KLC Presents

You probably shouldn't miss this. It's going to be really fun. Promise.

Have you met my father?

Hey guys, I miss loafing in Conor’s basement, chugging cheap Tecate and Smokehouse and playing grand theft auto, vice city. If you don’t know shit about who Conor is, it’s cool; he’s just some guy. If you don’t know shit about who this puckered-lip pin-striped fella above is, then now’s your chance to learn. Pay attention rugrats. Karl Lagerfeld is like the place between Heaven and Hell; he’s like the austere, brawny middleman who decides your ultimate fate. He’s like the silent, tall kid who would submerge your head in the toilet while Jack the Ripper and Terrible Tommy yanked your underwear, robbed you of your sloppy joe and chocolate milk lunch money, and flushed the poop pot. Like Karl Marx, he’s a German bloke; Unlike Karl Marx, he’s a bulky socialite, not a Socialist. It’s probably just the sunglasses talking, but before I begin lecturing, remember that Karl Lagerfeld has the power to crunch some scrawny human bones.

Karl got shipped off to design school in Paris by the time his first armpit hair had sprouted. So at like fourteen years old, Karl (with a fucking “K”!) was designing fine dresses and attending sumptuous parties with le riche while you were still picking your nose and hoping to acquire that prehistoric Charizard card in the Pokemon booster pack. By age 23, Karl had gained some height and weight and created an “eau de toilette” fragrance for men, women, cats, dogs, kings, queens, and squirrels. And Jesus Christ! Are those scented bottles of piss lucrative or what! Basically after this landmark, Karl started doing well with everything in the fashion world, and then some.

Think of that landmark black and white tweed suit hanging in your grandmother’s closet amongst the nappy caribou fur death coat. Think of that squeaky quilted bucket tote with the two C’s. The two fucking interlaced Helvetica C’s. Oh! The ghastly Chinese plastic-drenched knock-offs! Karl Lagerfeld enlivened the crème de la crème, the cream of the crop, and gorilla of fashion houses: Chanel.

Chanel is to couture fashion as McDonalds is to MDC’s Corporate Deathburger. Karl’s the guy who wears the pants in the convoluted relationship between me and clothes. Sure, it’s true that McDonalds makes an 875-calorie hamburger, but I’ll still gladly eat them, and maybe I’ll even pick up a flimsy Burger King crown, In-N-Out animal fries, and one order of indigestion while I’m at it. It’s also true that I can’t resist the magnetic pull of Chanel Gambon ballet flats and the urge to pet Karl Lagerfeld’s soft, grey ponytail. I have zero self-control with my extreme diet of punk rock, fast food, and Chanel. One day, I presume, I will purge myself of these radical obsessions. Perhaps I will become a vegan who enjoys the soothe-saying melodies of cool guy Jack Johnson and the tinkling Mahavishnu Orchestra. My body will undulate with every step I take in my tye dye marimba pants and loose-knit burlap hoodie. But seriously, my real life has just begun, and if we’re really gonna try and get all hypothetical, I’m just gonna go back to Conor’s couch and pop Vice City back in to the dented Xbox and smunch warm chocochip break n’ bakes. Oh yeah, that’s cus Karl Lagerfeld has a generic avatar character in Grand Theft Auto Vice City. Look for him, the ultimate king of fashion, next time you feel like clenching a sweaty vibrating controller, getting a virtual lap dance, and then killing some cops and hoes with your loaded automatic.

Fondly, Lauren "Bobby" Fischer

$7 billion bailout

Look there on the ground. Is that a dime? Shit if I’ve ever seen one. Quick pick it up. That’s worth at least 10 cents. Oh no, there’s some gum stuck to FDR’s face. Who cares, it’s a DIME! You’ll be 10 cents richer!

These hard economic times are hurting us all, and just like Sarah Palin, I am ill! I even contemplated gathering my measly possessions into a handkerchief bindle and bumming around Burnside for spare change with a sign that reads [broke college student]. Heck, I haven’t even bought a legitimate concert ticket in the month of October. GASP! But don’t panic, I may not be able to see Russia from my house, but I certainly have one sure-fire solution that’s not even on Palin’s radar.

For only a $6 buck cover you can catch one decent show at the Artistery on SE Division. Last last Friday I crowed into the basement venue for an energizing night of Tango Alpha Tango. And let’s just say that for $6 bucks I’ll pay to see someone kick their guitar (literally) again! So avoid the panhandling, defeat the second coming of the great depression, rub it in Palin’s face, and check out the Artistery (you may even have money left over to buy some Tango Alpha Tango)!

-mh

Apocalyptica, this thursday

The first thing I noticed at the Apocalyptica concert was the calmness. It was very strange. For a finnish band that skates awfully close to being called full blown metal, the audience was extremely calm. No one was pushing, not one person tried to mosh (not that it was moshing music, but usually someone tries), and everyone was happy go lucky. Concidering we were watching a band who covers both Metallica and Slayer, it was a little shocking. In fact, I don't think I saw the bouncers do anything at all during the show, which a first for the Roseland.

They came on 30 minutes late. Ordinarily, this doesn't bother me at all, but this time it did. They had already had the stage fully set up when we got in (right when the doors opened). There was no opening band, so they didn't have to change anything or preprepare anything. And no roadies were running around setting things up. They wernt trying to get the band on stage quickly or anything. They were sweating us out, and that is not cool. Seriously, that pisses me off.

But I could deal. They finally got on stage, and they were fantastic. Theres something about 4 cellists and a drummer rocking out together. But like I said, the crowd was crazy at all. Everyone was dancing happily. They played extremely loudly, and it was great. They rocked pretty hard.

But not very long. They played till about 11, so around an hour and a half. Before they even got started, they were saying they were gonna play one more song.

