Hey local bands! There are only a few days left to submit your music to the mighty local music extravaganza known as PDX Pop Now! The deadline is Monday, March 5, so visit pdxpopnow.com for more info.

THURSDAY 3/1

MALAJUBE, SNOWDEN, THE NEW TRUST

(Dante's, 1 SW 3rd) See Music, pg. 17.

DJS JD SAMSON & JOHANNA FATEMAN, SWAN ISLAND, THE NEW BLOODS

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

MINMAE, HEROES AND VILLAINS, QUIET COUNTRIES

(Doug Fir, 830 E Burnside) The hometown boys known as Minmae have a new record, 835, forthcoming in less than two weeks on hometown label Greyday Records. The eight-minute opening track "Pay More" is the sound of two skyscrapers groping each other, rubbing up against their windows and doors and letting out tasteful moans of excitement. The band is mindful of art and makes songs that almost mirror the tongue-in-cheek new song "Your Band Controls the Weather," basically about musical trends and artificial buzz and bands thinking they're hot shit. Minmae feels like they might be able to control some of the weather, some of the time. With that power, they choose overcast with a 90 percent chance of thunderstorms. SEAN MOELLER

SWIM SWAM SWUM, THE MOOG,D&K BAND, WESTER DAYWICK

(Satyricon, 125 NW 6th) Ever had one of those rotten days where it seems like nothing could possibly lift those thunderous clouds from above your weary head? It's like your brain ate some bad shellfish and will be tethered to the toilet all night long. That's where I was a few weekends ago. But then I saw Swim Swam Swum at a house party and those wrongs were righted. They fixed me with bright, bouncing melodies, round bass, lots of major scales, and a kind of honest nerdyness reminiscent of There's Nothing Wrong with Love-era Built to Spill. ANDREW R. TONRY

POP LEVI

(Lola's Room, 1332 W Burnside) This is your parents' rock 'n' roll. The Beatles-esque, mop haircut-sporting Pop Levi harkens back to '60s-era music and fashion in his aptly titled album, The Return to Form Black Magick Party. Theatrical and mostly danceable, the album is undoubtedly fun and makes nods to the greats—from Brian Wilson to Jimi Hendrix—but it doesn't contribute anything to the music it mimics. ERIN LACOUR

FRIDAY 3/2

COPY, PANTHER, DJ BRIAN FOOTE, E*ROCK

(Holocene, 1001 SE Morrison) See My, What a Busy Week!, pg. 15, and Our Town Could Be Your Life, pg. 25.

LYRICS BORN, THE COUP

(Wonder Ballroom, 128 NE Russell) See My, What a Busy Week!, pg. 15.

SEBADOH, THE BENT MOUSTACHE

(Berbati's Pan, 10 SW 3rd) Underneath my graduation gown of San Dieguito High School's Class of '96 (Go Mustangs!), I was wearing a Sebadoh T-shirt. To say I was a teenage Sebadoh fan would be a severe understatement. I wrote Lou Barlow letters (to which he never responded) and penned lengthy fanzine articles about how Bakesale was not such a grand departure from Bubble and Scrape. Granted, obsessively following Sebadoh was like kryptonite to the opposite sex, but I was content in my fanboy lifestyle, knowing that I'd most likely lose my virginity by the time the band reunited with original drummer Eric Gaffney in the year 2007. While I was right about the whole reunion thing, sadly I am still looking for the special girl who will take my tender flower. Sigh. EZRA ACE CARAEFF

EEK-A-MOUSE, THE B-FOUNDATION

(Dante's, 1 SW 3rd) Maybe you're like me: You hear the word "reggae" and head for the hills, mon. Can't say I blame you. It's the only music that'll ruin even the stickiest ganja. But if you've never heard Eek-A-Mouse's insanely fun wah-doo-dem style of "sing-jaying," you're missing some wildly good stuff. Like a Jamaican electropop that betrays only a bit of traditional reggae, Eek-A-Mouse's jams about the gangsta life are delivered in a stilted nasal staccato that sounds like nothing else out there. Eek's been doing this thing for almost 30 years, and I can't vouch for how his voice or live shows have held up, but if you want to add some bump to your weekend, you could do a lot worse than checking out 1991's U-Neek and deciding whether or not you're ready to get irie tonight. God, I hate myself just for writing that. CHAS BOWIE

