(Satyricon, 16th Anniversary Weekend) The Meatloaves and Carnie Wilsons of the world always have a hard crack at making the big time. Luckily, Betty Already won't have to battle the obstacles of being less than perfect; they're gorgeous--darling, really. Aside from the heartthrob factor, they always play a kick-ass show that gets even my block feet a-dancin'. Kitty, the band's flamboyant front-woman, wields a Jagger-esque stage performance that has entertainment potential even as a lip sync. Male/female vocals (very much like those of X's Exene Cervenkova and John Doe) and dulce de leche guitars give the band a caramel sauce sound that can even slow the usual relay race to the bar. And while you're there, Elvis is a Saturday Market staple; don't miss this rare club performance (his version of "All Shook Up" is to die for). KATIE SHIMER


(Meow Meow) You can sleep well tonight; Death Cab are back safe and sound from their US tour. Did those big bad New Yorkers seduce our darlings with the evil, evil temptations of sex, drugs, fame, and decent bagels? Worse, are the mean people in NYC going to steal them like they did Little Elliott? NOOOOOO! Let them know we want to keep their chocolate-y rich, poetically flanging selves in our town. Death Cab's Chris Walla recorded Camden's newest album, "Reel Time Canvas," and injected the same sweet, tight sound; hopefully it carries over into their live performance. (See Bio Box, p 17) JULIANNE SHEPHERD


(Rose Garden) According to an esteemed rock critic friend of mine, if it weren't for Steely Dan, we wouldn't have Pavement. In all seriousness, Steely Dan probably laid the groundwork for today's (or I guess I should say "yesterday's," since the golden age of irony seemed to peak in the mid-'90s) more intelligent and ironically inclined artists. The ultimate punch line is that they've reunited in the completely un-ironic '00s, to what appears to be their most rabid showing of support ever. BARBARA MITCHELL


(Berbati's) Oh. My. God. I have seen the return of rock 'n' roll, and I'm not talking MTV's "Return of the Rock" with Kid Bizkit and Limp Korn. I'm talking Portland's own My Regrets. I'm talking dirty Stones channeled through the angular energy of Jonathan Fire*Eater. My Regrets plays music like nothing else matters, with lots of barbed attitude, a classic guitar crunch, and, oddly enough, a shirtless boy with a hula hoop. Their greatest asset, though, is their front man, a skinny white kid who looks like Pulp's Jarvis Cocker possessed by Iggy Pop (and who you know probably used to get his ass kicked on a regular basis--that's why he's so good). His delivery is ferocious, and his slinky moves scream sex. (The girl with whom I saw My Regrets actually squealed when he took off his shirt--any further proof necessary?) My Regrets has brought the party back to the club scene. They've found the good times, and they've given them a backbeat. You best be on the dance floor when this shit goes down. JAMIE S. RICH



(Crystal Ballroom) (See Music p 13 and My, What a Busy Week p 11)


(Roseland) John Medeski, Billy Martin, and Chris Wood have joined more genres than a Houston whorehouse. From their early '90s New York jazz-club roots, Medeski, Martin, & Wood have consorted with the likes of DJ Logic, Phish, jazz virtuoso John Scofield, and a set of distortion pedals that'd make Gershwin wet himself. Though resisting a static style, the Manhattan trio have kept an adoring audience, tied together by the same threads of funk and experimentation as the band's own divergent sounds. Unlike a lot of experimentalists, Medeski, Martin, & Wood don't have to get all trippy into acid jazz. Instead, they bend towards the Herbie organs that go down like old bourbon. Plugging their most recent acoustic record, Tonic, they are on an appropriately unplugged tour. Even unplugged, MM&W are "bad" in the good way. But you want to go and see them in the bad way. Because you're bad. It's okay, though. Go do something good for yourself. BRIAN H. GRIFFEY


