dumb fucks

HERE’S an idea: let’s make Lewis & Clark even more of a cookie cutter fairy tale summer camp than it already is! Yeah! I know how! Let’s ban smoking! IN THE FUCKING OUTDOORS! That way we can make this bubble that we live in even MORE sterile and stale than it already is! Who cares about decency? Who cares about cooperation or compromise? Hell, who cares about giving someone a five foot fucking radius of peace and quiet? In this world we live in, we need to be as ruthless as we are ignorant. Let’s attack people who have made a personal choice in stead of getting at real issues. Sure, the oil companies that make the gas that powers my car and the electronics plants that make my iPods pollute the air I breath WAY more than a cigarette, but complaining about that would take way too much effort on my part. I say we attack those evil, less-intelligent-than-we-are smokers on our campus that have the audacity to walk to class while burning tobacco. I mean, do you know how DISGUSTING it is having to smell cigarette smoke as I walk from class to the library? I mean, who do these people think they are, exercising personal choices that may or may not slightly affect me out in the free air? Where’s the justice? Besides, I already know from reading so many articles in the PIO LOG how smokers are actually STUPIDER than people who don’t smoke. Don’t you think that it’s just a BURDEN for our school, filled with young bright minds, to allow these fuck-ups to negate all the smart things they’ve ever learned by SMOKING??!!! And I mean, GOD, it’s just such a fucking tragedy that cigarette butts get left on the ground and POISON our aesthetically hard-on inducing campus. I just want to walk to the BON after class without one fucking thing bothering me and sit down and have a nice glass of COCA-COLA with my lunch. I mean, fuck, it’s not like they’ve ever polluted anything, RIGHT? Fellow LCers, there is no time to loose! Let’s highjack the spotlight and divert attention from real pressing issues! To all you smokers out there: you’d better watch your back, because there’s a new boss in town and we’re not letting any of you unfortunate fucks smoke another cigarette when we’re around! No way josé, we’re coming for you! Don’t worry, we’re just looking out for you – all that we ask is to let us make YOUR personal choices for you. Trust me, IT’S FOR YOUR OWN GOOD.

-ds

Andrew Bird at the Roseland 2/21/09

Within the first two minutes of Andrew Bird's performance at the Roseland Theater, I decided that watching him cue his looping pedals and pluck his violin strings was like watching a tiny rare bird do an exotic and intricate dance. Bird, delicate in manner but audacious in creativity, shuffled about stuffed animals and spinning phonograph horns in striped, hole-infested socks. He dashed between three different mics, whistling a whirlwind of spectacular sounds. Accompanying him for the evening was a full band comprised of equally as visually eccentric musicians as Martin Dosh, Mike Lewis, and Jeremy Ylvisaker.
Even though Bird’s performance was captivating to watch, I frequently closed my eyes just to listen. This was the first concert I attended where so much was happening aurally that all I could do was think about the sound. I stood listening, mouth agape, not even able to sing the words to my favorite songs. Little audience eye contact was made and even less filler banter was said, but still you felt so deeply and emotionally connected to Bird. The night’s set list was a comprehensive showcase of Bird’s creative talent. My favorite piece preformed live was “Not a Robot, But a Ghost” off Bird’s latest release Nobel Beast. The energy during this song was elevating and uplifting. To see Martin Dosh kick drum kick drum and Bird strum strum together was quite a sight. One of the most intriguing aspects of an Andrew Bird concert is that considerable improvising on songs makes for a show that will keep you on your toes. Finally, the crowd’s roaring din dimmed and a single spotlight illuminated Bird as he sung a suave encore of “Why?” from his Bowl of Fire days.

