THURSDAY 7/6
BETTY ALREADY AND DIEGRINDER, WITH EXOTIC PERFORMANCES BY TERESA DULCE AND
QUEEN RUTH E., FILM SCREENING OF RUTH E.’S DOCUMENTARY NOT EVEN ASHAMED
(Berbati’s Pan) There have been a rash of assorted sex shows of late (or maybe it’s just that I’ve been too lubed on the chronic to notice them before). The latest in the series is the Berbati’s-hosted Not Even Ashamed festival with music, video and woo-hoo exotic performance (how that differs from dancing, I don’t know). Local bands Betty Already and Diegrinder will hopefully do a few sex poses of their own, and if they don’t I volunteer to super-soak them with water-resistant lube. The whole she-bang is a benefit for Danzine, a non-profit organization that runs two sexual health programs and spices up the alternative media scene with their zine (hey I’m rhyming) by the same name. Not to tell you what to do, but it looks like life at your place is getting a little boring, so please, come join me for a cocktail and a lap dance (but only if you’re buying). KATIE SHIMER
SHANNON WRIGHT, VERY SPECIAL GUEST
(Meow Meow) Shannon Wright’s splendidly shivering music sucks the marrow from
my bones and melts my skin to saltwater in the same way Bright Eyes’ Conor Oberst
does. Her voice and ominously simple guitar are intrusive in a too-close-for-comfort
way that can get a person’s defenses shooting up like a dusty booby trap. It’s
because she has none of those constrictive defenses; her lyrics sink low and
blur, as if she is simultaneously bloodletting and drinking gritty water. Her
songs are the devastating equivalent of watching Breaking the Waves the
whole way through, twice. And if she and Conor Oberst ever dated, it would probably
cause a warp in the fabric of the time-space continuum, leaving only the frail
to trudge through this tragic, painful life. JULIANNE SHEPHERD
DON CABALLERO, BLUEBIRD, BLUETIP, DIANOGAH
(Satyricon) It’s tuff band night at the Satyricon, so you know you’re going
to be getting your heavy-hitting rawk. Earplugs should be procured for those
of you weak of hearing. Don Caballero dispenses with words altogether and takes
the concept of “rock and roll” to more technically challenging heights…kinda
the same place that Rush might have taken music if they weren’t so pretentious
(and Geddy Lee had kept his whiney trap shut). Bluebird have a singer and are
loud, loud, LOUD! They channel Black Sabbath and lose something in the translation,
but that’s half the fun! Dianogah have 2 bassists and drums and have no lyrics,
and will give you a mellow intermission from all of the post-alt guitar fury.
Bluetip are the most straightforward and simple of the crew, but I have a feeling
they’ll vibrate the paint off the walls. This show will make you nostalgic for
the band you used to have; you know, the one with all the knobs turned up–the
one that cleared out the X-Ray in 10 minutes flat. Hell yeah! IAN SMITH
FRIDAY 7/7
BABY GRAMPS
(Laurelthirst) He’s not old, right? According to every rumor and speculation
and visual analysis–the disguise is good, well-crafted in the decent Halloween
costume mold, but far from professional–Baby Gramps is not that old at all.
Maybe that’s the joke, alleged by his stage name, that he’s just a local hipster
playing a part. Maybe that’s Courtney Taylor or Art Alexakis behind the spiraling
gray beard. I still don’t get it. It’s not a good joke–well, maybe if it were
Courtney or Art. It’s just a guy in a sub-Troma costume stamping his foot and
shouting out palindromes to generic blues riffs. There’s quite a bit of the
Laurelthirst experience I don’t entirely enjoy, but I at least understand the
appeal of most acts. His songs are not clever, the see-through illusion undermines
the integrity of the music, and still, they applaud. Do they know he’s not that
old? Are aging philosophy majors genuinely that amused by Spiro Agnew anagrams?
Of course, should Baby Gramps actually happen to be a well-kept senior just
this side of Alzheimer-induced dementia, then he delivers a visceral and remarkably
coherent performance, and I’m a big prick. JAY HORTON
JOAN ARMATRADING
(Oregon Zoo) How the soft summer festivals multiply. People whose parents are living probably have to go to things like this fairly often, which makes me feel lucky. The zoo is a better place to see a milquetoasty kind of show than the Waterfront, where the flatness of the Willamette would only intensify the existential vertigo of boredom. Armatrading is the best of a bad summer. She will knock out some pop singles that will take you by surprise; the unremembered sustenance they offered in those polluted years of “Tainted Love” when our hearts and brains were forming. GRANT COGSWELL
THE STANDARD, DIGNEN, NINE-MINUTE SNOOZE, COACH THUNDA
(Jasmine Tree) The Standard accompanies my car/driving fetish well, for many
reasons. The most obvious one is that they have lyrics about that very thing.