Overall, it was a pretty good concert, but I expected alot more. I felt let down, and I think alot of other people did to. It was a wierd concert, and seriously, I feel like Apocalyptica did not deliver on their reputation.

Grant,
the-this-is-pretty-good-wait-its-over reviewer

Licking County

For fall break I went to a quaint little place called Granville, Ohio to visit my girlfriend, and while it was probably one of the best weekends I’ve ever had, like ever, the east coast was a bit shocking after spending six whole weeks cooped up on Palatine Hill. At Denison University, where I spent a good portion of the break, I found few “heavy chillers,” as we might call them here at LC. Nor did I go to a “kickback” or find too many “hella legit” things going on in general. No, this school was far more rambunctious than Lewis & Clark. While we might have a “woodland creatures” themed party that ends when campus safety so much as rolls down the street, Denison is having a “barbie and ken” themed party that doesn’t end until someone pulls the fire alarm. Or while I’m standing in the keg line for twenty minutes at the woodland party, trying to get my five dollars worth of pbr, a Denison student has already had four shots of cherry vodka and on their fifth beer without reaching into their wallet yet.

The dynamic was completely foreign to me. Never have I seen a dozen pretty blonde girls walk into Maggie’s and talk for twenty minutes about how shithoused they got the night before. At Denison, this kind of thing is everywhere. Partying absolutely dominates and the kids absolutely love it. They go out on Mondays, Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays of course, and sometimes Sundays. And while “going out” at LC might mean riding bikes down to the cemetery for a beer, or having a half dozen people over to your dorm room to sing along to bob dylan, at Denison it consists of beer pong in one hall, a dance party in another, followed by anywhere from one to three frat parties, five nights a week.

So while I’ve opted for a mellower, less douchey environment than the Denison kids have, they are going to have a much better story to tell ten years from now. It’s much more impressive to hear, “In college, I partied like a National Lampoon movie” than it is to hear, “Man, I used to chill hard in college!” This is something I just didn’t think about when looking at schools. Maybe it would have been sweet to come out of college with a nickname like “slam” or with a reputation for being the kid who actually supermanned a hoe, but as for now, I’m comfortable with keeping at least a few of my brain cells and staying here at Lewis & Clark, even if it means I have to overhear lesbian sex every other night.

-Squaw

Iron and Wine (Sam Beam)

[October 6, 2008 Eugene, OR McDonald Theatre] Gray Tuesdays, lying in your lover’s arms, with nothing else in the world but you and her. I will admit that this was a show that packed a large emotional punch for me. There was baggage there that surpasses any other artist or song on my iPod, all 58 GB by last count. For 6 months even hearing the soft cords or melodic voice that Sam Beam has would fill me with dread and nausea, yet not at all because of his skill. Eventually though, his songs were so great that I could eventually get past my emotional hang-ups, and move on once again to loving his music. Now instead of dread I feel the love of what once was, and what will be. Alone on stage, it was up to Sam and his lone guitar to serenade the crowd with a mountain man beard and soft beautiful voice. He was surprisingly friendly (not that he would have been mean, just that he often chatted with the crowd as one would with a friend). On his first song he messed up, forgot the cords and skipped lines, only to stop and chuckle, laughing about how one can never be perfect. It was endearing. It showed you what music really was; his art, yet it takes practice and he got warmed up. Going through his set he would talk to us, commenting on how we should be doing school work (Eugene is an university town) and all the ups and down (mostly ups really) of smoking weed, which of course we all do/did. I have never felt as close to an artist than at this show. He would talk about how lonely the road is when you are by yourself, and it was like we were his band mates for the evening. One instance in particular was very memorable. During the middle of his set a string broke. Normally this would be a thing kept in back, and a quick change of guitars would be done, and the crowd would be none the wiser, yet there was no background, only him. With no extra guitar, he tuned his to make the next song work, and asked in back for his lone guitar string in the front of his bag. Playing the song sans a string, he was still able to make it come alive. Afterwards he got the string and strung it onstage, yet never missing a beat, always talking to us, making us feel as important as artists always say we are. Finally he got it perfect and continues on. Later on though, while tuning the guitar for his next song (no spare guitars meant he had to tune for most songs) he heard a twang and feared for the string breaking. He had no guitar and said that with no extra string, well that would be terrible. Yet we all knew what would happen. Any of us would run out to our cars, grab our guitar, and hand it over gladly. At times he would stop and we would yell out songs. “Jezebel” was common (it ended up being his encore, chosen by the masses), and as he said, “There is a set list, yet nothing is ever permanent. I can always change it up.” There was the classic call for “Free bird” and instead of ignoring it as usual, Sam responded. “I might just play it, then won’t you look like a dick” and just chuckles. Playing a large part of Shepherd’s Dog and of course Our Endless Numbered Days, it was hard not to be impressed. One could have even sat down and had it all sink in. Sam has even asked for that at shows in the past, and on that night it would have been fitting. He carries a show with just the basics, guitar and vocals. It is amazing how much it can affect someone. I will admit there may have been a tear or two; I know I was not alone, because it is hard to not be hit on some level by his lyrics.
[Nick Erickson]

MSTRKRFT (with Felix Cartal, Congorock)

