GROOVIE GHOULIES, APOLLO SUNSHINE, THE SUN, HELPER MONKEYS, THE NICE BOYS
(Dante's, 1 SW 3rd) See My, What a Busy Week! pg 27.
KAYO DOT, MASTER MUSICIANS OF BUKKAKE, ROLLERBALL, PHOBOPHOBE
(Berbati's Pan, 10 SW 3rd) See Music, pg 31.
BETTYE LAVETTE, LIV WARFIELD
(Doug Fir Lounge, 830 E Burnside) See Music, pg 29.
NADA SURF, SAY HI TO YOUR MOM
(Aladdin Theater, 3017 SE Milwaukie)Nada Surf has fared far better since being freed of unrealistic industry expectations and repeated Weezer comparisons; their 2002 album, Let Go, was a critically lauded gem, and justly so. Its follow-up, The Weight is a Gift, is equally praiseworthy. The 11-song set kicks off with a blueprint-perfect example of Nada Surf at its straightforward best: The rhythmic, peppy "Concrete Bed" packs a chorus that hits like a California earthquake. But as the record progresses, so does its subtle attention to detail (enhanced by co-producer Chris Walla of Death Cab for Cutie). "Your Legs Grow" opens with textured drones, then slowly adds sonic layers, yet even as the intensity mounts, it eschews the formulaic alt-rock "explosion" that one anticipates. KURT B. REIGHLEY
TIC CODE, SLEEPING PEOPLE, CLOAK
(Acme, 1305 SE 8th) Sleeping People's self-titled debut album features Temporary Residence all-star player Kenseth Thibideau. Thibideau held down the low end for Rumah Sakit and Howard Hello before moving to San Diego to play with Pinback and start Sleeping People. All his projects have the spirit of prog-riffic instrumental rock, and this one is no exception with its tricky time changes and forceful melodic clusters. This group, which is rounded out by Kasey Boekholt, Joileah Maddock, and Brandon Relf, is not as macho as scene-godfathers Don Caballero, thanks in part to its curbing of metal references. It's rare for bands in this idiom to give the same consideration to emotional presence as they do to technical prowess, but as cerebral as it sounds, there's a beating heart driving this particular machine. GEORGE CHEN
TURBONEGRO, DANKO JONES, EDDIE SPAGHETTI, THE THING ABOUT THAT
(Roseland, 8 NW 6th) See My, What a Busy Week! pg 27
COUNTRY TEASERS, THE INTELLIGENCE, THEO ANGELL, ISLETS OF LANGENHANS
(Loveland, 320 SE 2nd) Scottish they are, them Teasers, and they play what amounts to fucked up country rock. Uh, country rock—well, I reckon I oughta explain that this ain't li'l Gramy Parsons' easy, California feelin'-good kinda country rock, man. They filter their brand of hoedown through something creepy, like the convoluted past of an uncle who decided to keep it in the family rather than in his pants. You know not to trust his leer, 'cause to meet it means something better left unsaid. Honestly tho', I'm not much a fan of the Teasers, but when I see 'em they never fail to leave me a little—okay, a LOT—awe-stricken. MIKE NIPPER
GAZA, KAYO DOT, SHOWBREAD
(Food Hole, 20 NW 3rd) See Music, pg 31.
IRON AND WINE, CALEXICO
(Roseland, 8 NW 6th) See CD Review, pg 29.
OHMEGA WATTS, BLUE SCHOLARS, DJ KEZ
(Doug Fir Lounge, 830 E Burnside) See CD Review, pg 33.
SLEEPING PEOPLE, DESPERATELY WAITING
(The Know, 2026 NE Alberta) See Thursday's listing.
