(Doug Fir, 830 E Burnside) When I realized I would be out of town for this show, the level of bummer was indescribable. I owe it to Junior Boys; their melancholy sounds have been there for me through unwelcome breakups, deceased fish, and drawn-out celibate winters. Their 2004 release, Last Exit, easily made the duo the most attention-worthy beat heavy synthetic pop to come around since Postal Service (come on, you know you used to like 'em). The simple and concise formula of JB has hardly strayed on their latest release, So This Is Goodbye, and it could just deliver them notoriety on the level of Hot Chip; they both employ juvenile lyrics sung in a smooth 'n' icy style drenched in beats. Universally identifiable topics include forgotten birthdays and sitting at home while your paramour is out clubbing. It's hardly cutesy though, and there will be enough live acoustic stuff at the show to keep you "real instrument" Nazis in check. JENNA ROADMAN


(Towne Lounge, 714 SW 20th Pl) In an age when indie-rock bands are as stiff as Mr. Rogers' corpse and play music as glossy and unadventurous as any radio crap, crazy-eyed killers like Lauren K. Newman are even more important. LKN doesn't give a fug. She doesn't give a fug about keeping a composed, perfect hairdo whilst onstage, or about not offending the rail-straight, cocktail-holding stiffs in the audience. Instead, she manically crashes around the stage, improvs on any instrument you might toss at her, screams, smashes stuff, and basically gets all Iggy'd out on our poor little souls. Indie America, you have been warned. Be ready to be shaken out of your gloomy, post-punk coma! GRANT MORRIS


(Holocene, 1001 SE Morrison) A few weeks ago, I was at Holocene, when one of the DJs spinning between sets stopped me in my tracks. At first, I thought he was doing an okay job—everyone was dancing, and I heard a bunch of Diplo/Hollertronix classics getting thrown in the mix. But as one anthem faded into another, I realized that DJ Perpetrator was essentially doing an entire Diplo set. If you ask any Diplo fan what their favorite records are that he spins, this guy played every one of them. "Watch Out for the Big Girl," "Percolator," Bonde do Role—the guy even played Diplo's own remixes of Dead Prez, Busta Rhymes, and Kanye. It was one of the most shameless rip-offs I've ever seen, and just because we live in Oregon doesn't mean that we deserve anything less than the best. Thankfully, tonight offers us the chance to move our collective asses to some real East Coast originals—Caps & Jones. Veterans of the same East Coast scene that churned out Spank Rock, the Rub, and Nick Catchdubs, Caps & Jones have been known to switch from Architecture in Helsinki to 2 Live Crew; Amanda Blank to Stevie Nicks before you even have a chance to flinch. These guys are the real deal. Accept no imitators! CHAS BOWIE


(Roseland, 8 NW 6th) While your opinion certainly matters, it will never take precedence over MY opinion when it comes to Pat Benatar—and that opinion is that "Promises in the Dark" is one of the greatest songs of the age (next to Billy Squire's "Stroke"). Sure, you can wax nostalgic about "Hit Me with Your Best Shot," "Heartbreaker," or "Love Is a Battlefield," but I defy anyone to proclaim that the magnificence of these three songs eclipses the raw metal stylings of "Promises." (Illegally download it for yourself, if you don't believe me.) Regardless, we can argue this point until we're blue in the face at the venue itself, when Benatar will play ALL of her hits and more. WM. STEVEN HUMPHREY



(Satyricon, 125 NW 6th) There's this weird ad that pops up whenever I am on my Hotmail account—it kind of freaks me out. The advertisement is trying to get me to consolidate my bills and lower my mortgage and is doing so by showing me two (presumably) naked shadows, dancing on top of a fence with an enormous full moon behind them. The shadow woman has long dreads and is doing that hippie sway; rubbing all up on the shadow man who is blissfully getting into whatever groove that a lower mortgage might create. Whoa, that shit is way too much and blows my mind. Kind of like Daughters. But in a different way. Daughters is a rock 'n' roll wake-up call. Better than an air horn. Like a no-wave freakout, twisting and twitching on the ground like some sick maniac. Like eating wild game after you've spent an afternoon hunting it down. Primeval and satisfying. Like heavy breathing and sweat exuding from the electric and the amplifier. Like brushes with danger and amphetamines pounding out inspiration and a short hour of fuck yeah! SALINA NUÑEZ


(Ash Street Saloon, 225 SW Ash) When asked to describe Blue Skies for Black Hearts in a handful of words, guitarist Pat Karnes and bassist Kelly Simmons came up with "a wall of sound without the guns." Simple, poppy drumbeats accompany infectious rock hooks, just the right amount of vox, and soothing vocal harmonies. It's the perfect mix that makes the kind of music to keep your feet tapping. And if you're feeling spry, these boys will keep you dancing—especially when they play "Here Comes the Rain." CHRISTINE S. BLYSTONE


