Local News & Reviews

[December 13th, 2006]

^Dakota Slim Wednesday, Dec. 13

Look Travis Keats Ross in the eye before he hightails it outta town.

[DESERT ROCK] I've seen Dakota Slim play "Damsel" a few times now, and it's always a disaster. Travis Keats Ross (no, Dakota Slim's not his real name) inevitably drowns his vocals in the sound of his laptop, or the pickup on his acoustic guitar falls into the sound hole, or something.

But when I finally got a good listen to the song on The Hymns of Dakota Slim, it gave me chills. Ross patiently strums a defeated country ballad while beeps and static interject at moments that are in-time but erratic. The guitar remains indifferent amid these chaotic and nearly senseless interruptions, like a cowboy with an utterly stoic face slowly riding through a Southwestern thunderstorm.

Ross chooses this spasmodic ground as a place to plant a love song, and what grows is similarly semi-sweet: "I have said some things I do not mean/ Because the way I look at you should say everything," he sings. The song continues in an anxious, self-loathing mode, but those first two lines say a lot about how to listen to Hymns. Ross first came to Portland in 2004, and, at age 19, released a very impressive self-titled collection of songs recorded with a four-piece band called Anonym—and written while Ross was hospitalized for mental-health issues (see WW, Jan. 25, 2006). Ross told me last week, however, that the Anonym album was recorded with the aim of gaining acceptance in Portland. Hymns, he says, "may not be as bombastic or risky, but it's way more honest."

But it actually seems more aloof. Ross proved himself a lyricist on Anonym, but his words are often obscured on the analog-taped, guitar-led Hymns. I kept asking myself, Who is Dakota Slim? But then, taking a tip from "Damsel," I stopped trying to hear what Slim was saying and started paying attention to how he looks at his subjects. On the eerie, reverb-laden "The Houndz," Ross' muffled voice simply adds to the overall hot-desert-moonlight texture of the song, a common motif on an album partially inspired, Ross says, by a recent trip to his birthplace of Albuquerque. Though I still wish I knew what Ross was saying, he does a hell of a job of creating a desolate, sandy mood and depicting a landscape.

And that knack for composition is why, despite technical tribulations, Ross refuses to play as a simple singer-songwriter and let his "fascination with sound...just go dry." Tonight's rare performance at a proper venue with a veritable sound system may go more smoothly (Slim usually plays at smaller venues and houses), and it could be one of your last chances to see him for a while: Something of a cowboy himself, Slim's relocating to San Fran next month.

—JASON SIMMS.

Dakota Slim plays with Michele Wylen and Empty Room Wednesday, Dec. 13, at the Tonic Lounge. 9:30 pm. Cover. 21+.

^Doug Jenkins Saturday, Dec. 16

Bright Red Paper's cellist-for-hire sticks around despite loads of distractions.

[cello-centric] Portland chamber-rock quintet Bright Red Paper looked a bit shaky earlier in the fall, when the pull of an interesting collaboration almost had cellist Douglas Jenkins packing for a move to the Midwest. And, considering Portland's growing "Cult of Cello," the loss of this prominent player would have been all the greater. Last week, WW chatted with Jenkins about the future of Bright Red Paper, his own future in our city's music community and ditching his day job as a high-school teacher in the name of the greater cello cause.

WW: What's happening with Bright Red Paper? Things seem quiet since the tour....

Doug Jenkins: We've been trying to stay off the radar for a few months to try some new things. We went into analysis paralysis after our tour, but found inspiration again a month or two ago. This show on the 16th will have a few surprises...most exciting is Anna Byers—she's singing with us on a few songs. She is exactly what we have been looking for in a singer: melodic as opposed to harmonic, musical more than lyrical. Her voice blends like a fifth instrument.

Are you keeping busy outside of Bright Red Paper?