Now I would have been content seeing this performance standing in a dumpster among a herd of screaming babies but this certainly was not the case. The venue was pristine and the crowd was cordial. The Roseland Theater’s layout evokes the warmth of a small venue while holding the power of the masses. No matter where you stand in the Roseland, you are sure to have a great view and a sensational audio experience. The icing on the cake though was the opening band, Loney, Dear. Hailing from Sweden, this indie pop group gave Bird a run for his money. They were light and entertaining, I even bought one of their albums after the show and this is bold for a penniless college student. The whole night was well worth the pennies I scrounged together. And I would advise you to start digging into your pockets too and see Andrew Bird live. For more tour dates and information on Andrew Bird and Lonely, Dear visit: AndrewBirdTour LoneyDear


-monique halgat

The end of the world in an era of eco-pocolypse

I have a confession: I am hyper-excited for 2012 to come out. I was cued-into the movie’s trailer this last November and have been hooked like a floundering steelhead ever since. However, in many ways I doubt the actual film could ever match the cinematic mastery in the preview. [a la Brick, this short is a wonder of mood, color, and text] I mean, you know that there’s going to be some narrative arc with a hero rising-up in the gaping, doom-void to lead the remaining world into a new realm of ecological understanding, racial harmony, social re-structuring, blah blah blah. Even worse, this could all be some conspiracy by the telecommunication super-powers or ALIENS, where there would be an actual bad-guy to fight. Forget that, I can’t be bothered by this crap. I want to see the world end.



I want to see oceans swallowing Tokyo, a meteor-shower decimating London, a chasm swallowing the pyramids, and an electrical storm torching the world's oil field. I want this, because in more ways than one I want a good laugh. You’ve all heard about the Litany right? A never-ending list of enviro-disasters and pending eco-crises that are each sure to be the point-of-no-return, the feedback trigger-er, the collapse of carrying capacity that will throw us all down a slimy path of ecological/economical/social devastation and increased suffering. I’ve been swallowing, dreaming, and brewing with this list for too long. I’ve harped on my peers, I’ve lost social functionality, and it can be hard to sleep at night. I’m no saint or prophet mind you, just concerned and seeing no real promise in the proposed adaptive or “sustainable” solutions being offered. No stimulus package, no green-design, nor any UN Program is going to make serious change. None of them is going to redistribute goods and opportunities on a global scale. None is going to stop the pain and destruction that are implied in any industrial/capital system that relies on a constant flow of resources from the marginal peripheries to civilized centers. The worst part is that these crises will not be realized as such, without an appropriately significant response to reanalyze priorities. Rather it will all gradually worsen, with the people lowest down receiving the worse treatment, and we’ll talk comfortably about adaptation.

So how does one deal with a loss of hope? I’d recommend some dark coffee and filter-less luckies, and to start thrashing to crust punk. The best remedy I can imagine is to stare doom right in the face. Thus 2012 is so exciting (as well as Sony’s viral advert: the Institute of Human Continuity), along with terror-inducing, black-hole-causing Large Hadron Colliders. How can you not laugh at the potential destruction of life and Earth, when it would so neatly dodge the real issues plaguing our psyches?

Lurv, Evan

P.S. Images care of
www.hermes-press.com/societal_apocalypse.htm;
Ed Burtynsky "Shipbreaking"

!Kaboogie yo face

If you were curious as to where to find Dublin's finest in dubstep/ragga/jungle/breakcore, never fear, I have located it for you. And just in case no one has yet become aware of my motives (oh, probably not. And I probably shouldn't be so blatant as to state them outright, anyway, so--), just in case no one has yet to become aware of my motives… Y'all is some sucka (MCs). In any case, I just downoaded myself a lovely little ZIP file of Vol. 2 of !Kaboogie's Label Sampler. !Kaboogie is, of course, the indecipherable name of the premier label of the oft-sought supergenre, Dublin dubstep/ragga/… God, I just can't believe it took me so long to find them!

Just because sarcasm sometimes doesn't have that same characteristic driiiip when filtered through cyberspace, um, no, I haven't been seeking out !Kaboogie for ages. But having stumbled upon it -- I'm a little excited. Not as excited as I was when my mom sent me badass boots for my birthday, not even as excited, maybe, as when they serve macaroni and cheese at the Bon (please soon please). But I'm giving this Vol. 2 mix a listen right now, and I'm kind of digging it. You can get it here. As a starting point(s?), "Stringaling," "Fuckem Up," and "See The Light" are all pretty siq.