(Dante's) Satan's Pilgrims derived their name from a '60s film called "Satan's Sadists," and they have sanctified their early surf sound in blood. Their concerts, resplendent with gory vampire costumes, always turn the audience into a weak-kneed, willing sacrifice. Their three guitars are no moribund vestige of cock-rock, mind you, but a rhythm section that'll knock your arse off. In a genre plagued with pretenders, Dave, Scott, Bobby, and Johnny Pilgrim are an army of danceble darkness. Their tunes are really meant to be played to a crowd of maddened, sweaty hellcats fighting in the beer lines. Go, and get stinking drunk, and have a frigging party like it's Judgement Day! BHG

HARVEY DANGER, PINEHURST KIDS, EARLIMART (Berbati's) A night of frantically fresh-faced guitar pop with three bands whose lead singers can actually sing on key. Because of this, Mall-ternative Radio stations have eaten them up, yum. Everybody's heard Harvey Danger's hit single, the one about the flagpoles and underwear, and snoring voices in the head, etc. It's catchy. The real question is, will they avoid the inevitable sophomore slump and subsequent flop that could come from releasing a second album? The Pinehurst Kids have come a long way from the days of playing "Ain't Talkin' 'bout Love" and Joy Division covers. They've added a member and have since adopted a punky punch that kind of makes you wonder if they're not actually from Orange County, CA. Earlimart come from the same school of thought, only with a bigger shrine to Black Francis. Have you got a broken face? IAN SMITH


(Meow Meow) With any luck, it will rain for this show; the moody, ethereal sorrow and windy sweetness of The Autumns are ill-fitting to the horrible sun. O, Horrible Sun! Voyager One want to somehow rig the flux capacitor and transport us all to the planet Groovy Martian, where Spiritualized's Jason Spaceman is king and My Bloody Valentine's Bilinda Butcher is goddess. In 1988, MTV Post-Modern aficionados would have plotzed over this line-up. And now? Let me check--yep, still plotzing. JS


(Satyricon, 16th Anniversary Weekend) In the past sixteen years, this venerable Old Town nightspot has survived it all: a "riot," bus mall construction, an upscale remodel, and the currently static booking policy. There really should be a Satyricon Hall of Fame. Early denizens Walt Curtis and the late Don Chambers would be venerated on the first ballot; The Obituaries, Hitting Birth, and The Dharma Bums would follow. Dead Moon's Fred and Toody Cole deserve a place of recognition, as well, and tonight they'll be displaying their Gold Glove chops. If you haven't darkened Satyricon's doors lately, head down and give George Touhouliotis a grateful handshake for keeping alive the longest-running rock club on the West Coast. And don't forget to include Bruno, Ed Jones, and Andrew Loomis on the hypothetical Hall of Fame write-in ballot. TED THIEMAN



(Crystal Ballroom) Once upon a time, there was a very spry lad who never jumped over candlesticks, or stuck his thumb in blueberry pies. His name was Elliott, and he used to live here, just over the Bridge of the Thousand Trolls and past the magic holly bushes. Some say he still sometimes dwells in the secret gnome nooks of Portland, in a tiny cottage, in an undisclosed location, with Hilda and Lucretia and Saskatchewan and Gus Van Sant. He plays a lute, and is the favorite jester of all the courtesans across the land. Have you heard of him? (See My, What a Busy Week p 11) JS


(Paradigm) If Portland was Boston, The Planet The would be the boys who go to Berklee College of Music and moonlight at M.I.T. As it is, they are four lads who have learned their instruments so well, all they can do now is think (a lot) about how to sufficiently contort their sound with all the music theory they've backlogged in their brains. The formula they're turning in is a mashing of several parts, like they're disproving physical theories of what sorts of riffs can make a song. The Planet The are certainly interesting and often humorous, but like anything that's both experimental and comical, you'll either get it, or you won't. Regardless, they demand respect for their sheer integrity; The Planet The are obviously playing exactly what they want to. JS


(Meow Meow) POW! In the grand Northwest tradition of bands foregoing a bassist entirely (Spinanes, Mecca Normal, et al), The Haggard achieves their brand of power boxing via guitarist and drummer only, thank you very much. Their sneery, sonic expectorating is something we've come to expect from only the finer bands in the punk underground. These two women know their shit, and they're not going to turn down their amp for nobody, no-how. Remains of the Day serve us a highly peppered gothic dish du jour. JS