Take “Spanglish,” track one from their new record, World’s Greatest:
Drive drive driving/down some coastal freeway. (Fellow proofreading aficionados
will note the lack of quotations around the former sentence. I omitted them
since I’m not entirely sure of the lyrics, because vocalist Tim Putnam likes
to anchor his vocal chords with warbles.). Second, their slightly heavy (like
aluminum can-weight heavy) guitars are just poppy enough to inject me with the
small amount of testosterone necessary to drive 92 on I-5. And last, their music
shifts from a calm swagger (complete with echoed keys) to anvil-toting radio
rock, with Putnam sounding somewhat like Live’s Ed Kowalczyk (who, in turn,
sounds like John Fogerty) all the while reminding me of that time I was going
54 mph on the arduous Pennsylvania Turnpike, right after my tape player broke
and the only radio stations I could get were classic rock. JS
SATURDAY7/8
HOCHENKEIT, COSMOS GROUP, REPLIKANTS
(Tonic Lounge) The ever-mutating ensemble known as Hochenkeit is the de facto
host of experimental Wednesdays at the Tonic. Since this show is on a Saturday
night, expect them to stretch out and wail until they’re politely shooed off
the stage at 2:29 am. If they don’t play that long, please insist that they
do. The Cosmos Group is the new unit led by Dewey Mahood of Elephant Factory
fame. Their five-song demo yields a few different moods: one tune sounds like
The Clash’s Mick Jones fronting Polvo, others spritely lurch headlong into Mahood’s
fire-breathing guitar approach. That boy is all fingers, man! Expect the Replikants
to be full of good noise, considering they’re made up of various and sundry
Unwound members. Actually it could be bad noise, but with their Kill Rock Stars
portfolio, it would be bad in a good way. TED THIEMAN
MY LIFE WITH THE THRILL KILL KULT, MEG LEE CHIN
(Paradigm) Since their oh-so-special time on the Crow soundtrack (no,
I’m not kidding), My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult has not improved much. Their
new stuff is rather thin techno with annoying whispery vocals, which certainly
defies their goth band name. However, you might want to check out the show,
despite it’s probable suckage, because A) it’s always interesting to see a former
super group in a little tiny venue like the Paradigm and B) you’ll probably
have the whole bar to yourself. To quote the wise words of LL Cool J, “Don’t
call it a comeback.” KS
FIGHT NIGHT III FULL CONTACT KICKBOXING AND MARTIAL ARTS EXHIBITION
(Roseland Theater) Once in awhile, something comes along that manages to be
both cool and have ubiquitous appeal. Kickboxing is one of those things. Think
about it–no matter what kind of person you are, there’s guaranteed satisfaction:
Voyeur? Sweaty guys and lots of body contact. Closeted fag? See above. Sports
junkie? Adrenaline, live competition, and screaming fans. Adamant Feminist?
Fodder for protesting the patriarchy. Asshole? Fodder for producing way too
much testosterone. Hippie? Fodder for praising those ancient, Eastern ways.
KATIA DUNN
SUNDAY 7/9
JERRY JEFF WALKER
(Oregon Garden) Somewhere in the past decade, a little before the swing renaissance
and sometime after the reclamation of disco, the kids discovered country. Whatever
the class of 2000 may believe, there was a time, not too long ago, when a Johnny
Cash album was something you didn’t want lying around the dorm room. Nowadays,
when any hipster worth his stripes has the Merle box set and a toaster-sized
belt buckle, country’s as integral a part of modern music as…well, swing or
disco. Old country, that is–meaning, country that badly-dressed folk don’t
listen to. And, as with Abba or Dino, the kids don’t crave the music nearly
as much as the lifestyle–in this case, bourbon-swilling shit kickers dispossessed
by urban conformity. Amazing, then, that Jerry Jeff’s not more of an icon. His
music’s nothing but an appreciation of the tex-mex idylls–sangria wine, honky-tonks,
and getting off those LA freeways. He has none too great a voice and a variable
songbook short on quality control, but his best work displays a wit and welcome
ironic perspective. That could be our generation’s problem with him. He’s too
much like us. JH
MONDAY7/10
LYLE LOVETT
(Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall) I once had a poster that said, “The bigger
the hair, the closer to God.” If that’s true, Lyle Lovett is divine. I try to
support anybody with high hair (Morrissey and Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast
at Tiffany’s being two of my favorites). I have high hair myself. Recently,
at a movie theater, some kids sitting behind me called it a “poof,” and as a
result they had to endure me sitting up straight through the entire flick, my
poof blocking their view. Ha! The great thing about Lyle, though, is he also
has an interesting face. He’d be a guy who could actually pull off mime, because
his craggy face would just be so much fun to watch. Thankfully for us, he also
creates some amazing country music that’s wry, intelligent, and fun to sing
along to. Plus, he has the best stage banter of anyone, period. So, go! Gawk
at the hair, admire the face, and dig the sounds. And if you can, blow-dry your
bangs so they scrape the ozone layer because you can probably stand to reach
Heaven and get a blessing or two. JAMIE S. RICH
REGGAE JAM
(Mt. Tabor) Reggae can be nice, but so can blowing up action figures. My favorite
action figure sacrifice was in my youth, an unfortunate Hammerhead Star Wars
figure who had outlived his fun, or was a duplicate. By the time my friends
and I were done with it, it had holes blasted through it, half of its head was
melted and charred pitch black, one of its legs had been spontaneously amputated
and cauterized, and its dapper space vest was stained dirty white and pastel
from numerous smoke bombs. I saved it for many years, and it never stopped smelling
like fireworks. Man, those were the days. IAN SMITH
LEGENDARY PINK DOTS, DEAD VOICES ON AIR
(Berbati’s) The Pink Dots fly in from the Netherlands (or is that the netherworld?)