M.I.A. + Lil' Wayne = life, complete.

Sorry -- I know I just wrote about Street Tape like, two seconds ago, but I'm just so incredibly excited because a new mixtape was posted and not only does it include some Animal Collective and a cover of "Sexual Healing" by Hot Chip, but this playlist features… A remix of "Paper Planes" by LIL' WAYNE! OMG OMG. And despite all the goddamn haters in the world, what could be catchier than the anthem of the year (come on -- it was one of them) remixed by Lil' Wayne who, if I were better at arguing, I would defend to my last breath. For very few concrete reasons but, what the fuck, people believe in God without concrete reasoning backing them up. It all comes down to faith and self-deception. So if you're as irrational as me and you love a good dance party as much as me: YOOOO.

V-day left you scorning?

V-day left you scorning? Well, you could keep googling pick-up lines to mend your bitter black heart. Let's make like a fabric softener and snuggle, Did you fart? Because you blew me away, Do you have a Band aid? Because I just scraped my knee falling for you. OR you could try something more creative and genuine. I suggest swapping i-pods (that's if you trust that your shit won't be stolen) or playing 20 questions "guess my favorite song/band" addition. These tactics would sure pan out better than, Hi, I'm Mr. Right. Someone said you were looking for me.

photo of Banksy

-monique halgat

Andrew Bird- Noble Beast (2009)

Andrew Bird's latest release Noble Beast on Fat Possum records is just the ammunition needed to make the ordinary enchanted. With Bird's penetrative pizzicato, wicked whistling, and clever couplets, listening becomes a majestic voyage. Folding laundry or walking to work become fairy tale adventures when lost in Bird's latest creation. Word play and syllable stammering are most impressive on this album. Cleverly, Bird uses a palindrome for the opening track title, "Oh No" and the last, "On Ho" together they read OHNONHO. Why such a quixotic and creative move? That answer surely lies only in the brain of Bird, walled in by his genuineness accompanied by the rest of his reasoning behind song meanings and compositions. Bird brings back the electricity of collaboration with multi-instrumentalist, Martin Dosh on "Not a Robot, but a Ghost" (my personal favorite track). And die-hard Bird fans will be pleased with the meticulous and melodic bonus album, Useless Creatures, full of instrumentation galore. If such listeners still hunger for more, they can see Bird strut his stuff live at Portland's own Roseland Theater this Saturday February 21st. His performance is sure to be powerful enough to sooth a beast in and of itself.

rating: 7.5
track picks: "Oh No" "Not a Robot but a Ghost" "Anonanimal"

for Quentin Compson III

TIME is was and was was then but now it's here and then it was gone. But then it doesn't even matter to anyone but ourselves, and still then it's a futile attempt to flee it, better left right where it was before we decided to meddle with it. And you never understood that. Pulling that weight on your back without even thinking about letting go, preserving your so called honor in eternity. But your honor wasn't honor, it was isolated security, belonging to no one, it was impossible conquest. Reducto absurdum, I think your father called it. I wish you had listened to him. Time was better left alone. No one not even you could touch it, wrap it up, look at it, put it in a box and simply understand. Suffering, I'm sure you thought. Endless suffering on a silver piece screaming its unrelenting tick in your ear and you, trying to conjure up a tragedy, like writing your life away and forgetting its just ink on paper. And goddammit if you weren't pretty convincing. For there was a time when I would lie on my back in the sun in the summer and think of august and that place I'd never been and think to myself that I knew how you felt and that I had found a friend. But you are not my friend. Because now I think I did know you then, know how you felt and what you were going to do and don't lie to me you knew you'd do it ever since you took a step outside of your house and felt that fiery sun beat down upon your back, burning without mercy without understanding without even feeling. Dice loaded against you, that's what your father said. You should have listened to him, like I did. I know then and now and yesterday and tomorrow and I know struggle and I know what comes after that, I know time and I am free from you, free to wander helplessly in all my jubilee and despair. and it's living. What you did, that was agony, agony and you loved it. That's what you could never say. Because every man eventually lays down and cant get back up, feels the weight upon his chest feels his bones slowly bending breaking cracking feels his heart struggling to beat against it all and every man takes a sick sense of satisfaction in his own condition however personal it may be it's a right of passage a pulse a reminder of who we are we are not above anything at all and it wasn't just you that's what you could never understand because it was never just you it never had been and it never will its every man its us all because to suffer is to walk and to walk is to

