THE
ORDER OF BATTLE:
Luther Russell,
Wilco, John Hiatt
Pioneer Courthouse
Square
Jon Langford,
Sally Timms
Berbati's
Pan
Dead Moon
EJ's
All on Friday,
July 28
AND
ON SATURDAY:
A house party
fell under the rule of a dazzling trinity of forward-looking
young pioneers. Watch out for future visits from Seattle's
Monitors and Baltimore's Oxes, a pair of bands
determined to build a glittering new temple from the ruins
of rock. Portland's own Cosmos
Group also bent time, space and electricity to its
will.
The Spaniard grabbed my shoulders and started shoving.
"Conga! Conga! Conga!" he screamed, attempting contact
through the universal language of the drunk. A wobbling
line of Oly-soaked foreigners formed behind him, the karaoke
machine was playing some God-forgotten '80s pop, four other
Europeans had the microphones and there was no getting away
from it, awful as it seemed.
It had come to this: a night filled to overflow with certified
American music of various extraction and mutation unraveled
into a late night of EU-exported karaoke and cheap beer.
Such is life in our Diverse Society, but it was hard not
to damn the fondue-party pop and brittle beats driving this
terrible conga line, compared with the bone-bruising noise
and gritty beauty of music absorbed in the course of a long,
hot Friday.
Like Dead Moon, for example--but we'll get to that
in a minute. The evening began long before those three pale
riders unleashed their usual apocalypse at EJ's, in the
considerably cleaner and more "family-friendly" environs
of Pioneer Courthouse Square.
The Los Lobos/John Hiatt/Wilco show flushed out
The Clinton Majority--cell phones, backpacking chairs and
age-inappropriate tie-dye in effect. Despite the East L.A.
pedigree of the headliners, ethnic flavor was hard to come
by, unless West Hills lawyers constitute an ethnic group.
In any case, the large crowd was suitably pacified by gorgeous
weather. Most even remembered to switch off their Nokias.
Portland's alleged living room, defying my expectations,
is a pretty good place to see a show, mostly beating the
sound-system curses that plague outdoor concerts.
Luther Russell took full advantage, turning in a
vigorous opening set. Seizing and holding the attention
of a sun-struck multitude would be a daunting assignment
for anyone. Given that 80 percent of the crowd had no idea
who he was, he scored big with his perfectly crafted folk/rock
set. Russell commandeered the services of frequent partner-in-crime
Fernando for a rugged number en español
that served as a subtle tribute to the headliners.
Wilco presented a surprisingly static spectacle,
especially considering Jeff Tweedy's recent adoption
of a classic '60s pop sound to replace the ersatz classic-country
shenanigans of his ex-band Uncle Tupelo. I saw Tupelo
on the last tour before Tweedy and Jay Farrar filed
for artistic divorce; while I liked the band's reconstituted
twang 'n' moan just fine, the show flat-out sucked. With
their feet apparently bound to deeper roots than their music,
Farrar and Tweedy whimpered through songs about whiskey
while sipping Perrier.
A similar inability to rock gripped the pro popsters who
back Tweedy in Wilco. Their recasting of the work and/or
style of icons like Brian Wilson and Woody Guthrie
rang with plenty of conviction. It wasn't that they were
having a miserable time, either. It just seems that Wilco
is full of unenergetic fellas who are great musicians and
disappointing showmen. Tweedy's attempt to rage through
the last song, screaming unintelligibly and a little embarrassingly,
only underlined the band's burn deficit.
The intolerable John Hiatt started singing a song
about his penis, so it was high time to leave. Across town
at Berbati's, Welshfolk Sally Timms and Jon Langford
played down-country American music better than most Americans
ever could. The two sometime-Mekons are touring behind
a limited-edition EP split between Langford's two-fisted
AmerBritish folk risings and Timms' unthinkably beautiful
singing, which sounds like a stray broadcast from a country
station come loose in time.
Most of the jabberjaws at Berbati's seemed unconcerned
with Langford's buccaneering attack or Timms' drifting love-loss,
and it turned into a decidedly ill-tempered show as the
singers unleashed their tart Welsh tongues on the yammerers.
"Nothin' I like more than goin' out with my mates and screamin'
in their faces while a band plays," Langford said. "That's
a real laugh."
The rockabilly hardcores in attendance grew impatient with
the unpomaded stylings of Timms and Langford, demanding
headliner Wayne "The Train" Hancock's more accessible
sound. I left them to it, hitting Burnside in pursuit of
the night's mandatory capper, the Dead Moon exorcism
at EJ's.
The firm of Cole, Cole and Loomis broke open the
incinerating club. Fred Cole's unearthly howl sent the packed
house into a tribal frenzy, touching something unpretty
and deep in the crowd's collective hive-mind. In the age
of the supremely jaded, it is a thing of awe and wonder
to see a band that honestly kills. Hammering and ragged,
Dead Moon blew the room apart and rebuilt it in their own
image.
Even with the conga-line terror to come, it was the (un)holy
high point of the night.
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