with their uniquely twisted mix of deathly lullabies, dark electronic mindfuck,
experimental gothic spacerock, and psychedelic outta-control brain cell-frying
freak-outs. And yes, after 20 continuous years and dozens upon dozens of releases
that never compromised their warped vision for a more commercial appeal, the
Dots have become the Legendary in their name. Vocalist Edward Ka-Spell has a
demented twilight-zone pop sensibility, keyboardist The Silver Man creates unlimited
electronic headspaces, the Van Hoornblower guy brings an arsenal of different-sized
saxes and flutes, and Ryan Moore provides twilight dub rhythms. It’s a long
way to Andromeda, but not to Berbati’s. Dead Voices On Air (which is mostly
just one guy, Mark Spybey) opens with electronic music in a far more abstract
mode. ROLF SEMPREBON
TUESDAY 7/11
THE FOR CARNATION, BLACK HEART PROCESSION, FONTANELLE
(Satyricon) I remember reading a review of a New Order show in The Rocket
fifteen years ago which said the stillness of that band onstage was stunning,
adding an unforseeable gravity to what on record had been only spare and clean.
I don’t know what The For Carnation do with themselves onstage, but their slow,
quiet dirges have more gravity than a black hole. If the yakkers at the back
show up for this, they’ll simply be vaporized. From their variously cobbled-together
membership, TFC take the Midwestern spectrum of Slint/Palace/Seam/Elephant 6
and condense it down to an explosively hesitant, Zen-like hush. Call it Long
Attention Span Theater: if you’re in the mood, it’ll sound just great. Otherwise,
please stay in the bar. (See My, What a Busy Week page 15) GRANT COGSWELL
BRIAN BERG’S 44 FRIENDS
(Buffalo Gap) Why do bad clubs happen to good people? Brian Berg is good people
with good music, swirling guitar pop that’s genuinely innovative (no, really,
really) and entirely dependent upon his phenomenal fretwork. Brian Berg–Portland
institution, songwriter, drummer, real estate appraiser, and architect of cascading
riffs that sing with the angels. Why is he playing at the Buffalo Gap, a bar
and ‘restaurant’ dedicated to chicken wings and blandly expensive casualwear
(as the name suggests)? It is not a place for music. It is not a place for conversation.
It is a club for the damned. JAY HORTON
WEDNESDAY 7/12
PETE KREBS & THE KUNG PAO CHICKENS
(Mad Hatter) Another rootsy singer/songwriter schooled in sing-a-long punk…oh,
hell, you know Pete Krebs. Hazel, Golden Delicious, Gossamer Wings, Friend Of
Elliott, eclectic Portland indie icon, and he plays, like, five times a week.
The Thinking Man’s Working Musician. You’re probably seeing him right now. The
Kung Pao Chickens, though. Haven’t seen them, eh? Jason Okamoto (Flatirons),
John Neufeld (Jackstraw), Tim Acott (THE Laurelthirst bassist)–essentially
the finest instrumentalists in town; men who can play complicated riffs faster
than most folks can do anything–combine their talents toward swing, string-swing
of the Django Reinhardt tradition. And, truth be told, I haven’t seen them either.
Do they have a vocalist? Can masters of frenzied pickin’ bluegrass and traditional
country easily segue their talents toward jazz? Is there much of a cover? I’m
intrigued. And, y’know, there’s always Pete Krebs. JH