you killed yourself, you escaped time, you called it honorable but i know you i know what you were and i will never do what you did not even mentally. you killed yourself and called it honorable but i know you

-ds

from the streets

europe, music, fauxhawks -- roll these concepts around in your head for a moment and perhaps you'd come up with something mentally akin to street tease's street tape. from the land of justice, france (just for fun, make that a double entendre in your head. think of the people you could anger with this statement, if out of context), comes an everything-hipster website that features techno-heavy, remix-heavy, pimpin'-heavy playlists.

and why are these playlists so sweet? well, who hasn't been searching for fucking EVER for a french bonde do rôle? okay, sure.. maybe you haven't either, but regardless -- y'all should check "bitch of the bitches" (kanthos playlist) by les corps mince de françoise. this song occasionally tastes a little bit like toni basil's "hey mickey," too. hmmm. or how about givin' an aural gander to "spliff dub" by zomby (humanleft playlist). it's been remixed by rustie into a kind of funky, kind of annoying breakbeat-style remix. mmhm -- kind of annoying. but it's called "spliff dub." enough of a reason to give it a listen, ja? another playlist highlight: well, I love "heartbeats" remixes of all shapes and sizes, and there's a josé gonzalez cover of this song on tape #5. cool rad awesome! top playlist overall? quite a tough one. tape list #5 happens to also contain a three 6 mafia remix, making it a top contender in my book, but the whole tape #4 playlist is also pretty siq: lykke li, the pharcyde, some ladyhawke and justice remixes, a bit of lazy & snotty-sounding french rapping from surkin.. etc. really, when it comes down to it, each street tape playlist -- nay, the entire street tease site -- really is super chouette (for the non-francophones among us, this means "super owl" -- though in the context it would be correctly translated as "super cool"), so pop some mollie (optional) anddd chekkkit!

love
hannah

ps:
grace à street tease: http://www.pinkcoyote.net/creativegrooming.html

The First Time I Got High,...

...I listened to “Two States” from Pavement’s first album, Slanted and Enchanted.

It’s not the best song on the album, it’s not necessarily the worst (what is the worst song on the album? On viewing the tracklist, “Jackals…” is the only one I openly do not adore, so I guess that’s a candidate), but somehow I find it fitting that the first time I got high I listened to that song. I don’t really smoke pot that much as I used to (relative to my younger self, that is), and pot didn’t turn me on to any music that I didn’t like (although I did think that Zion I was good once when I was high. I’ve felt a certain sense of betrayal ever since), I just like pot a lot and I like Pavement a lot, and I find that fitting.

And, shit, Steve and Spiral sound like they’re high when they’re playing on this track. This was pre-full band Pavement, just Malkmus, Kannberg and the inimitable Gary Young fucking around in Louder Than You Think in Stockton. Rumor has it that if you go to the mailing address on the early Pavement singles, you’ll find the home of Kannberg’s parents, who apparently still love the attention they get after all this time.

These little things were the sorts that made my teenage self fall hopelessly in love with Pavement. Pavement was one of those bands whose real life idiosyncrasies matched their sonic ones. Malkmus’ solo on the track is so trebly and flat, yet played with such bombast and abandon and glee, there is no way he wasn’t high during the recordings. And for my newly christened high self, it was all glory. North and South!

--Mac Pogue

I'm So Morning Teleportated.