Yes. The projects I'm excited about are 2% Majesty, who are now in Chicago (but we recorded a bit and played a few shows together this year), and Musee Mecanique—Sean Ogilvie of Tristeza's new band—with whom I recorded cello for a couple of songs; I'll be onstage with them as much as they want me for their Portland shows. Also, the Cello Project, which is a multi-genre collaboration of mostly Portland cellists. Tony Rogers of the Ahs pretty much started it...Skip vonKuske of Vagabond Opera, Jenette Mackie of Polly Panic, Gideon Freudmann and a whole bunch of other really talented folks.

Are you still considering a move away from Oregon?

I'm a vagabond. I hate stagnation. I was going to move with 2% Majesty to Chicago...but the fact is that Bright Red Paper is keeping me here. I actually today put in notice at my day job in Lebanon so I can live in Portland full-time and devote myself to this next album. So, if you know anyone who wants cello lessons, I'm available! Bright Red Paper plays with Zoe Keating Saturday, Dec. 16, at Mississippi Studios. 10 pm. $6. 21+.

—MICHAEL BYRNE.

^Conrad Loebl of Berbati's Pan

Ch-ch-changes: Berbati's booker takes a break.

Last January, Berbati's fired its then-booker of three years, Chantelle Hylton (who forged ahead with her own production company, Blackbird Presents). Since then, Conrad Loebl's been at the helm of the club, and he's helped to bring in an eclectic mix of acts over the past year—from Wolfmother's Zeppelin-esque rock to DJ crew the Rub, as well his own weekly queer hip-hop dance party, Tha Boom (which moved to XV about a month ago). Now, Berbati's is switching gears again: Dec. 10 was Loebl's last day. Last week at Valentine's, as his patty melt turned cold, Loebl chatted with WW about his time with the venue, where it's headed and why he hasn't had time for a warm meal in years.

—AMY MCCULLOUGH.

WW: How'd you get started with Berbati's?

Conrad Loebl: They were just looking for change. They found out through the grapevine that I've been booking for 10 years—I was working there, doing security—and they said, "Can you do this for us?" I was like, "I guess? I'll take the challenge."

Were they talking to you before they got rid of Chantelle?

It was about the same time. It wasn't plotted out or anything.

Did you have a particular vision for Berbati's?

Berbati's is a hard space to book. It's huge. I wanted to do fun, dance-party shows [and] bands that wouldn't normally play there. I never really booked hip-hop before this; I'm not taking credit for that. Anthony Sanchez helped me with that. He's very key in the hip-hop scene in Portland. He works his ass off.

Is Anthony [of Runaway Productions] taking over?

As far as I know. He's the person I'm handing it off to.

Is this a decision you made? Or was it the venue?

It was kind of a mutual thing. Booking is a very thankless job. I'm not a hero. It's hard. Booking a calendar sucks. I was really stressed out and not very happy. I'm really close with the family [the Papaioannous, who own Berbati's]. They don't wanna see me unhappy. They're just being proactive.

You seem like you have a nicer relationship with Berbati's than when Chantelle left....

They gave me warning, you know. It wasn't like, "You have three days to get your shit out of here." They just gotta do what they gotta do. It's my favorite club in Portland, and not because I booked there.

Do you think this is the best thing for the venue?

I think so. I think Anthony is gonna do really well. And, he's got my phone number [smiles].

Tha Boom, featuring DJs Automaton, Ill Camino, K.O. and Rad, takes place every Monday at XV. 10 pm. Free. 21+. Also see Riff City, page 39, which features a Q&A with Acme's ex-booker, Seann McKeel.

^Adrian Orange Bitches Is Lord (Marriage)

The man behind Thanksgiving proves there's beauty in our flaws.

[POST-FOLK] "My name is Adrian Orange/ I know a lot about not knowing/ So I make CDs full of helpless things/ Why don't you put...on the record and set them free." Perhaps it's this line alone, with its naked proper-noun introduction, that inspired Adrian Orange—known in the musical world as Thanksgiving—to drop the holiday moniker. Or, maybe after 11 releases, the 20-year-old has just plain worn it out.