(Berbati's Pan) Winkies and wonkies and wankers, oh my! (See My, What a Busy Week page 11) JS


(Borders Downtown) The Dolomites have a highly classified, three-pronged mission statement: rock, beer, rock. If they are not drinking about it, they're singing about it, and vice-versa. How, for the love of Pete, did they end up booked into a place where the nearest pint ISN'T five feet away? These Rose City no-goodniks, still flying high from their infamous St. Patrick's Day Portland overthrowing, brew up two-fisted pub punk rock with a chaser of blarney ska. Call it hair of the dog, but the clean-cut Borders crowd will be running for cover after the first three chords. The Dolomites will be hoping no one's checking their coffee cups for spiking. TT


(Schnitzer Concert Hall) For those of us who can barely load the dishwasher after a few doob hits, it's practically tear-inducing to think that Lou Reed did his best work while messed up on smack. That feat in itself reserves Lou a space on my worship list, as does his freakish ability to keep performing, writing, and looking so goddamn fit at the age of 58. While his new stuff has been nothing quite the caliber of super groups like Blink 182 and Matchbox 20 (kidding, whatever!), it's still dry, mellow, and lyrically compelling, thus making him one of the most stalwart old rockers around. Better yet, he ain't no sell out. KS



(Berbati's Pan) The NW should be more glitzy. It doesn't make sense to me that local hipsters would rather blend into the dreary landscape than stand out against it like a day-glo smear on a white-washed world. The four big girls' blouses that comprise Swayed are sick and tired of your vomitous brown sweaters and cringe-worthy nappy hair. They're fed up with the endless string of punk rock tours and flaccid no-hope of indie, and they're going to do something about it. Namely, they're importing the neo-glam racket and cockney rebellion of their favorite UK pop combo, The London Suede. That's right, they're a cover band, but the style they ape is ten times as stylish as new band night at Satyricon, so get over it. It's all about floppy hair and fancy shirts, big guitar riffery and hopeless romance--a tried-and-true attack of the lovelorn outsiders who know there are others out there just like them who have never owned a red baseball cap, much less worn it backwards. Whether you're a fan of the originals or just looking to act like a head case, Swayed have what you desire. Don't knock it until you've tried it their way. JSR



(Satyricon) (See Music p 13)


(Aladdin) Since their 1986 beginnings, The Jayhawks' sound has been expanding exponentially. Their early works were a sort of shit-kickin', ho-down country most worthy of "Star Search" (it's not far-fetched to picture them wearing lavender ruffles and rainbow-feathered clips on their hats). Now, it's pretty apparent they can claim at least some responsibility for the movement known in 1995 as "" The Jayhawks have refined their sound to a milky-smooth, soulful sort of crooning that redeems the more embarrassing songs from 1989's Blue Earth. JS


(Ohm) Tuesday nights at Ohm belong to Dahlia. Though they sound little like what the promos say they do (would people please stop pretending anyone can sound like Billie Holiday?), songstress Imogene holds a thick torch to Skye Edwards and Beth Gibbons. She might even be more adventurous. Billed as "illuminated electronica," Dahlia has attracted a mixed band of followers, and even managed to win over my mother, a veteran jazz singer. If Dahlia is the swooning, electric branch on the torch singer's family tree, I'll bet the first ladies of jazz are cool with it. CHANTELLE HYLTON



(Satyricon) Remember a few years ago, when Bjork was the reigning queen of the country eclectic, and it suddenly became de rigueur to visit her Icelandic homeland? Well, if Amsterdam wasn't already the sort of place that trekking, college-age reefer addicts and fashion models fresh off the wagon visit all the time, they'd probably want to start now. It is, after all, the home of Elisabeth Esselink, a.k.a. lady Solex, who's a crystal cave of pixie slashing, and the inland counterpart to Ms. Gudmundsdottir. Helio Sequence's toasty atmospherica will sugar Solex's meowing breakfast tea quite nicely. (See Music Follow p 13) JS