I spend a lot of time being wide-eyed and starry while roaming around the Portland music scene. Much of this has to do with the oh-so luscious opportunity that I've been provided since this summer, which is to do Booking and Publicity for Holocene, a club full of delightful people with their ears very much to the ground. I hope to keep you all abreast of some exceptional musical experiences that I've had in that lovely space...like, for example, this one:

We recently hosted the housewarming show for recent Portland-via-Austin transplants and ultra-hyped rockers Morning Teleportation. My first instinct, being thoroughly assimilated into the Northwest aesthetic, was to resist. Resist, commence apathy, be thoroughly unimpressed. After all, these boys look like they came out of a cereal box - they look, in the context of our comfortably careless city, TOO good. Quite literally too good - hairdos perfected in their shagginess, jeans tighter than tight on legs longer than long, undeniably attractive in the most seamless of ways - and they're standing in front of some seriously slick gear. Perhaps weighing heaviest on my mind is that they've received the Isaac Brock seal of approval, which means I have to hope that the resonance of their sound outweighs the grandness of their connections.

Yet gloriously, I had a serious paradigm shift when those boys started up their very particular, fantastic breed of ruckus. Morning Teleportation create sprawling, complex rock'n'roll which has enough of a hint of Moon-and-Antartica-era Modest Mouse to explain Brock's drooling, but definitely nowhere near enough of it to write them off as derivative. In actuality, their music is almost impossible to pin down - there's nostalgic, ambient psych in songs like "Crystalline," yet there's also chicken-fried garage-fuck meanderings like "Banjo Disco". Best of all, in a town like Portland that spends a whole lot of time not having a whole lot of fun, this band is funky. And I mean funky. All right, so I love jumping at a chance to use a word like effluvium, but it's honestly a perfect choice here - this band was emitting a musical effluvium. They had their mojo working, as Manfred Mann would say. And their mojo sure did work on me. Their look, coupled with the well-earned youthful vigor that probably comes with the realization that you and your friends are on the verge of stardom and are having a great fucking time doing it, was somehow turning Holocene into an arena. It definitely wasn't hard to imagine a slew of teenage girls clawing each other's eyes out at the Crystal Ballroom to get to a used towel from one of these dudes. That thought alone is refreshing in the Portland scene - we have rockers now?! We can fill that secret Strokes-shaped hole in our heart?! Yet what is most refreshing of all is how very UN-shallow the musical product actually is. People are, and will continue to be, going nuts for this band. And beyond the finesse of the facade, they'll do it because Morning Teleportation create some of the most intriguing and masterful rock I've heard in a while.

Don't play with my style, I might sting ya

I'm really excited that Pendulum is coming to Portland. Does anyone fucking listen to Pendulum? Does anyone listen to drum n bass? Who knows what drum n bass is? Get your act together, guys. This show is going to be rad. Nah, okay, people who actually bother to read this blog probably are at least vaguely familiar with drum n bass. But my favorite response from people when I ask them if they like drum n bass is, "Oh, I've never heard of them." It's a lot funnier to me than other cliché responses to certain trains of conversation (ie, "Your name's Hannah? Same backwards and forwards! Did you know that's called a palindrome?" ..... Seriously? Do I look like I didn't get past third grade? Actually, I probably knew that in like, first grade. Suckas. Okay, but what's worse than the palindrome thing is the Hannah Montana thing).

So! For those of you who do – and also for those of you don't – know about drum n bass, my point is this: you should consider this concert. March 8, Roseland. Listen to some of their music on youtube or, even better, SEEQPOD.com. That website, just a heads up, is also really good for listening to all the bad rap songs you've never gotten around to downloading but really wish you could listen to that one (every) time you're drunk. Could just be me. But Wyclef, "Sweetest Girl"? All the Lil' Wayne you could ever want? "Southern Hospitality"? But I digress. In any case, skip the hip hop for the moment and listen to, say, "Through the Loop," by Pendulum. After the fucked, distorted (Willy Wonka!) vocals comes in the heavy.. drums and bass. And if (when) it sounds shitty on your weak MacBook speakers, just remember that drum n bass is meant for gargantuan speakers that will force every heavy beat through the fibers of your convulsing muscles.. Oh, I'm getting carried away by the fucking romance of it.