[10-02 Seattle, WA – Showbox]
When I found out the closest show MSTRKRFT was playing on their 2008 Fists of God tour was in Seattle, I knew that I had to go. Means of transportation went from my friends car, to mine, then at 6 am day of show I found out neither were and option, and needed to resort to train, missing class and committing to an all nighter in Seattle. Every bit of it was worth it. From the sketchy dinners to the homeless crack head trying to sell us weed, it was an amazing experience. Most of all was the five-hour dance party that was the MSTRKRFT show. If you have never been to the Showbox, which is directly across from Pike’s Market, I highly recommend it.
We had the dance party shocked into life by the musical talents of Felix Cartal and Congorock. Although I had never heard of either, both were very good and got all the foreplay with the crowd out of the way so that when MSTRKRFT took the stage, all hell broke loose. Bringing down the curtain, a monolith of screens emerged. On them were elaborate video to mesh with the fantastic mixing of JFK (Jesse F Keeler former bassist of the late great Death From Above 1979; he gave me his cigarette before the show…it was awesome) and Al-P (Alex Puodziukas, a producer on the aforementioned DFA 1979’s You’re A Woman, I’m A Machine) From robots, to acid washed 80’s femme fatal videos, the crowd was taken from small venue to a living, evolving thing. I have been to many dance/techno/dj shows in my time, yet this was by far the most fun I have had. Dancing around, one only had to glance up at JFK to see that they were having just as much fun. Dancing and singing along, he would sneak the occasional drag of his cigarette before the music would drop again, sending the crowd into frenzy.
Standing on stage, arms spread out to embrace the crowd; I was able to see the extent of the destruction the we were doing. Removed from it all we were dancing the night away. Lights and smoke drifting from behind me, I could tell it was time to ascend back into the masses, and leave this stage of gods. And so I jumped as if a question to the crowd, and the sea of people answered back.
Lastly I want to add a slight blurb about their encore. Leaving the stage, the visuals started to melt down and make the dreaded computer error malfunction sound of death. Walking off all cool like, a tip of the hat was all we needed. Screaming and shouting, stomping our feet and chanting MSTRKRFT in unison, we knew we would get what we desired. Finally Al-P walked out to the overwhelming sound of applause and he set the stage. Getting Daft Punks “One More Time” prepped up, he gets it started, but it is just the rise. Repeating words and beats, he just starts the underlay of what is to come. After what seems like an eternity, like the build up to the climax of The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly, JFK runs out like Clint to end it all. Cigarette in tow, he inhales deep and jumps up, slamming his hand upon the button that releases the beat to roam free. The beat drops, and we are in total dance mode once more.
[Nick Erickson]

The Roseland

Nestled in between a homeless hangout and a strip club, the Roseland is a nice little music venue only about 2 blocks from pioneer square. At first look from the inside, it looks like a pretty crappy place thats falling apart. And although it kinda is falling apart, it is also an awesome place. The whole place, including the stage, can probably fit inside stamm comfortably. Although this forces there to be way less available ticket slots, it also means your so close to your favorite bands that you can practically fondle them. Speaking of fondleing, here are a few of the problems with the roseland. 1) the fondleing. You get fondled. Although some people don't mind, i find it odd when a drunk chick you dont know runs up, grabs your ass, and bites your nipple. True story. 2) the younglings. There are alot of middle schoolers and high schoolers. Depending on the show, thats not so bad, but its kinda wierd looking at these kids in sluttly clothes and having them eye you with foul intentions (repember folks, they may seem fun, but its a felony! :D ). and finally, the worst thing about the roseland, 3) the bouncers. some of them are nice, alot of them are dicks. Go to any kind of show where there is moshing and croud surfing, and they get a bit ruough. I've seen them kick the shit out of people for no reason, other than they got thrown forward and they were super happy about that. But those problems aside, the tickets are cheap (15-30), and since its so small, most bands dont have a problem coming into the crowd and signing stuff (after everyones calmed down a bit, of course). Its probably my favorite venue in portland, and I suggest you check it out. (ticketswest.com, search Roseland).

Grant,
the Hi-there-I'm-OH-GOD-YOU-KICKED-MY-TEETH-IN

There For Tomorrow, the four piece set from Orlando Florida, in the last two months just released their brand new 8 track EP Pages, were signed to Hopeless Records and have been on featured on national tours with All Time Low, Anberlin, Ivoryline and the Warped Tour. They are technically considered punk rock but their songs don't the whiny quality (which I love) that many other mainstream pop punk bands have. The band was formed in 2003 but they've just hit it big in the past year with features on MTV, MTVU the Daily Chorus and Alt Press. Though they were the first set of 3 opening bands for Anberlin when they played at the Wonder Ballroom last Sunday they were miles ahead of any of the other bands (Straylight Run, Scary Kids Scaring Kids) in terms of creativity and energy. While listening to the other bands I was tempted to leave and take a cab back to campus because after listening to TFT they seemed dull, old and uninspired. Also the fact that the oldest band member is still not able to drink makes it all the more enjoyable because they actually want to stick around after shows and talk to fans because we're all the same age. They are the first band I've encountered in a while who actually wants to be friends with there fans and have no problem standing around and talking for hours or adding you on facebook. They are basically just a group of really really talented kids who have the ability to create awesome music that makes it impossible to stand still during their shows. Plus they're funny as shit which always makes shows more fun, and they do a sick cover of Icebox.....listen now!

Margot & The Nuclear So And So's: Animal!/Not Animal!

           

The Dust Of Retreat, the debut album of Margot & the Nuclear So and So’s, was a nearly perfect tapestry of lush chamber pop that skirted dangerously close to being a masterpiece. It’s not surprising, then, that the band was snatched up almost immediately by Epic, nor that anticipation for the group’s sophomore release reached fever pitch, especially after the announcement that the band had clashed with the label over which songs to include on the album and that, as compromise, two albums would be released: Animal!, the band’s vision of the album, and Not Animal!, which contained the label’s selections.

            Despite the fact that the two albums share five of the same songs, the sound of Animal! differs considerably – and surprisingly – from that of Not Animal! It’s easy to hear why Epic rejected the band’s selections: while neither album is immediately accessible, Animal! is the tougher, denser sibling and takes listen after listen to digest properly. In addition, Animal! presents Margot as moving forward from their carefully layered chamber pop to a dirtier, though still lush, rock sound. Whereas on Dust Of Retreat, the electric guitar only took predominance on two tracks, the instrument dominates the majority of the songs here. On the other hand, a listen to Not Animal! would lead the listener to believe that Margot is staying within the boundaries of their debut, with tracks composed largely around acoustic guitars, pianos, and strings.