SIR RICHARD BISHOP, STEVEN WRAY LOBDELL

(Someday Lounge, 125 NW 5th) Sir Richard Bishiop is one of the legendary Sun City Girls, whose life's mission is to bewilder and create enchanting variations of white noise sprinkled with radio transmissions and all other kinds of sonic miscellany. It's confusing and peculiar, but it's still digestible in its raw form. Sir Richard Bishop—or just Richard to family—is gearing up for a European tour with Bonnie "Prince" Billy and a late spring jaunt around the United States with Animal Collective, taking his Spanish guitar instrumentals to the peeps. SM

SK & THE PUNK ASS BITCHES, THEE EMERGENCY, ICEAGE COBRA

(Tonic Lounge, 3100 NE Sandy) One of the great things about band names is they don't have to make a damn bit of sense. Hell, they don't even need to contain real words. For instance, Iceage Cobra. Now, I'm no zoologist, but something tells me cobras need heat to survive, being reptilian and all. And I'm no wordologist, but I'm nearly positive Ice Age is two words in most books. If they were a lesser band I'd be tempted to rake Seattle's Iceage Cobra over the coals, but their classic rock chops, magnetism, and youthful drive make them endearing. Furthermore, the fact that they sound a little "grungy," dare I say it, makes me not feel as old. MATT DRISCOLL

FU MANCHU, VALIENT THORR, ARTIMUS PYLEDRIVER, BLACK ELK

(Hawthorne Theatre, 1507 SE 39th) One of the more formidable beasts to rear its head in post-post-post punk culture is the heavier-than-thou ensemble Fu Manchu, informed by Sabbath, but with roots planted firmly in hardcore punk. Forget grunge; ever since Greg Ginn slowed Black Flag down, muscular "stoner rock" bands have been emerging from punk-like pimples on a Dairy Queen fry cook. Southern California's Fu Manchu were one of the first (and arguably, the best), delivering the surgical heavy since the early '90s. LANCE CHESS

GREEN MILK FROM THE PLANET ORANGE, OLD TIME RELIJUN, TWO TON BOA

(Rotture, 315 SE 3rd) If Japan's Green Milk from the Planet Orange are the "new wave of progressive rock," as they claim, then hallelujah! If any genre of music desperately needs a new wave, it's prog rock. Prog's main wave (Rush, Genesis, Tool, Tull) is so full of sewage, syringes, and shitty diapers it may never be safe to swim in again. GMFPO, like all prog bands, have the gumption to jam on it (there's a 38-minute "ditty" on City Calls Revolution), but the band's infusion of garage and punk rock vibrations into the normal prog recipe—jazz influences, timing changes, brainy song structure, etc.—is the stuff of real genius. MD

RASCAL FLATTS, JASON ALDEAN

(Rose Garden, 1 Center Court) Ooooh! I just love them Rascal Flatts! Y'know sometimes they don't have the best music on the 2wenty, but this time—oooh, I just love 'em! I like that song that they done for Cars, that movie about the cartoon cars, when they all drive around 'n' make them jokes? You know, that one song they did? "Life is a highway! I wanna ride it all night long! If you're goin' my way! Well I wanna drive it all night long!" That's a real good song, I think. I sure do like the 2wenty. Shoot, did we eat all this popcorn already? There's free refills, right? A KINDLY HICK FROM GRESHAM, SITTING DIRECTLY BEHIND MERCURY FILM EDITOR ERIK HENRIKSEN AT AN ADVANCE SCREENING, WAITING FOR HER FREE MOVIE TO START

SATURDAY 3/3

THE MOUNTAIN GOATS, PONY UP

(Doug Fir, 830 E Burnside) See Music, pg. 19.