Love
Hannah

A Hot Topic: If I was Goth

the death of a rose.

I wish I were goth. Fuck this colorful life I live. These days, everybody wants to be a vampire. And I say, why not me? My skin is almost see-through this winter so why can’t I be the next Wiccan black sorcerer? Why aren’t more people goth? When I become fully goth, I want to be one of those Japanese slut goths- none of this pussy white people goth shit. Go Harajuku or go home. But first I’ll start from square one. The first thing I will do is finish every single Twilight book. After I have juxtaposed and pasted Robert Pattinson’s face over my notebooks, I will cut my hair into some sort of festive Pokemon hairstyle, all choppy and jagged. I will apply a thick layer of white powder to my transparent face. I will apply black lipstick leftover from my Halloween costume from 2nd-5th grade- I was a witch. Then I will buy some butterfly wings and spray paint them black. I will wear those along with an Emily Strange t-shirt adorned with a graphic of a girl named Emily Strange and a black cat that is also probably named Emily Strange. I will have to buy this shirt online or order it from a website called www.the-black-angel.com. I will also purchase a pair of trash bag pants with a bunch of sinister spikes, heavy mopish chains, and oversized silver studs. These pants will often get caught on everyday stuff- doorways, fire hydrants, hooks- these pants are a major pain in the ass and make me feel 20 pounds heavier, but with so many zippered cargo pockets I will throw away my Invader Zim purse and continue wearing them for their utilitarian purposes. Menial tasks such as going to the bathroom and riding my bike will become almost impossible. Perhaps I will have to invest in a catheter. I will wear long toe socks printed with small white skulls- spooky!

pioneer square zombies, not really goth-a close call.

My shoes are shiny black platform boots with Lucite spikes jutting out the heels. It takes me about ten minutes to put my shoes on every morning; I have to lace two sets of laces, zip a zipper, and then fasten four large buckles. When it gets cold, I will drape my black and purple velvet cape over my Emily Strange t-shirt. I also have the option of sliding my hands into my sheer fishnet gloves and for added warmth. I will survive the winter. For my upcoming birthday I will ask my Republican parents for Wiccan potions and Pagan wall tapestries for my dorm room. Hopefully I will also get an Alien Sex Fiend or Christian Death album. My new goth friends and I will hang out on dirty coughed-up couches at a popular pizza joint or we will sit on brass sculptures of deer and wolves near the Pioneer Square Courthouse. We will discuss Scott Dyleski, how Bauhaus is counterfeit, and the 1980’s film The Hunger. My friends have a lot of pimples, which they try and mask with piercings, black lipstick, and stretched out Thai Hill tribal earlobes. My favorite color is black, I have a tattoo of a sexy girl in a black corset inked on the nape of my neck, I own every Tim Burton movie: I am goth. But I wont be goth for long. Being goth is too fucking expensive! Just covering the goth basics is like taking a second mortgage out on a dilapidated one bedroom home next door to some kook who owns three seething rottweillers with a broken Little Tyke play structure and a crab grass army plagueing the front yard. Goths have four times the amount of accessories than normal white bread people and eventually my funds will run low- I’ll have to retire immediately from the costly gothic subculture. I’ll unlace, unbuckle, and unzip my boots, unzip, unchain, and unhook my pants, untie my cape, and wash my face and become human again. In two months, my hair will be long and brown once more and I will return to the colorful hipster vibes of Beat Happening and Black Moth Super Rainbow. I will sit at my desk cubicle covered in polaroids and Kurt Vonnegut books while fiddling with my hip lo-fi Nikon camera- my gothic past stowed tightly in a small shoebox in the depths of my closet.