            But in spite of the starkly different sounds, both albums demonstrate that Margot has a firm grip on and understanding of whatever genre they may be working with: both releases have excellent tracks scattered across their lengths. On Animal!, there is “O’ What A Nightmare!” with a roaring, anthemic chorus that segues unexpectedly through a meter change into a restrained, smoldering middle section. There is the murky, late-night wandering of “Love Song For A Schubas Bartender,” and the silent-movie esque strings of “There’s Talk Of Mine Shafts.” There’s plenty on Not Animal!, too, most notably a fleshed-out recording of long-time fan favorite “Broadripple Is Burning,” the quietly haunting “Real Naked Girls,” where waves of dissonant vocal harmonies fade in and out like static on the radio, and the straight-ahead folk-rock of “The Ocean (Is Bleeding Salt).” The tracks that appear on both albums, however, are those that straddle the line between the two extremes, and are, obviously, the best of the bunch. “A Children’s Crusade On Acid” is driven by ominous tom-toms and low, growling guitars, “Cold, Kind, And Lemon Eyes” is a mournful and epic waltz that features the most breathtaking build on either album (culminating in a great wash of sound practically overpowered by a rumble of feedback), and “As Tall As Cliffs” just may be the best song the group has ever recorded.

            But while the melodies are gorgeous and the layers of sound wonderful to pick apart, what truly sets Animal! and Not Animal! apart from the rest of the indie-rock pack are lead singer Richard Edwards’ terrifically honest lyrics. Dust Of Retreat was hardly a happy record, but it’s truly to our advantage that Edwards hasn’t really cheered up any since, because his lyrics are filled with fascinating tales of people losing their lives to booze, lovers cheating on each other, and world (and sometimes just plain) weariness. Like any great folk record, they are what give the album its magnificent depth – they are what pull the listener back again time after time again. And it’s all for the best, because it’s only through time that Margot’s albums can reveal every layer of their magic.

Download These: “As Tall As Cliffs,” “Cold, Kind, And Lemon Eyes,” “A Children’s Crusade On Acid.”

~ Will Preston

How many hours has YouTube sapped from you life?

Oh the glory of YouTube! A couple of Sundays ago I spent glued to my computer screen mindlessly watching hours of Ghostland Observatory videos, eyes blinded by pure brilliance. Their live footage will really rock your socks kids…but if you want laughs, just tune in to their profound words of wisdom taken mainly from band interviews. Here are a few good examples:

Airways interview- question: “do you find it easier being just the two of you?” Thomas Turner answers: “(scratches head) yeah. I mean…we can do what ever we want, ya know?”

Click to see video

2006 ACL Interview- Aaron Behrens proclaims, “Let them get down if they want to”

Click to see video

DocuBlogger (life in central TX) - Terry Lickona Producer, Austin City Limits director (he's like 100 yrs old) describes their sound “it’s not typical dance music or electronic music in my mind or to my ears it’s a combination of the electronic sounds but also genuine melodic music.” “What turns me on is the new jam…something fresh, something new”

Click to see video

Greenville St. Patty Parade Speech- people getting rowdy Aaron Behrens proclaims, “were all here to have a good time…so everybody needs to cool it calm ease up…I don’t wanna see nothing but positive shit going on right here…get the negative out of the place and bring in the positive because I ain’t haven it…it is gonna take you somewhere only if you let it take you there, everybody let's you go there”

Click to see video

2007 SXSW- question: “what do you call your music, rock or electronica?” Thomas Turner answers: “whatever blows your hair back.”

Click to see video

now that YouTube has sapped up more of your precious time and that you've become well vursed in Ghostland Observatory savvy...I'll have you know that GohstlandO will be preforming live at the Crystall Ballroom THIS Saturday OCTOBER 18TH! hope you've got your tickets kids.


iLikedTheDiscoVersionBetter, Monique

Geezer Brigade

There’s been a somewhat disturbing trend over the past few years. Punk rock, long the haunt of the young, has seen more and more of its ancient, historic bands reform and start touring. Of course, very few of these bands are actually producing new material. Mostly, they seem to be cashing in on teen punx bucks. Making money off of an audience who are less interested in seeing something recent, relevant or even good, and more interested in trying to pretend like they are back in the nonexistent heyday of American punk music. Many of these bands seem to be simply shadows of their former selves. The Dead Kennedies without Jello Biafra or The Misfits without Glenn Danzig, for example.

A few weeks ago, I walked into the Satyricon with some of these concerns on my mind. The occasion was Final Warning’s second of two reunion shows. For those who aren’t cool and in the know, Final Warning was one the most important and 
influential hardcore bands in the Pacific Northwest during the mid-eighties along with fellow Portlanders, Poison Idea. I could go into a detailed account of all the songs that they played during the show and what parts were particularly good and what bits I thought were less good but, to be honest, I don’t really remember and it’s not all that important. The important part is that I needn’t have worried: they played a fantastic show. As skeptical as I may have been as to whether a bunch of old farts like the folks in Final Warning could really pull off their songs with any real energy, they totally did. Even though they may have been past their bedtime and were almost certainly arthritic, it didn’t seem to keep them from head banging, jumping about or generally thrashing around like they were in their early-twenties. It was an impressive comeback/ending and walking
 out of the venue, I felt good knowing that I’d just witnessed what was possibly Final Warning’s final show. 


-In other news, The Ergs! are breaking up. Yet another band breaking up before I ever get the chance to see them play. Godamnit.

-Also, I was gonna’ make a muxtape mix for this post, but it appears that Muxtape.com got shutdown since I last went on it. Bad luck strikes twice!