THE SURPRISE GRATEFUL DEAD JAM BAND, PANTY SHANTY, FRIDAY KNIGHT, I'LL KILL YOU FUCKER
(Richland, 1232 SW Salmon) Considering their name and their billmates here, the "Surprise Grateful Dead Jam Band" are more than likely a joke. To use them as a temporary platform though—have you noticed what a genuine new swell of interest there is in the Dead lately? Maybe it's just fallout from the neo-hippie movement, but Garcia and Company have recently gone from the world's most stigmatized cult band to the darlings of hipster file sharing and message boards. I'll even begrudgingly admit to having American Beauty in incessant rotation this last week. Anyway, not trying to invalidate your joke band guys, but you just don't have as easy a target as you may have thought anymore. JOSH BLANCHARD
YARD, SOLENOID, SEÑOR FRIO, LET'S GO OUTSIDE
(Apotheke, 1314 NW Glisan) Dancing's cool. I guess. It's cooler when girls do it. Except when they do that Indian-swirly-hands-thing in front of their face. Then they look contrived and unoriginal, like they're trying to be "TV sexy." Me? No, I don't dance. Don't ask. I'm married. There's no plausible reason why I should ever dance again. There will probably be some dancing people at this thing tonight. Chicago DJ Yard is going to mix it up with some Portland people, namely Solenoid, Señor Frio, and Let's Go Outside, all of whom have very clever names. I might be there. Not dancing and all. CHAS BOWIE
CELEBRATION, CALLA, QUIET COUNTRIES
(Doug Fir Lounge, 830 E Burnside) See My, What a Busy Week, pg 27.
CROSSTIDE, BRYAN FREE, THE EVENING EPISODE
(Berbati's Pan, 10 SW 3rd) Crosstide was label-less for years, which was weird because during that same time they were one of Portland's most prolific and consistently listenable bands. This year, someone finally picked them up—local label Slowdance—and the result is Life as a Spectator, their "debut full-length" (despite the fact they have about 50 songs already recorded in various capacities). It's an impressive work; more reserved than their self-released stuff, but in a meditative way, and flexing some of their most sophisticated melodies to date. Crosstide has proved that they are capable of producing great, catchy pop songs; with their label debut, they prove they are capable of growing and maturing as well. This bodes exceedingly well. JUSTIN WESCOAT SANDERS
DAMN THESE MONKEY HANDS, THE DRAFT, RAZREZ, CHAIRMAN OF DRATS!!!
(Tonic Lounge, 3100 NE Sandy) Seattle's Razrez are every bit as good as the hype you will inevitably be hearing about them. Their music is wiry, muscular, sexual, and aggressive, in addition to being fun, rocking, and smart. Certain bands with two guitars leading the charge are going to draw Television comparisons, but I'd put Razrez a lot closer to the Jam (if we must limit our imaginations to the end of the '70s), because they all seem like they're about to bust out of their skins when they play. SEAN NELSON
DRAKKAR SAUNA, ANDREW KAFFER
(Towne Lounge, 714 SW 20th Pl) Drakkar Sauna set themselves up to be instant iconoclasts in the singer/songwriter genre. The duo spring from Lawrence, Kansas, well known as an oasis of artists and liberal kids in a state otherwise bereft of imagination. They also change their name—frequently. Lest their songs prove too popular they occasionally add or drop an extra syllable from their already difficult moniker. So instead of taking the easy coffee-shop route, Drakkar Sauna infuse their front-porch folk music with an absurd Captain Beefheart spin—writing tunes like "Spear for When the Bear Comes" with lyrics that implore the listener to make a spear. You know, for when the bears come. It's an extremely smart, hilarious, musical, and oblique combination for all you fans of the Fall that keep a couple of Elliot Smith singles under the mattress. NATHAN CARSONS
HORRORPOPS, ROGER MIRET & THE DISASTERS, LEFT ALONE
(Hawthorne Theatre, 1507 SE 39th) The female-fronted HorrorPops lay out straight-ahead, dark punky rock with hypnotic rhythm and bewitching vocals. Traces of rockabilly contribute to the ruthless percussion (one of the founding members was lured away from a gig in a psychobilly band), and the girls-with-guitars selling point still has an advantage in the live entertainment setting (usually because they're more fun to look at and have better clothes). This music isn't genius or fresh, but it's got well-blended elements of rockabilly, punk, and metal that'll guarantee a good show. Besides, 'tis the season for horror everything. MARJORIE SKINNER
LUCERO, BLACKPOOL LIGHTS, I CAN LICK ANY SOB IN THE HOUSE, DECIBULLY
(Dante's, 1 SW 3rd) After the Get Up Kids broke up earlier this year, singer/guitarist Jim Suptic jumped headfirst into a new project, Blackpool Lights. A record is expected early next year, but in the meantime, the band has a limited number of hand-stamped EPs floating around (available at their shows). This EP reintroduces us to Suptic's worn vocals, this time paired with more country-flavored tunes ("Cursed by Yourself") and head-bopping pop ("Starry Eyes"). While the Blackpool Lights sound fresh, Suptic's presence makes their sound welcomingly familiar at the same time. MEGAN SELING
(Roseland, 8 NW 6th) See My, What a Busy Week! pg 27.
