The last time the Duke Spirit came to Portland, in April
2006, all their gear was stolen out of their tour van in the Jupiter
Hotel parking lot. It was at the tail end of the English band’s first
US tour, at a time when the band was exhausted and out of funds.
“It was a kick in the teeth,” says singer Liela Moss. “But after the
shock of losing your stuff and feeling really fucking angry and sorry
for yourself, people crept out of the woodwork offering help. Some
fuckers stole something off of us, but then about tenfold people came
out and helped. It was quite a beautiful moment in a way.”
The band scraped together enough equipment, including borrowed gear
from opener Kleveland, to play a pissed-off, fierce, tired,
breathtaking set that night at the Doug Fir. They took the stage with
long, weary faces, but as they launched into their tribal shoegazer
blues, the fatigue and frustration faded. Guitars clattered like the
Jesus and Mary Chain streetfighting with the Rolling Stones, with Moss
howling over it like a lioness. It was cathartic and redemptive—a
band rediscovering its purpose right in front of the audience.
Moss says, “I remember there weren’t very many people there, but
some people were really passionate about what we’d just done, raving
that we were their new favorite band. I was thinking, ‘Fuck, you caught
us on a really bad day!’ Those things inspire you to keep going.”
The Duke Spirit’s latest, Neptune, is a slicker, more
assertive record than their earlier work, with the band’s ambition
clearly audible. Their low-fi garage rock has been spit-polished, and
if rough edges are made radio friendly, it’s earned the band greater
exposure and another grueling schedule.
“We have to step up to the plate,” says Moss. “It’s just a moment in
time, and it’s what you’ve always wanted to do. Adrenaline is this
ever-replenishing wellspring, and every time you’re too tired to do
something, you just think: ‘Okay, well, there’s no choice. Everybody
else is about to step onstage. Just fucking do it.'”