-Spineless


The Politico Piss Artist Presents: No. 1: Fear No Evil

In the run up to this election, it is essential to remind ourselves of how politics bring s out  the worst in people.  So many campaigns are ran on idealistic crap peddling another vision for America to be discarded as soon as seats have been secured.  Unfortunately people are stupid; oh so very stupid, and as a result we vote the same fucking wankers into office because they pander to peoples base fears.

One has to look no further than the bigoted racist shitheads who show up like rats crawling from sewers every time the Republican Veep candidate, Sarah "I can see russia from my house" Palin speaks to see what fear mongering can accomplish.  Such people thrive on ideology, misinformation and general hate for humanity.  One has to look only 60 or so years back to see what happens when people blindly follow ideology, even unto the edges of hells hot.  

"So what can we do to save ourselves? "I can hear you say subconsciously.  There is one way we can succeed in ensuring the long term survival of the human race: Do Not Fear.  It is this fear mongering that has done more to destroy america like so many other countries pitting neighbor against neighbor, countryman against countryman.  Do your part to ensure your survival:  love someone today.

(Sugested Listening:  Fear No Darkness Promised Child by Timo Raisanen)

{Brought to you from an underground bunker by the Politico Piss Artist}

Hey Pretentious Indie Kids of LC!

Here is some bad humor at your expense:

What's the Difference between a puppy and an indie kid?
Eventually, the puppy stops whining.

How many indie kids does it take to change a light bulb?
Oh it's some obscure number; you've probably never heard of it.

How many indie kids does it take to change a light bulb?
2; one to change the light bulb and one to write a crappy song about it.

So an indie girl walks into a bar...
Then she immediately returns home to write in her livejournal about it and post the random ass things she took pictures of along the way onto her facebook.

How can you tell when an indie kid is hitting on you?
He doesn't ask for your number. Instead he asks you for a cigarette and if you like Postwar American Fiction.

Disclaimer: It's good to poke fun at ourselves every once in a while, so if you are actually offended, you can just go suck on your cigarettes and write a really confusing poem about how much I suck that doesn't make any sense to anybody!

Be3p bo0p b0P
DJ SimonBot 5000

R Kelly's impending release

This one goes out to Kellz.

Last summer R. Kelly put out perhaps the most thematically cohesive, yet polyphonically rich album of the present decade; he incorporates his now fully developed style of multi-voiced versified storytelling, and brings in
distinct, well-known personalities, though still having Kelly providing the voices for different characters and even singing an apostrophe to a girl on the other end of a cell phone call. The themes of doubling in the lyrics align very well with the dynamic voicings of the record. Kelly let's us know very explicitly that he is taking everything he's ever done to the next level in his headier-than-thou intro to the title track: "Sixteen years, nothing but hits,
and they still don't believe. There's only one thing to do, and that is, double up." However, his purpose ultimately has little to do with the weight of these songs, and thusly he makes a turn, "Now that we got that out of the way, let's double up," and drops the beat, letting us know immediately that everything said at least means two things, playing with this binary of weight and lightness, and asserting that doubling can mean anything as heady as realizing he and his friend Usher are in love with girls who seem to be identical in every way ("Same Girl"), to simply having a threesome with two girls (the title track that features Snoop Dog as a second character who also doubles up).

Dostoevsky's novels are most famously attributed with the narrative device of "doubling," a term conceived by the Russian critic Mikhail Bakhtin. He termed the novels polyphonic, in that a large number of different, often combative, characters possess distinct voices in the work. These voices are then, "not an object of authorial discourse, but rather a fully valid autonomous carrier of his own individual word." The disagreement of "Real Talk," for example, not only tells the livid story of a break-up, but presents a genuine expression of polyphonic ambiguity, the kind of "catastrophe of disunited consciousnesses" that results from putting "closed" or "autonomous" consciousnesses into dialogue. "Real Talk" complicates the interaction of these personalities because we only have Kelly's side of the conversation and the implied presence of his girl on the other end; though by the end we are by no means convinced the Kelly is right in this situation, for his voice is so consistent in the album that we can assume from "I'm a Flirt," "Hook it Up," "Sex Planet," "Freaky in the Club," and from what we know of the singer himself, that Kelly in all probability "was with those other girls" in the club. We see through his blatant hypocrisy when he tells his girl to "watch her mouth" because he has already set a profanity-rich precedent with idiomatic gems such as "how the fuck she knew I was with them other girls then when the whole club packed—?" Our sympathy for his girl in spite of her lack of voice alienates Kelly from his audience because the song gets so "real," as it declares itself to do.

That "Real Talk" manages to assert an implied second character puts the song in a distinct category considering an album with ten songs that feature other singers, with several songs with more than just two voices, and the use of the phrase "Double Up" finding it's way into so many songs, while absent in "Real Talk." The persona of Kelly reaches a sort of purity in this context, for the clash of consciousness occurs between Kelly and the listener his or herself. "Leave Your Name" furthers this monologue-as-dialogue concept, which, while still addressing an implied girl on the phone, is not a live performance, i.e. talking in this moment on the phone to someone, but a recorded one, that is his outgoing message ("You have reached R Kelly unfortunately I am asleep"). The song is characterized by a more internal-thinking Kelly that represents the shift from an oral, live form of storytelling to that of a recorded, textualized form that is concerned with a more introspective tradition. The doubling of the vocal track by Kelly reinforces the self-doubt and self-examination, in a soliloquy of sorts much in the spirit of Hamlet's
inner-made-outer dialogue, Shakespeare also being cited by Bakhtin as a very effective user of doubling in his narratives.

