Get Hustle
w/ Lovelife
Thurs Oct 9
Blackbird
Some people say the devil is a beautiful woman. Those people are probably misogynists, but the sentiment behind that statement–the dark mystery behind glamour and aesthetic–is worth exploring.
The Get Hustle moved to Portland from Los Angeles, a city whose reputation as the vortex where beauty and dirty meet has lasted for decades. There are palm trees and shiny cars and gorgeous people, and murder and drugs–piles of clean white coke for the yuppies, and that black sugar shit for the junkies. Though it’s probably because I’ve never lived there, Get Hustle sounds like Los Angeles to me–a seamless meeting of multiple forces, each driven with a unique tension. Their music is that of cities; of living in a huge, well-lit expanse of land, but still feeling claustrophobic. Get Hustle are like a sultry cabaret act, cut up by the philosophy of glamour. They are also beautiful and artful and very intense.
Their lead singer is named Valentine. She is a maelstrom, with a delivery so magnetic you won’t be able to peel your eyes off her. Her vocals are disjointed in relation to the music–never quite in sync with the same rhythms, like free verse poetry–and she’s screaming and trilling her lyrics, alternating between pissed-off chanteuse and purring cabaret singer. There’s echo on her vocals, like she’s hanging out in an alley and howling up into the night, the dampness of rain absorbing some of her consonants. She throws herself around a lot; she’s one of those singers that looks you straight in the eye, and you feel like she might sock you if you give her a wrong answer. On stage, Valentine seems tough as shit, but it seems like her screams represent hope, too.
Ron A, who also used to be in Antioch Arrow, plays drums. With Valentine, they make up a sort of x-y axis, a ground base for the music so the rest of the instruments can vibrate around like parabola. He reins in their sound, sometimes hitting dance beats and dramatic rolls, sometimes randomly tapping the cymbals. Sometimes his freer drumming sounds like city noises–the neon buzz of street signs, the clicking of high heels on sidewalks, the distant whir of cars going by on the freeway.
The melodies, and the opposing magnetism of darkness and depth, are provided by M. Evan Burden and Mac Mann. Their organ and digital piano crash against each other in a deep sleep of complexities, with low rhythms and dramatic pounding. They have elements of modern piano composition and jazz, yet their sounds smash out in a way that is more typical of punk rock–heavy and urgent. The power of the keyboards is found in the remote parts of their beauty–they’re so disjointed yet so compelling, and sweet like opiates.
Get Hustle’s live show is a singular experience. It’s punk rock vaudeville that can recall everything from Iggy Pop to Gypsy Rose, but most of the time, you never know what the fuck to think, because you’ve never seen anything like it. It really is a lot like Los Angeles in that way–a spectacle so artfully guarded, you can search for the heart of it for years and never feel like you’re even close to knowing what it’s about. Sweaty basements are the best places to see music like this, but the sweaty Blackbird will probably be all right.