DRAKKAR SAUNA, ANDREW KAFFER, PORLOLO
(Acme, 1305 SE 8th) See Saturday's listing.
SAGE FRANCIS, SOLE, SOL.ILLAQUISTS OF SOUND, SLEEP
(Crystal Ballroom, 1332 W Burnside) See My, What a Busy Week! pg 27.
THE GO! TEAM, SMOOSH, THE GRATES
(Wonder Ballroom, 128 NE Russell) See Music, pg 29.
OLIVER, YOUTH GROUP, DERBY, CITYVEIN
(Berbati's Pan, 10 SW 3rd) Youth Group is Australia's Death Cab for Cutie. The handsome young men, who are surprisingly signed to the notoriously punk-rock label Epitaph, play crisp indierock with a sturdy beat and sparkling guitars. Their cover of Rod Stewart's "Forever Young" was recently featured on The O.C., which has earned them quite a boost in popularity. A few weeks on the road with Death Cab certainly hasn't hurt either. MS
DAVID GRAY, JOLIE HOLLAND
(Rose Garden, 1 Center Court) I know David Gray's a real hardworking guy, and that his hit "Babylon" was a serious, rags-to-riches success, but dude's bland, vague, people-pleaser folk rock bores the PISS outta me. Jolie Holland, though, she's my lady. Live, Holland takes the old-timey folk and blues of her Anti-Records debut, Catalpa, and the ornate, moody, gypsy jazz of her newest one, Escondida, and creates a folk, country, Parisian café singer, bluegrass, mountain-music hybrid that's something like Tom Waits sans the comedy, avantisms, and cement-mixer voice. Outstandingly good music. At least we can thank David Gray for bringing Holland to a bigger audience. That's about all he's good for. ADAM GNADE
WE ARE WOLVES, SHOW ME THE PINK, POM POM MELTDOWN
(Holocene, 1001 SE Morrison) Yes, okay. They're aware their name contains the plural of "wolf" and that their fellow Montrealites, Wolf Parade, share this unfortunate noun. They totally know—to the point that they considered changing their name before they released their debut album last month, Non-Stop Je Te Plie en Deux. So, let's stop talking about it, okay? More importantly, if CMJ 2005 were a high school, these guys were gossiped about more than the sluttiest, biggest-boobied cheerleader. Their live show caused quite a stir, a reaction not initiated by their album, understandably. In their cute little Francophone accents, they admit they have no idea how to record—which we forgive, because their show more than compensates. Fittingly, this all testosterone three-piece pumps out the electronically adorned no wave with call-and-response screams and steadfast buzzy noises that never let the listener dance—without a fight. JENNA ROADMAN
FOO FIGHTERS, WEEZER, HOT HOT HEAT
(Memorial Coliseum, 300 Winning Way) See My, What a Busy Week! pg 27.