However, the song presents a curious concept of the outgoing messaget: the recording describes why he is asleep, that is, the experiences of the night before. "You have reached R Kelly unfortunately I am asleep. [I've] been out partying all night, and I'm blasted off that Hennessey." The tense here moves to a present tense that indicates a more habitual feeling about the song and the singer's predicament: "I hop to hotel lobbies, going to them after parties, throwing up and carrying on, bout to have somebody drive me home, I get through the door, fall on the floor, get up. I'm staggering. [I] look upstairs. Shit is blurry because I'm real bent." An outgoing message makes sense because anytime someone calls he will be recovering from being overly intoxicated. This confessional honesty becomes "real" in the same vein as "Real Talk" with his desperate honesty about his alcoholism, sex addition, and enthusiasm for marijuana: "And now I don't know whether I'm coming or going." We are told then right before the chorus to whom this mechanical apostrophe is addressed: "And this goes out to all of my honeys that's calling." Kelly directly addresses his condition of being in dialogue with one's self in the next verse: "Drinking Belvedere, 7-Up, and gin, I told myself never again, sleeping while the club is crunk, don't make no sense to be that drunk. Arguing through the night, pushing on people and starting fights. I was fucked up: I confess, people saying Kellz is a hot mess. Even after that I was taking shots, shot after shot, shot after shot. Then I couldn't even open the door to my Benz. Dropped off and I get in the door now. Lying on the stairs snoring now. Why you calling me calling me calling me?" The verse gives an image of the "real" R Kelly, a self-destructive "hot mess." The repetition of "shot after shot" reinforces the habitual, potentially infinite extent to which Kelly is describing how he ends his nights.

What makes it appropriate as an out-going message is its repetition, how many times the evening is doubled, and then doubled again. However, we don't know what R Kelly does every night, and therefore we don't know the extent to which
it is a satire on unspontaneous, structured, and un"real" recordings, or if it's a sincere diversion from his spontaneous, highly idiomatic, and "real" performances. For every time the out-going message plays it reinforces the habitual character of its story and its existence as a mechanized performance (i.e. the production of a record), becoming less of a polyphonic voice. That he ends the song saying "Damn, 200 missed calls" is a joke about how the ambiguity of one's consciousness, the polyphony of a single person, does not allow an unequivocal interpretation, that is one that does not assert the implausibility of others. Here we can see the essential quality of R Kelly's project: describing two poles at once and inhabiting the ambiguity that lies between—me and/or you, improvised and/or meticulously crafted, from the heart and/or from the head, hot mess and/or king of R & B, flirt and/or alcoholic, doubling up and/or doubling up. This sophistication is what brings us back to Crime and Punishment, Hamlet, and, now, Double Up, for the experience with the works is a dynamic one, the listener always challenging and re-thinking what the work is accomplishing, for is it about "believing" in R Kelly's profundity or his levity, can we even call him profound, or does his switches between the two describe our generation so well that we can't call him light. That he ironizes his characters and flips over their interpretations, even when the character is himself, makes me over a year later amazed at these songs.

The present question is then, how will Kelly follow up, or potentially double up this record with the impending "12 Play: Fourth Quarter," whose release was delayed by Kelly's court dates and inability to promote it. Will it, like the hypothetical "bad motherfuckers that look like her, act like her" in "Hook it Up," that will it provide us with a doubled version of what is known to be "bad." From "Hairbraider," a song about "doing [his] hairbraider" we get more of the self-referential discussion of what it means to be R Kelly, but the context does not provide us with anything as brilliant as "I'm a Flirt"—the apostrophe that warns potential victims of his magic—, U and K having a cell-phone conversation in "Same Girl," or the genius of "Leave Your Name" and "Real Talk." "Skin," the second single is also disappointing for the most part. Double up has its defects, and so I don't wish to judge the fourth installment of 12-play yet, but if it acts like its predecessor, Tell her girlfriend [double up's double] to holler at her future boyfriend [me]." I have heard snippets of other songs since the album was leaked in July. "Might Be Mine," for example, is a great example of Kelly's polyphonic, spontaneous compositions, beginning "Gather round, this is a true story," creating a scene of Kelly performing to a group at his feet, like a veritable Greek prophet, and presenting an ambiguous binary between whether the kid is his or not ("there's a very good chance that it might be mine"). It is a "good chance" that it "might" be his kid. What the hell does that mean? He's already got me guessing.

Sigur Ros - Live At The Arlene Schnitzer

            When I walked into the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall on Monday night to see the Icelandic post-rock group Sigur Ros perform, I had no idea what to expect. The group is famed for their breathtaking and otherworldly sound, which they have perfected over the course of six albums; the same adjectives could easily be applied to describing their live performances. But beyond that, I am at a loss for words at how to describe the show. In a single nutshell, it was stunning. For a moment, nevermind the fact that the music performed is unbelievably beautiful – anybody who has ever listened to a Sigur Ros record is familiar with their sound, with Jonsi Birgisson’s heavenly falsetto, with the lush soundscapes of strings and brass. Watching this music be performed in itself is mesmerizing – Birgisson plays his guitar with a cello bow, creating shards of piercingly gorgeous feedback, and watching him saw away at his strings is utterly fascinating. But it’s the show itself that was so spectacular: multi-colored lights flashed on and off violently in time with the pounding drum beat of “Ny Batteri,” and “Festival” reached its triumphant climax accompanied by the brilliant flashing of strobe lights. During “Heysatan,” the group huddled around a set of keyboards and xylophones, the only light illuminated from a few candle-like bulbs placed around the instruments that lit up as they were played. But even more striking were the images projected onto the huge screen behind the band – “Vid Spilum Endalaust” was accompanied by  what looked like glowing embers floating through the air, while black and white snatches of what seemed to be faces flitted in and out of focus like spectres during “All Alright,” one of the barest and most haunting numbers of the evening. But nothing compared to the grand finale of “Gobbledigook,” which began with four members of the opening band Parachutes joining the quartet on stage to pound away on a set of drums, amplifying the already driving beat. The song was supported by a bright, psychadelic color display, and ended with a shock as geysers of confetti exploded out of the stage and showered the entire three-thousand person audience.