THE DWARVES, DIE HUNNS, THE NIGHTMARES, THE WEAKLINGS,NO RED FLAGS

(Outlaws Bar & Grill, 722 E Burnside) See My, What a Busy Week!, pg. 15.

LAURA GIBSON, RAMONA CORDOVA, PANTY LIONS

(The Artistery, 4315 SE Division) What a world. While everything seems to only fall apart faster and faster on the outside, Portland has slowly opened and closed ranks once again, giving birth to an inspiring, loose-knit legion of songwriters. Granted, it's not a novel idea. But in a musical era when self-indulgent, faux-decadent fantasy and escape are the norm, perhaps a return to form and grace are our only answers. If so, Ms. Gibson leads the race. Three months removed from the release of her debut LP, If You Come to Greet Me, she's toured the US, opened for Josh Ritter, played Noise Pop, and been booked for SXSW in the amount of time that most bands fret away trying to make 100 new friends on MySpace. BRIAN T. SMITH

PSEUDOSIX, ADAM GNADE & THE CONFEDERATE YANKEES, HELLO DAMASCUS, JEFF HARMS

(Towne Lounge, 714 SW 20th Pl) In the past it's been easy to coexist with Pseudosix, but the act of cohabitating with them took a fair amount of effort. They were the perfect band in passing, an ideal opener who wouldn't force you to flee the venue for the nearest bar, nor would they force you to hit the ATM at 1 am because you just had to make it back to the venue before they packed up the merch table. But all of that has changed. The band has grown in leaps and bounds since their debut Days of Delay, now fleshing out their jangling songs with a rigid backbone of added instrumentation and ghostly harmonies. While their peers in the Shins might get all the guts and glory, Pseudosix are still holding true to making some of the most intelligent and inspiring music in town. EAC

YIP YIP, YACHT, ARGUMENTIX

(Rotture, 315 SE 3rd) Did you hear? The Blow are famous! And not just Portland-famous, but sort of kind of really famous. Anyone who got turned away from their sold-out show at Holocene back in February is grinding their teeth in begrudging agreement right about now. But the good news? YACHT is gonna make it all better. Because for those who may not know, YACHT is Jona Bechtolt, beat-master and dance-infused backbone of the Blow, the platform on which Khaela Maricich's vocals are able to so successfully writhe and wiggle around on. Laptop genius. The man, it must be said, knows how to beep. So forget the Blow for a while. This show may not be as sexy, but I'm guessing it'll be a lot more fun. GARETT STRICKLAND

ALBERT HAMMOND JR., THE MOONEY SUZUKI

(Roseland, 8 NW 6th) The dude from the Strokes that isn't the dude from the Strokes, Albert Hammond Jr. ditches the bedhead and denim for a much sunnier outlook on things. More Topanga Canyon than Williamsburg, his solo material is a sneak preview of what the Strokes will be in the year 2011, after they've broken up twice, bottomed-out, and reformed as our generation's the Eagles. EAC

HELLA, DIRTY PROJECTORS, WHO'S YOUR FAVORITE SON GOD
(Wonder Ballroom, 128 NE Russell) One thing that will always make a show worth paying for and will never cease to blow your mind wide open and leave a great big blown-mind mess all over your musical sensibilities, is Dirty Projectors. Dave Longstreth, the frontman (or the man behind the projector, as it were), is like a one-man barbershop quartet capable of vocal somersaults and oscillations that are almost guaranteed to hypnotize and then seduce you. And as flattering as that might sound, it's still something of an understatement. GS

LANGHORNE SLIM, THE HOLY GHOST REVIVAL, REVISIONS

(The Rusty Nail at Lewis & Clark College, 0615 SW Palatine Hill) Shed a single tear for New York's Langhorne Slim. Their ghostly country ballads and raw bluegrass porch-stompers were about to be broadcast loud to the masses by V2 Records (White Stripes, Moby), then the label suddenly folded, leaving the band to float aimlessly about. While it's foolish to think the band will stay label-less for long, it's a shame that the creepy gothic haunts of their Engine EP might be lost in the label shuffle. EAC

SUNDAY 3/4

THE MOUNTAIN GOATS, PONY UP

(Doug Fir, 830 E Burnside) See Music, pg. 19.

