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"Oh, hurry up--I've got to see the belly-dancers!"
Yes, it was a wild weekend around the world, what with
radioactive Japanese battling Chechen mad-dogs for headlines,
but in Portland we had more immediate concerns. Like, how
long will it take to get a drink? Will there still be women
in exotic native garb undulating in the next room after
a beer comes to hand? And what's in those unlabeled bottles
streaming across the bar at WW's Saturday after-hours
party, anyway? What kind of off-brand hooch are these slimy
journos foisting on Portland's best, brightest and most
eagerly cockeyed as they jockey for position in the great
post-North by Northwest shoulder-rubbing derby?
"Sure, sure, it's, uh, one of them microbrews...yeah--Hey,
look, man, it's Thomas Lauderdale!"
The wrap-up fete at the space formerly known as LaLuna
and Womb capped the fifth running of NXNW in fine
style. Swaying Englishmen conducted high-level negotiations
with stoic security dudes. The Sensualists, Portland's
own post-pop mad scientists, nailed a rush-inducing set.
The refined DJ skills of T Greenwood saw revelers
through after the buffet had been reduced to a vista of
stray calamari chunks and fruit spatter. As dawn threatened,
a gang of Australians lustily demanded more action as the
rest of the crowd reluctantly faced red-eyed reality. Victory,
in short, was ours.
Whereas '98's NXNW seemed to leave everyone underwhelmed
and restless, the pre-millennial edition marked a return
to sloshy form for the 300-band blowout. Wristband sales
and conference registrations both increased, and I, for
one, found no shortage of festive buzz in the streets and
clubs.
Thursday night served as a brisk warm-up for the calisthenics
to come. After checking in on Hominy's sparkling
country tag-team at Club 21 and the Baseboard Heaters'
homegrown stomp at Zoot Suite (where the sound system provided
some unwanted special FX), I spent the rest of the evening
getting shellacked by the pinball machines at Ground Kontrol.
The Southwest 12th Avenue retrocade seemed crowded by the
addition of a small stage, but the Pabst was cold and the
State Flowers strung together a solid set of rainy-day
pop meditation. I poured quarters into Black Knight,
to little avail.
The Dolomites' troublemaking stew of Irish blood
and American passion provided a caffeinated kick-off to
Friday's full course of mayhem. Kelly's Olympian, that little
slice of Butte, Mont., nestled in downtown PDX, was a sweaty
crush of Celtophiles. Only about four people could actually
see the band, but the Dolos' street-born hybrid of
ceilidh and riot-rock inspired folks to clamber up on tables
and swarm the bar. Two hours later, the scene replayed in
amplified form as L.A. hellions Flogging Molly whipped
up a Hibernian frenzy--thankfully drowning out a certain
music writer's slurred tirade on the subject of the "wild
Irish."
An attempt to see Portland's No. 2 at the Roseland
Main Room turned out to be something of a misadventure.
The cavernous auditorium seemed particularly barren, with
just 20 people and hard-sucking Atlanta idiots doubleDrive
on hand. The over-amped grunge wannabes needed haircuts
and a dose of good taste, while the "crowd" needed a trough
of espresso--all told, about as much fun as a barbecue cosponsored
by Alcoholics Anonymous and PETA.
Raucous Canadian rockabilly boys Bughouse Five provided
solace at the Cobalt Lounge, where the Semi-Ironic Pomade
Index hit an all-time high. After slithering back through
Kelly's O for Flogging Molly, I hit Hungry Mob's
well-rocking session at Zoot Suite. The Rose City hip-hop
stalwarts survived muddled sound production to stamp their
smooth beats, rhymes and lush singing deep into the crowd's
collective consciousness.
Saturday, laden with fresh headache and heartbreak after
watching my beloved Grizzlies blow it big-time against
Portland State, I settled into the warm embrace of
Seges' balcony. Oakland hip-hop diva Kofy Brown won
me over with her muscular, emphatic set, which Seattle's
Maroon Colony topped with a stinging hip-hop/bebop
hook-up. After Friday's long campaign, it felt good to kick
back in Seges' sophisticated confines--there were fellas
in suits, even--and savor the moment before setting course
for the last-hours bacchanal in Southeast.
It's no secret that wide swaths of Portland's music community
harbor little love for the annual invasion of industry fools
and hustling outlanders--and there are some good reasons
for that. But as North by Northwest's 20th-century history
ends, I'd offer that anything that runs a jolt through the
city's veins is a good thing. At its most frenzied moments,
NXNW '99 was a very good thing indeed. Now, may the normal
course of civil society resume.
During Split Lip Rayfield's star turn at Saturday night's
Satyricon showcase, two women stripped to the waist and paraded
across the stage. One later returned with high hopes of achieving
full nudity, but the crowd was so bent on demanding an encore
from the Wichita country boys, no one much cared.
I checked in on the Webbers' annual anti-NXNW show
at Produce Row. While the band's crackling outback rock
has apparently been repeatedly spurned by the festival's
talent scouts, I found plenty to dig as one Webber writhed
on the floor and the rest tested the noise limits of the
tight little club. God bless their cussed ways.
Portland International Airport police arrested two members
of San Francisco's Gun & Doll Show, charging
the rockers with littering for attempting to stick a poster
to a pole. Lead singer Killian "Killer" MacGeraghty says
he and GDS's guitarist were held for 18 hours, including
eight spent in handcuffs. The Man sprung the miscreants
in time for their sold-out show at Club 21 Friday.
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Willamette Week | originally
published October 6,
1999
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