            It was thanks to these magnificent displays that the disappointments of the evening were minimized. While the group demonstrated, as always, an impressive grip over their use of dynamics, rising from soothingly quiet to massive climaxes, one never felt that the group was quite as loud as they could have been. The eruption of sound on numbers such as “Saeglopur” and “Glosoli” should have left a ringing in my ears, but failed do so. I hesitate to blame this on the band, however – I have heard similar complaints about the Schnitzer before. The only other complaint was the lack of a string or brass section, both of which are instruments featured prominently on the group’s studio albums. It was a small difference, and the sound was fine without the additional layer, but it did cause a few of the numbers to lack some of the depth of the album versions.

            It was a combination of these things that actually allowed the quieter and more stripped-down songs of the evening to take the forefront. Both of the aforementioned songs “Heysatan” and “All Alright” filled the space, oddly, in a way that the louder pieces could not, and the atmosphere became warmer and more intimate. The same happened with “Meo Blodnasir,” which, featured on the album Takk, is little more than an interlude. Live, however, Birgisson encouraged the entire audience to hum along with the gentle lullaby melody. The result was a deeply serene moment and one of the highlights of the evening. But the most intense moment of the entire concert arrived in the encore, with the performance of “Papplagid.” Beginning with a simple guitar riff, the song built as Birgisson’s eagle-like cries faded in and out over a rising drum roll which eventually exploded into the loudest moment of the night, accompanied by an impossibly fast strobe light show in which every single light onstage flashed on and off in a brilliant, heart-pounding display. But it wasn’t the light show that was the most remarkable part – it was the build of the song, which acquired an edge and ferocity absent on the album recording. It was a reminder that even surrounded by terrific light displays and haunting images, Sigur Ros’s greatest strength is their music. And, oh, what breathtaking music it is.

~ Will Preston

The Glass Passenger

THE WAIT IS OVER

Jack's Mannequin's second album is finally out following a three year long gap in between Everything In Transit(2005) and The Glass Passenger. The album works for me on all the levels i find important: entertaining, inspirational and innovative. Starting the album with the line, "I wanna hear some music" and from then on the next 19 tracks flow effortlessly together demonstrating, once again, Andrew McMahon's brilliance as a songwriter. The Glass Passenger is still very piano driven but many of the tracks provide much more an instrumental variety than Everything In Transit. The Resolution immediately sticks out as the band's single and most reminiscent of previous hits like Dark Blue and Bruised but after a few passes through the whole album many of the other songs start to stick out more. Spinning, Crashin' and Swim all were simultaneously stuck in my head making it impossible to work on anything...sorry galaty. Alot of his new songs also touch on his battle with Leukemia and his fear of not being able to make music after his recovery. Even though Jack's Mannequin may now be considered more mainstream and this may turn off many of the o-so-cool indie listeners ive talked to around campus, i say forget about how many people listen to this band. fucking listen to britney spears if it makes you happy. forget about what other people say and their opinions and listen to this album because its rad as fuck, o and go see him in concert at a small venue if you can. that shit'll blow your clothes off.

-namelocenerillij

Calexico and The Cave Singers

Traveling troubadours, fierce as hawks, Calexico and The Cave Singers executed one triumphant live show at the Crystal Ballroom last (last) Saturday, September 27th. This shit got real the moment The Cave Singers, polka folk pioneers hailing from Seattle, took the stage. They opened their set with some mad tambourine action in seeds of night off their most recent album /Innovation Songs/. Note, I say MAD tambourine action because lead singer, Pete Quirk’s tambourine was down to two functioning symbols. Nonetheless, it made for a beat that made you want to shake your feet. There was even some incessant shouting during Dancing on Our Graves. Touché I say. Once done, they packed up their gear and due in part to my convenient proximity to the stage (it was worth it to get to there early) I was able to edge in some chitchat. I learned from guitarist, Derek Fudesco that the black barstool chairs, which accompany them to every live performance, were bought at Value Village three for four dollars. What a steal! I also learned that Quirk is honored to be my inspiration for taking up the melodica, a free reed instrument similar to an accordion.

(here's one of those bargin chairs)

Ladies and gentlemen, now for the main event, Calexico, an eclectic alt-country group from Tucson, Arizona. The stage was set, a middle-aged man’s jam basement with two too many guitars and an incredible ambiance. When they finally took the stage I wondered, are there not only two of them? But sure enough founding members, Joey Burns and John Concertino were accompanied by an assorted group from all corners of the globe. Paul Niehaus, Jacob Valenzuela, Martin Wenk, and Volker Zander together come from Spain, Germany, and some remote American town. Here I’ll claim that all songs preformed that night, especially Two Silver Trees off their new album /Carried to Dust/, were transcending, even tear jerking, like the score to a spaghetti western. Their performance was truly testament to how fluidly they combine the traditional music of the American southwest with folk rock and add in world influences from Eastern Europe. However, standing alone in excellence was the whimsical Calexico bass (standup and electric) player, Volker Zander. If only you could have seen the intense eagle eye gaze of concentration on said musician’s face. Imagine an angry mariachi band member with a bone to pick and that bone is his bass. I swear he didn’t change that fixed gaze for the entire show. Lastly, Calexico wrapped up with a second encore, which may or may not have been necessary. They exited with a just for kicks attitude and one distortion peddle still throbbing. Truly tenacious troubadours. And like any good troubadours, their instrumentation was what wooed the most. Everything from the steel-peddle guitar to the accordion were utilized. Twelve guitars, washboards, horns, egg shakers, foot tambourines, foot organs, bass peddles, vibraphones, maracas, whistling, and keyboards galore! Extraordinary, even a little ostentatious really (I mean that only in the best of ways). I’ll end with a plea, that one must see these traveling troubadours.

I liked the disco version better, Monique

Should I throw in the towel?

"Fuck the POLICE!"