(Food Hole, 20 NW 3rd) Your stoner grandparents, Smegma, grace this month's cover of The Wire, continuing the magazine's love affair with older Portlanders who play the strange music. For the two of you in this town who haven't witnessed the majesty of Mike Lastra's hair, you'd best get your asses to Food Hole and bask in their noisy, free-form weirdness. Gowns is a new project of former members of Amps for Christ and the Mae Shi, and they continue much in the vein of their previous bands, layering distorted vocals on top of manic synth with a heavy dose of feedback anchoring the whole affair. Acre have recently relocated to Portland and are about to release about a million new collaborations, among them a loopy, discordant split with Pulse Emitter and CD-Rs on both Collective Jyrk and Yarnlazer. Arrington de Dionyso, better known as the frontman of Old Time Relijun, kicks off the night of noise by layering his growling, unique vocal style over bare-bones instrumentation. CORTNEY HARDING See for an interview with Gowns


(The Artistery, 4315 SE Division) Here's the goods on the Artistery comp that'll be available at this party. "Everything is live," says the Artistery's Aaron Shepherd. "I'm pretty stoked about it. Some of the recordings were a little rough, but I think they all captured something good about Artistery shows. There is a Mount Eerie track at the end of the record where Phil led us all in a mind-reading session that I thought was pretty funny. Another one that I'm thinking of right now is a Karl Blau show where there were about eight of us in the living room and Karl's daughter and Laura Veirs coaxed, probably now, one of my favorite songs out of him after he was done playing. I put a few of these stories in the booklet that comes with the comp. They are now available at Jackpot, Anthem, and Ozone record stores for about $10. They should be available again on the Marriage Records website ( and our Artistery website ( fairly soon." AG



(Holocene, 1001 SE Morrison) Paaaaarty, yo! Tonight is the CD release p-p-party for Junkface's self-titled seven-song EP on Ought Implies Can Records. Expect distortion. Expect Drive Like Jehu-y rasp-shout vocals. Expect furious drums, snaky-ass bass, and blastin' geetars. Expect a good album and a good show. You like things that are good, right? Local kids Junkface are good, good, good! GM


(Crystal Ballroom, 1332 W Burnside) See Music, pg. 21.


(Towne Lounge, 714 SW 20th Pl) Apparently, those freeloading Decemberists like to demand free drinks when they play shows. In particular, they like to demand free drinks from the local media. Such was the scene at last week's "secret show" at Acme, and while those Alzheimer's-stricken dullards at the Willamette Week attempted to foist their lukewarm prune juice and Metamucil upon Colin, et al., it should hereby be reported that the Mercury's sexy, fun-lovin' representative bought them WHISKEY. At which point Colin leaped upon an amp, raised his fists triumphantly, and declared: "Huzzah! Huzzah for the Portland Mercury, who buys whiskey for us, and listens to music made after 1963!" At which point we replied: "Colin! Should you ever shamelessly beg for complimentary alcohol again, we shall pummel you in your book-loving face! That was a one-time thing, yes? Now! Play us some whimsical refrains, so that we might dance!" Then the Decemberists played, and we all danced, danced until the morn, when the sun's rays poured over us like liquid fire, and a virile rooster upon a barn pronounced the beginning of a new dawn for all men, and we all had warm coffee and cool pound cake, and we decided to establish a new and perfect nation, one based on three undying principles: fairness, and peace, and bouncy songs about lamenting legionnaires. ERIK HENRIKSEN



(Roseland, 8 NW 6th) My first summer after college, I made the mistake of going back to my mom's house in Salt Lake. At 19, I found myself with my old bedroom (Judge Dredd and Batman Forever on the walls), my old curfew (midnight), my old job (selling tickets and popcorn at the Cineplex Odeon), and a new girlfriend, who was (unfortunately) named Mariah. Less than 12 hours after a coworker and I decided it'd be funny to put Muppets on Crack on the Cineplex's marquee rather than Muppets in Space, I was looking for a new job—which I found at a Mexican fast-food joint that was (unfortunately) named Gringo's. There I had to wear a bright pink T-shirt and a drive-through headset as I shoveled cheap, greasy tacos into minivan windows. But oh, the music: I swear to god, there was only one song that summer, and it was Smash Mouth's balls-shrinking, ass-puckering "All Star" ("Hey now, you're an all star/Get your game on, go play/Hey now you're a rock star/Get the show on get paid/And all that glitters is gold/Only shooting stars break the mold"), and I heard it approximately 75 kabazillion times per day, and it engrained itself in my soul/innards, where it twisted and writhed like one of Gringo's half-digested bean burritos. I complained about it once, to this surly coworker who habitually wore a Pennywise hat. While I'm not going to vouch for his love of Pennywise, he did agree with me on Smash Mouth's deficient musical proficiency. "So," I said, nodding at his hat. "Punk, right?" "Damn motherfuckin' straight," this kid said. "The punkest." Good for you, Pennywise kid. On a related note, that was the last summer I returned to Salt Lake. EH


(Hawthorne Theatre, 1507 SE 39th) Wow, Another Cynthia, I totally didn't expect to love you when I first saw your name on this bill. There's just something about your band name that screams "screamo." But you are, like, soooo not screamo. With sample drum noise and live beats backing up new wavy keys and a ton of vocals swirling around each other, you're super awesome in a dark new wave kind of way. It's the same kind of thing that made me drool retardedly over the second Faint record, only you guys have waaay better vocals, and not so '80s-ish arrangements. I'm totally going to be at your Hawthorne Theatre show. Can't wait to buy a copy of your self-titled CD. Sweet! Oh, I won't be surprised when I hear you for the first time on the radio. It'll be like, "Dudes! Told ya so!" GM


(Ground Kontrol, 511 NW Couch) See Music, pg. 23.



