of us. RYAN J. PRADO
THE NEIL HAMBURGER COUNTRY WINNERS REVUE
(Doug Fir, 830 E Burnside) There are three standard reactions to a Neil Hamburger performance: laugh with him, laugh at him, or sit there totally confused and possibly upset. Regardless of which describes your take on the comedian—who once single-handedly cleared out the Meow Meow while emceeing a show—he skirts the funny/not funny line with the flair of Tony Clifton, complete with his hokey punchline, "But, that's my life!" Now Hamburger has branched out with Neil Hamburger Sings Country Winners, an album of wacky country songs sung in his deadpan, warbling voice. His backing band features members of the Tubes and the Rentals, and if even his musical endeavors feel like a hipster version of Ray Stevens, there is never an excuse to miss Hamburger when he takes the stage. EZRA ACE CARAEFF
ELDER MASON, KIKI, ANOTHER CYNTHIA
(Kelly's Olympian, 426 SW Washington) Kiki's music sounds like it could have warmed a spot on a mid-'90s motion picture soundtrack geared toward teenagers. Those saccharine-sweet power pop arrangements recall imagery of girls gathering at a slumber party, spinning old Bangles records while they hysterically suck helium from birthday balloons and do Cyndi Lauper impersonations. Then, as they talk shit about all their ex-boyfriends, one girl accidentally confesses to another that she made out with the birthday girl's lover while they were "technically broken up." Hair pulling and scratches ensue. To complement such a storyline, Kiki's music would appear toward the end when best friends reunite after resolving that the betrayal was a farce and the one to blame was their shared boy-toy for temporarily sabotaging their friendship. EM BROWNLOWE
COMMON MARKET, ANIMAL FARM,
THEORY HAZIT, MY-G
(Roseland Grill, 10 NW 6th) Northwest hiphop is on something fierce right now, yet the scene just got one-upped with the recent release of Common Market's latest, Black Patch War, which is already on pace to be one of rap's finest releases this year. If this were 10 years ago, the duo—comprised of DJ/producer Sabzi (also of Seattle mainstays Blue Scholars) and MC RA Scion—wouldn't have been able to escape the "conscious" tag, since they sound like they belong next to the Okayplayer and Rawkus lineups of that era. Heck, RA Scion even sounds like a less nasal Talib Kweli, rapping about everything from politics, faith, and the state of hiphop, while the beats Sabzi lays down, complete with horn flourishes and rolling electric piano, could easily pass for the work of Dilla. And if you aren't already sold, just know that the dudes are known for bringing it live, too. ROB SIMONSEN
DAEDELUS, NOSAJ THING,
(Backspace, 115 NW 5th) Not sure why national art rag Juxtapoz is having a Portland release party for their new issue, but since my art knowledge consists solely of that one time I was drunk on wine and stumbled around the Louvre, I'll leave art to the experts. Besides, who am I to complain when the magazine is bringing Daedelus to town to headline their shindig? A true artiste of sound, the Los Angeles-based performer has added his chopped electronic skills to everything from hiphop (his work with Busdriver is phenomenal) to the sounds of Brazil to even the viral video sensation "Vote Obama." So if that hook of "We hood, we votin' and throwin' it up" has been stuck in your head for the past couple months—as it has been in mine—you can probably blame him. EAC
THE BLOW, GLASS CANDY
(Aladdin Theater, 3017 SE Milwaukie) See My, What a Busy Week!.
WOLF EYES, SINGER, RUBBER O CEMENT
(Satyricon, 125 NW 6th) "See you in the shock pit!" write Michigan noiseniks Wolf Eyes in a press release for their "Suffocation Thrash" tour. Um, thrash? Wolf Eyes are the latest non-thrashers to use the term in a season where everyone is "thrash"—from riser-leaping metalcore goons (must... jump... higher) to Alex Skolnick (wasn't he Trans-Siberian last year?). Everyone poops, and everyone thrashes. Wolf Eyes, though, deserve accurate publicity: By mixing beardo howl, reeds, power electronics, and blasts of six-string free grind, they keep noise ablaze in an era of indie-rock lullabies, lighting a path to hell-raisers Smegma and Throbbing Gristle. Meanwhile, Chicago's Singer use four-part harmonies and two ex-members of US Maple (guitarist Todd Rittman and drummer Adam Vida) to make melismatic uneasiness that would steal thunder from Wolf Eyes (or break glass) if it were bellowed. But like four zonked Mariahs, they sing ballads. MIKE MEYER
BEATS GALORE: VURSATYL, COOL NUTZ, LIBRETTO, ROCKETONE, TONY
OZIER, RAS IYASON, SOUL P, BARRY HAMPTON, REV. SHINES, DJ MELLO
(Berbati's Pan, 10 SW 3rd) A few years back it seemed Libretto was poised to be the next big thing in Portland hiphop. He had a killer, soulful, old school single in "Dirty Thangs," and as a part of the Misfit Massive crew, he had the right connections as well. Libretto was thoughtful without being bland or preachy, but for whatever reason, wider recognition didn't quite materialize. And goddammit, it's too bad. In a town with enough wanky, disposable, pseudo-intellectual backpack rap to fill a box tent, Libretto's classic, somewhat rough, full-backbone bounce could really take hold. Certainly part of the problem is a new album—as in, where the hell is it? Hopefully the Watts transplant is deep in the lab somewhere, perfecting the product. What I do know, however, is if you aren't familiar with Libretto, you need to take a look and tonight's a unique opportunity to do so, as everyone on the bill is backed by a live band. ANDREW R TONRY
(Towne Lounge, 714 SW 20th Pl) Erik Carlson's work under the name DoublePlusGood delves into programmed beats and electronic textures without ever heading too dramatically into the territory known as "electro pop." Instead, Carlson has found a way to match his vocal tremors and enunciation to the sound and tones generated by his keyboards. 2007's Somehow Everyone I Know Is Here brings together an earnest, up-tempo sensibility (TeenBeat Records fans, take note) with a more restrained sensibility sketching out brief interludes in Carlson's life. Fuse that with Carlson's more impressionistic tendencies, and you have a project capable of covering a much wider emotional range than you might expect. TOBIAS CARROLL
STYROFOAM, BROKEN SPINDLES, UNRECOGNIZABLE
(Someday Lounge, 125 NW 5th) See My, What a Busy Week!.