At a certain distinguishable point during the course of last week, I wanted to kill myself. Now, some may say that I am exaggerating out of proportions, and I will throw that back in their healthy, pink, soft faces and say, "then you haven't ever had Mono, bitch!"

Mononucleosis is simply some nasty ol' fluid in your lungs. In translation, it feels like someone ran into you with a garbage truck full of fucking Budweiser Clydesdales, in which the valiant Clydesdales proceeded to trample and shit all over your pale, ghoulish face. Mono hurts. Oh, and your throat, yeah, your throat feels like it's been carved out with a chainsaw like some smiling family's thanksgiving turkey. Just eating a teensy weensy oyster cracker is like Aoki pouring Grey Goose all over a tender, festering wound filled with dirt and maggots. Sweet gushy tears are a mandatory symptom of Mono, the satanic disease. But, with the proper combinations of Ascorbates, Vitamin A, Bioflavonoids, Acetaminophin, Phenylephrine HCI, Menthol, Selenium, Vitamin C, Zinc, Magnesium, Chlorpheniramine Maleate, Guaifenesin, Vicodin, Valerian root, Ibuprofin, Lemon balm herb, Phenol, and Hydrcodone, I was able to doctor and scooch myself through the week without prematurely turning out the lights.

Some blokes say that Stephen Hawking is, I quote, "Like Harry Potter, but without the magic." Mono is kinda like Lou Gehrigs disease, I guess. Because my bloody throat throbbed like a sweaty, pink heart, I communicated through a series of grunts and garble, much like Stephen Hawking. Chilling in my bed with the world swirling around my clammy body, I began to fear that I was going to die, freshman year of college, without ever having discovered diddly-squat about gamma rays or ominous black holes. I wanna make magic like Harry Potter, so suck it Mononucleosis. 

To keep it brief, people generally don't want to hang out with a hacking, coughing, moaning Myrtle bag of snot. Also, something frickin cool about Mono is that rather than just having a congested nose full of puce snot, the snot slithers down your esophagus and into your mouth; Yeah, your mouth. Call me snot mouth if you'd like, cus at the end of the day, you're the healthy one drinking 40's on a La-Z-Boy and I'm beefing it in my bed eating my own bubbling snot and worrying that my spleen might sporadically explode under pressure. This is why smart people keep their goddam distance when their pals, g.fs, b.fs, gang, b.f.fs, b.f.f.ls, hubbies, whatevers...contract Mono.

In conclusion, no one is safe from Mononucleosis. When ya don't gots it, stay far from it- when ya gots it, suckin' on dem ice cubes feels sooo good. And, in the slick words of Ice Cube himself, "chick-ity-check yo'self before your wreck yo'self," and get The Message Remix while you're at it.

Fondly, Lauren (Mono) Fischer

Voodoo Doughnuts=orgasm

Portland’s Chinatown at eleven o’clock at night is probably not the best place to be yet that is where I found myself last Thursday night (September 25) and my joyous mood could not be dampened even by the constant fear of kidnapping that accompanies an exit from Berbati’s Pan. Starting off the night was the three-piece band, The Delta Fiasco, hailing from Liverpool but who now call L.A. home. There sound falls clearly into the Electronica/Techno/Pop genre and if you are a lyrics lover this is not the band for you. Words were few and far between and usually consisted of single syllable grunts but apparently we were all deceived because after checking out their myspace I relate their sound now more leaning towards the Killers than Ratatat. The light show that they provided during their set far outshone any of the other bands and forced you to get into the music. Next up was Jonezetta, a six piece Garage Surf band from Jackson Mississippi who provided a look akin to My Morning Jacket but a sound almost like a blend between Mute Math and Something Corporate. The Southern Rock sound was perfectly complimented by the house party mentality that every one in the band seemed to embody. Playing songs from their newly released album “Cruel to be Young” and including a cover of The Beatles’ Why Don't We Do It In The Road made me an instant fan. Finally Shiny Toy Guns came on stage and the population of the club seemed to triple. They were just as good as expected but not nearly as enjoyable as the previous two bands. With popularity comes diversity of listeners and it was slightly uncomfortable trying to rock out with 40 year old moms on one side of you and horny little twelve year olds on the other side making out with eachother. The most exciting part of the night was creeping around the club/tour bus before the show and actually getting to talk to Shiny Toy Guns. Smaller venues are almost always preferable because interaction between the crowd and musicians is inevitable. I looked to my right during the first song of Shiny Toy Guns’ set and the drummer from Jonezetta was just chilling in the crowd so I always recommend showing up a little early for shows and maybe the headlining band will be searching for a Chinese restaurant and willing to strike up a conversation with you!

Reppin the midwest

sup

Genres-they confuse me.

Something I’ve noticed in music today is the abundance of genres. It seems like every band today needs to have its own genre. It seems no one can be happy grouped up with someone else. No band wants to be Rock anymore, ‘cause they’re more like Acid Rock, or Pop-punk-postmodern-Rock. Seriously, I’ve read bands that claim to be punk pop country folk bands. Excuse me, but what the fuck does that mean? I understand that bands can be extremely unique and different, but that doesn’t mean they should have their own genre to themselves. Genres are short and simple ways to categorize music. Let’s not complicate that. Yes, Black Metal and Power Metal are extremely different. Sure, Delta Blues and Detroit Blues are miles away. No one Claims Pop-country and Country rock are the same. But we can still avoid the long running genres that combine like 8 styles. Think I’m being silly? Go to Wikipedia and search “list of musical styles” There are 4 pages. I’m sure we can find an appropriate genre for any band in there. Let’s go for simplicity, let’s make it clear. So can we avoid the long running genres that make no sense whatsoever, just so this little band can pretend to be unique? Thanks.

Grant, The Yellow-Postmodern-Neofacetious-Popcounterculture-writer