MESHUGGAH, GOD FORBID, THE HAUNTED, MNEMIC
(Hawthorne Theatre, 1507 SE 39th) Sweden's Meshuggah have been challenging audiences with their grinding stop/start rhythms since 1987. The artful complexity of earlier albums like Chaosphere caught my prog-metal ears years ago, but when they started getting name-dropped by Jack Osbourne and appearing on major festivals, I have to admit losing interest. Their recent Catch-33 however, with its single massive song (broken by the record company into 13 tracks for listeners with ADD), was the album that got me to pay attention again. In addition to the usual confusion of riffs and manic hardcore screams and grunts, there are now moments of alien tranquility, vocoders, and guitars that sound like flamethrowers being turned on and off. It's an experiment. And it works. NC
OKKERVIL RIVER, BAND OF HORSES, LOW SKIES
(Doug Fir Lounge, 830 E Burnside) Austin's Okkervil River are precisely the sort of band I keep convincing myself I'm totally over: literate, clean, and fairly straightforward American pop music with scarcely a moment of discord throughout—the sort of thing that clogs up my mailbox virtually every day, and has always been done to greater effect decades ago. Every so often however, I'm faced with a record like this year's Black Sheep Boy—a compelling, beautiful Southern Gothic exploration richly narrated by Okkervil vocalist Will Sheff. Sheff's tales are crushingly well-composed dirges, and more appealing than sweatpants in these winter months. Next month sees the release of the Black Sheep Boy Appendix EP—a collection of songs left unfinished during the Black Sheep Boy sessions that the band has completely reworked and weirded out. Besides being an interesting companion to the original, Appendix offers still more evidence that perhaps I shouldn't give up on literate pop music quite so quickly. ZAC PENNINGTON
WHYSP, CORPSE KISSER, THE FINCHES
(Food Hole, 20 NW 3rd) If I didn't know better, I might go so far as to suggest that Santa Cruz's Whysp—featuring two-thirds of the sadly defunct noise rock ensemble the Lowdown—are a brilliant freak-folk parody. Marrying ridiculous woodland imagery and traditional British folk instrumentation, Whysp do manage to approach the mystical absurdity of the waning movement with a sense of humor largely lacking in the purveyors of psychedelic folk—a tact that helps to make the honestly pleasant ensemble even more palatable. ZP
HEAVY TRASH, THE SADIES, BLACKOUT RADIO
(Dante's, 1 SW 3rd) See Music, pg 31.
HEROINE SHEIKS, EVENING AT THE BLACK HOUSE, SUPEREGO 99
(Sabala's Mt. Tabor, 4811 SE Hawthorne) Considering the Heroine Sheiks' lineage—which includes the Cows frontman Shannon Selberg and Swans' Norman Westberg (who left the band after 2002's Siamese Pipe)—you'd think the resultant sound would be a cacophonous mess. Surprisingly enough, it's a bit more refined—sort of like a lounge version of Pailhead, except they still end up with such lyrical flattery as "Let's fuck/I'll fuck anything that moves." GRANT BRISSEY
ONRY OZZBORN, MURS, DJ ABILITIES, GRAYSKUL, MR. HILL, SANTOTZIN
(Hawthorne Theatre, 1507 SE 39th) See My, What a Busy Week! pg 27.
THE WARLOCKS, GRIS GRIS, THE OUT CROWD
(Doug Fir Lounge, 830 E Burnside) The new Gris Gris record is, as its title proclaims, For the Season. It's for a season of removal from grim reality; for a season of spinning from one vertiginous reality to another. Season is the newest séance thrown by the Oakland, California band, where lyrics are delivered in cathedral chants and underwater lexicons, and saxophone notes come hurling forward like grenades with their pins pulled. Compared to the Gris Gris' delightful dementia, headliners the Warlocks are style-conscious slick. The joke about this Los Angeles band is that it takes them seven people to do what Black Rebel Motorcycle Club do with three. And while all this is true, the Warlocks are also able to peddle a benevolent numbness to society—in the vein of early-'90s dope rock, where giant walls of distortion act as a force field keeping listeners close to speaker buzz and far from reality. JENNIFER MAERZ