OLD 97s, HAYES CARLL, I LOVE MATH
(Wonder Ballroom, 128 NE Russell) See Music Feature.
SEA WOLF, THE JEALOUS GIRLFRIENDS
(Doug Fir, 830 E Burnside) Oh great, another "Wolf" band. Well, Sea Wolf isn't really a band, but rather the side project of Alex Brown Church of Los Angeles band Irving. His debut full-length Leaves in the River is subdued indie pop, sounding like Bright Eyes without any of the urgency or the idiosyncrasy, or like Elliott Smith and Modest Mouse sharing a delicious strawberry milkshake—pleasantly moody, but not especially dark. The evening's real power may come from Brooklyn's Jealous Girlfriends, whose Holly Miranda sounds like Hello Saferide's Annika Norlin meets PJ Harvey. The Jealous Girlfriends typically brew a shoegazey swirl of impenetrability, but they've also created at least one perfect pop moment with "Roboxulla," a bouncy number that feels like sun shining through clouds after a brief, cleansing rain. NL
THE DETROIT COBRAS, LES SANS CULOTTES
(Doug Fir, 830 E Burnside) See My, What a Busy Week!.
DAX RIGGS, JOHN BARRETT'S BASS DRUM OF DEATH, ADRIAN H &
(Roseland Grill, 10 NW 6th) Louisiana's Dax Riggs has been a rock star in waiting for years. His resonant, crooning vocals and death-obsessed lyrics are compelling and unmistakable, but he's gone through bands quicker than some people change their underwear. First there was the NOLA sludge-metal band Acid Bath; next the drugged-out, '70s-glam-inspired Agents of Oblivion; and then Deadboy & the Elephantmen. Perhaps wisely, Riggs has finally gone solo, issuing We Sing of Only Blood or Love last year on Fat Possum. His most "pop" album yet, We Sing blends the soaring melancholy of the earlier Deadboy lineup with the bluesy rock of later Deadboy, and somehow it works. And man, this guy can still sing. WILL YORK
THE DEVIL MAKES THREE, SASSPARILLA JUG
(Aladdin Theater, 3017 SE Milwaukie) With the oceanside township of Santa Cruz serving as their center of operations, the Devil Makes Three have shimmied a strut the nation over, conjuring vivid revelations of porch-front hoedowns with Mason jar swigs and a soundtrack of blustery bluegrass punk. Frontman Pete Bernhard's nostalgic croon and choppy acoustic guitar strums lay the groundwork for upright bassist Lucia Turino's groove-riddled low-end and Cooper McBean's tenor banjo and fiery guitar interplay, forging an evocative blast of 1940s folk and 1990s retro-punk revivalism. But don't let the bizarre designations deter you—this is one of the most engaging live shows you'll see this side of the dusty saloons from the Old West. Hip swaying and copious amounts of alcoholic imbibing are prerequisite (especially when they rip into "Old Number Seven"), as is the relinquishing of your reticence at the door. RJP
THESE NEW PURITANS, DAT'R, MEHO PLAZA
(Doug Fir, 830 E Burnside) Alienation and paranoia run rife through the back alleys of the minds of These New Puritans, a half-electro, all-edges group from the UK. You might even call them punk's answer to grime. It's a futuristic deconstructionism, covered in dirt, dust, razor wire, and broken glass, to be left forever all alone. Emphasizing rhythm over melody, singer Jack Barnett chants cryptic apocalyptics that may or may not hold savage encoded secrets. Where does one thing end and another begin? Occasionally the band leaps into the clouds, sustaining a note or a melody, and when they do, the contrast is beautiful. The group's live show reportedly matches the sound, and Barnett is supposedly confrontational and wild. And if being tossed into this disparate fury sounds frightening, it should—but remember: Catharsis is necessary. ART
LIGHTSPEED CHAMPION, FLOWERS FOREVER, THE EXPLORERS
(Doug Fir, 830 E Burnside) See My, What a Busy Week!.