(Wonder Ballroom, 128 NE Russell) Did you guys catch TV on the Radio doing "Wolf Like Me" on Letterman a few weeks ago? Out of respect for all that is beautiful about rock 'n' roll, I gave up on late-night television jams right about the time the Breeders tanked "Cannonball" in the Ed Sullivan Theater 13 years ago. But this TVotR performance—it was something different altogether. It started with polite applause. Then Tunde Adebimpe's perfect post-Peter Gabriel moaning. David Sitek sears through some standard-issue indie rhythm guitar and pedal stomping, but when Kyp Malone doubles up on the axe crunch and Jaleel Bunton starts massacring his drum kit, things got seriously exciting. Adebimpe starts mini-pogoing while he sings about transformation and strained bodies and mongrel minds, and Jesus, Malone has an even better afro than ?uestlove, if that's possible. These guys are playing with fucking everything they have, without that deer-in-the-headlight look that most bands get on network TV. The whole time I'm thinking, "They are going to tear the Wonder Ballroom down," but then the songs gets mellow for a second with their famous doo-woppy harmonies. This is serious fucking rock, though, so you can't relax long, and sure enough everything's charging ahead like a pack of whistling teakettles until I'm sweaty from all the YouTube action. But old Letterman looks like he was feeling it the most—he walked over to the band muttering to himself, "Yeah, that's how you do it. Yeah. Cool. That was nice. TV on the Radio. That's all you're looking for." I couldn't have said it better myself, Dave. CB


(Aladdin Theater, 3017 SE Milwaukie) Billy Bragg is not my spot of tea. It's not that he's bad, mind you. He's written dozens of songs and has rallied for right-on causes fiercely these past 30 years. I've owned multiple copies of the Grammy-nominated Mermaid Avenue album and can remember nights listening to "California Stars" while camping in Joshua Tree. So, what's my local problem (as they say in Gambia, which is not in California, but Africa)? Bragg's political agenda seems to come before his desire to progress as an artist, and it stifles his creativity. The lyrics to his songs fall into two categories: about politics and about love. They all end up sounding the same. Kind of a downer if you ask me. Very few artists are able to pull off writing dogmatic essays of song while still being able to connect with their audience. I can imagine Bragg's audience being a handful of old Wobblies, a few new-dreaded crusties, and Portland's British expatriates. It's easy to sing along with your comrades who agree with you, and much more challenging to tug on the heartstrings of your political rivals. All this to say, you won't catch me round the maypole this year, Billy. SN


(Roseland, 8 NW 6th) In 1984, three Swiss teenagers turned the metal world on its iron helmet, infusing primitive thrash with an avant-garde sensibility. With more leather, spikes, and eyeliner than anyone before them (except KISS of course), Celtic Frost created two audio masterpieces of blackened metal that never forsook the bass (or double bass). Debut Morbid Tales and follow-up To Mega Therion are still monumental in their integrity and influence. Unfortunately, Frost then commenced a long, slow nosedive that began with over-embellished flowery works like Into the Pandemonium, followed by a badly timed attempt at being a hair metal band. This effectively killed their career. Years later, Frost is back with a new album of modern gothic doom, which is inconsequential compared to the chance to see "Procreation (of the Wicked)" performed by Tom Warrior himself. NATHAN CARSON



(Food Hole, 20 NW 3rd) Kayo Dot's rich, creamy, warm pulse of guitars, bass, cello, bells, percussion, viola, horns (you name it) swells up to grand prog-rock heights, hints at doomy psyche-metal (but never really goes all the way), and retains a brainy sense of dynamics that keeps them interesting, engaging, and immediate. Whether they're blasting out tortured heaviness and getting deep into the proverbial lush, they always please, always win big, and always give the people (personally speaking at least) what they want. AG



(Roseland, 8 NW 6th) While I don't really partake of the TV too often, when I travel I use the hotel-provided MTV as a radio when getting ready in the morning. And let me tell you, as of last month, in Europe, the Scissor Sisters' new single, "I Don't Feel Like Dancin'," off of Ta-Dah, is on extremely heavy rotation, almost as much as "Ridin' Dirty." And while much of their disco-heavy, gay and striped, brightly colored pop theatricality is utterly too loud and brassy for me, and the video just underscores their impression as a less unexpected B-52s—"Dancin'" is a great, infectious song, that of course screams to be danced to. Go to this show armed with a sense of humor and a high tolerance for stupid outfits, or don't go at all. MARJORIE SKINNER See Prizefight, pg. 61.