MARCHFOURTH MARCHING BAND, CIRCUS CONTRAPTION, APHRODESIA

(Crystal Ballroom, 1332 W Burnside) See Music, pg. 17.

MONDAY 3/5

SATURDAY LOOKS GOOD TO ME, CHRIS BATHGATE, LADYHAWK

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

OH NO! OH MY!, THE OCEAN FLOOR, THEE MAKEOUT PARTY

(Towne Lounge, 714 SW 20th Pl) Oh No! Oh My! is dreamy, in that high school crush kind of way. That coupled with their endearingly funny lyrics make them a good listen for those days when you need a little Belle and Sebastian—but instead of feeling like it's a "Nice Day for a Sulk," you feel a little more like a "Walk in the Park" to escape the perils of grown-up life. EL

TUESDAY 3/6

MIDLAKE, ESTER DRANG

(Doug Fir, 830 E Burnside) See Music, pg. 19.

GEORGE CLINTON & THE PARLIAMENT FUNKADELIC, TWILIGHT CIRCUS DUB SOUND SYSTEM

(Crystal Ballroom, 1332 W Burnside) If you ever need proof that drugs—and thus, life—were better in our parents' day, then check out the characters of any Parliament and Funkadelic song. Dr. Funkenstein, Sir Nose (and his arch nemesis Sir Nose D'Voidoffunk), not to mention the supremely awesome (only if you are supremely stoned) The Mothership. EAC

NICKY CLICK, DIAMOND BEATS, THE GAY DECEIVERS, PASH

(Towne Lounge, 714 SW 20th Pl) Like Scream Club, Nicky Click is about femme identity, empowerment, funky electro beats, and dancing your ass off—queer or not. She also appears to have a love for Jane Fonda-esque workout clothes, although, who doesn't? Those inclined to offer comparisons usually place Click somewhere between Peaches and Gravy Train, though I'm not one for comparisons. I am one for individualism and artistry, and Click offers both... with a side of crunk. MD

WEDNESDAY 3/7

WHITE RAINBOW, E*ROCK

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

GUY CLARK, JOE ELY, JOHN HIATT, LYLE LOVETT

(Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall, 1037 SW Broadway) In the spring of 1998, I saw two of the best concerts of my life: Guy Clark at the Granbury (TX) Opera House, and Joe Ely at the Southfork Ranch, AKA the set of TV's Dallas. Clark and Ely are giants in Texas' pre-No Depression Western folk pantheon, although their music meanders down two very different trails. Clark's soft-spoken songs parcel out devastating lyrics about love and loneliness, delivered by Clark's unmistakable, fine-grit sandpaper tenor, while Ely jams out a mélange of West Texas music styles, with tons of Spanish guitar and accordions twisting around his Cormac McCarthy-influenced narratives. George Bush has made the word "Texas" more distasteful than "Tikrit," but if anybody can illustrate the deep strains of Western beauty that still run through the south plains, it's these two guys. CB

WE'RE FROM JAPAN!, HURTBIRD, BIG RED PAPER

(Doug Fir, 830 E Burnside) We're from Japan! aren't from Japan, but due to some sort of black hole of weirdness, developed a fanbase in Japan and are now signed by a record label that calls Japan home. It makes my fucking head throb. To drum up support for their new album the band is going on short stint through—argh—Japan, and to celebrate their imminent departure they're throwing a little going-away party with some of their friends. I'm positive that as soon as they set their feet down in Japan the space-time continuum will rupture and the world as we know it will end. Do yourself a favor and check this show out, because it may be the last one you ever see. NOAH SANDERS