In any case, Orange's birth name is more fitting. Thanksgiving implied a solitary Orange occasionally backed by such notable friends as Phil Elvrum, whose Microphones' lo-fi folk aesthetic is likely wired into Orange for life—but slightly less so on Orange's recent Bitches Is Lord, which is relatively rock-ish compared to his work as Thanksgiving. Releasing an album under his own name is, more than anything, honest, which Bitches is in all of its awkward, vulnerable glory. This record is one of humility. On the title track, a wide-eyed and head-bowed Orange confesses his inadequacy while dismissing it in the same breath: "Let's save the world/ Or at least push our luck." That sense of smallness is a consistent theme throughout the disc's 15 tracks, though nearly one-third of them include "world" in their titles.

While lyrically humble, Bitches Is Lord is a musical fireball in all the right places. Orange is a damn good guitar player, and he managed to put much of the music on Bitches together alone in a room. Thanksgiving's In the World was recorded in a similar fashion, but that record is mainly Orange and a guitar, while Bitches is a weave of lo-fi Thanksgiving-esque folk and straight-up rock. "No More Wild," for instance, is a racing song of guitar collisions and vocals that break free—or attempt to break free—of Orange's characteristically trailing, self-effacing style. Yet, at a perfect moment while singing the words "And the street lighhhhts look like moons," Orange's voice breaks, veering left for a moment before falling back into place. It's as if Orange is reminding us that we're just people here, that those moments when our voices trip up or our guitar strings snap—moments of seeming failure—are perhaps our best, simply because we pushed far enough to reach them.

—MICHAEL BYRNE

^Austin Lucas and Tranquilazer Dec. 8 at the Pink House

Travelin' man battles jibber-jabber, but Tranquilazer brings the dance love.

[ACHING BLUEGRASS VS. DANCE PUNK] If you belt it, they'll shut up: This seemed to be the theme Friday night at North Portland's Pink House. After not-half-bad basement performances by locals Upshit Creek and the Vonneguts, 27-year-old songwriter Austin Lucas gathered a captive crowd in the living room with a booming a cappella rendition of "Cruel Brothers," an eerie traditional Irish ballad. But when the Prague-based, Indiana-born singer continued with softer country originals, he had to battle against the noise of some women clamoring for entry into the suspiciously long-locked bathroom and general party chitchat. Eventually, he stopped mid-song and declared, "This is pointless." Two men immediately rushed forward and begged, "No it's not, keep playing," with the sort of panicked urgency normally used to talk someone out of suicide. Lucas finished his set to about 10 new admirers and a couple of old friends in the intimacy of the basement.

Despite Lucas' mixed reception, Tranquilazer stole the show right back. After a formidable crowd-warming by Here Comes a Big Black Cloud, the 50 or so people the basement could hold went completely mental for the local five-piece. And all that dancing was pretty impressive considering how punk Tranquilazer's sound really is: quick, full, distorted and led by the oft-unintelligible vocals of Brain Swaine. On "The Drunkard's Walk," he was backed by downright wild, high-pitched interjections from Junior Private Detective frontwoman Emilie Strange. In her supporting role in this outfit, Strange's head isn't anchored to a microphone, so she was able to lead the audience in movement not only with her badass bass-playing and key-stroking, but by example, as well.

Tranquilazer's set ended, but the band had already injected seemingly endless energy into the crowd, which continued to dance upstairs. The show was a benefit for PSU's Students for Unity, an organization that was raising money with "kiss cards"; attendees could purchase a card for 50 cents and then trade it for a kiss with anyone at the party. The cards were gathering dust earlier, but after Tranquilazer, dancers were trading 'em like baseball cards and swapping spit as freely. When I left, the dance party Tranquilazer had set in motion was transitioning into underwear-dance-party mode, and though Lucas' songs surpassed all others that night for beauty, I doubt they've ever led to large-scale, half-naked bumping and grinding.

—JASON SIMMS.