Fondly, Lauren

Animal Collective - Merriweather Post Pavilion (2009)

“There was a dancer who was high in a field from her movement.” So begins “In The Flowers,” the opening track on Animal Collective’s spiraling behemoth of an album, Merriweather Post Pavilion, and rarely has there been a lyric which has so accurately prefaced the sound of the entire record to follow. In the past, the group’s albums have been dominated by fearless experimentation, rejection of typical song structures, and unpredictable bursts of sound which listeners have dubbed either brilliant or unlistenable. And while Merriweather retains much of the group’s past experimentation, it is also largely a break from their typical sound: at first listen, the album sounds suspiciously like a dance record, with its sparkling (and, production-wise, immaculate-sounding) synthesizers and throbbing electronic percussion. But where most dance records are shallow and relatively straightforward, Merriweather is anything but: for every rave-like explosion or soaring chorus, there’s a slow-burning, dissonant number waiting in the wings not far behind. But, perhaps, the biggest surprise about the album is how consistent it is: where past Animal Collective albums have been largely hit-or-miss affairs, the only reason the weaker songs sound weaker here is because the peaks the band hits are Everest-sized – “In The Flowers,” (which features some of the group’s strongest lyrics to date) “My Girls,” “Summertime Clothes,” “Bluish” (which is heartstoppingly beautiful), “Lion In A Coma,” and “Brothersport” are about as close to perfect songs as a band can get, and when the only problem with the rest of the songs is they simply aren’t perfect, the result is an album the likes of which most bands only dream about making.

Rating: 9.0
Track picks: “In The Flowers,” “My Girls,” “Summertime Clothes,” “Bluish”

- Will Preston

Bruce Peninsula - A Mountain Is A Mouth (2009)

Rock music just keeps getting bigger. Not simply in the epic, sweeping sounds of U2 or Godspeed You! Black Emperor, but also in the explosion of the rock band itself – for in recent years, groups whose members number in the double-digits have become almost as common as the quartet. While the sound of such groups can be, and often is, overwhelming, it allows new avenues to be opened that would formerly be available. Take the case of Bruce Peninsula, an eleven-piece ensemble from Toronto whose lineup includes, in addition to guitar, bass, and drums, an eight-member gospel choir. The choir itself rarely takes the center spotlight – though when it does, such as in the stomping “Satisfied” or the show-stopping arrangement of the traditional “Crabapples,” the result is tremendous – and more often serves to back the raspy lead vocals of Neil Haverty; however, it never fails to provide a vibrance and vigor to the music that not only feels genuine, but is all-too-absent in much modern music. The fact that the ensemble can pull off such a feat – and over the tricky time signature changes of “Steamroller” or the subdued folk swaying of “Weave Myself A Dress,” nontheless – is a testament to their versatility and creativity. With A Mountain Is A Mouth, Bruce Peninsula has crafted not only an incredibly solid album, but also the first great debut of 2009. Hey hoorah, indeed.

Rating: 9.0
Track picks: “Steamroller,” “2nd 4th World War,” “Crabapples”

- Will Preston

A.C. Newman - Get Guilty (2009)

Carl Newman – the lead songwriter of the New Pornographers – is, without doubt, one of the finest songwriters of the past ten years, having churned out four excellent albums with the New Pornos and one equally strong album under his own name. Unfortunately, however, Newman breaks his track record with Get Guilty, his five-years-in-the-making followup to his 2004 solo effort. It’s not that Guilty is a bad record; rather, it’s simply an album plagued by numerous little problems, problems that join forces like an army and rise up to overwhelm the memorable aspects of the songs. The main complaint is that the record as a whole feels stiff – where earlier albums possessed an easy, infectious energy, Guilty is loaded with songs such as “There Are Ten Or Twelve” and “Thunderbolts” (the latter of which also has the distinction of being the most insipid song Newman has ever written) which lumber around with lackluster, rigid rhythms. It’s almost as if, having slowed down so successfully on Challengers, Newman has forgotten how to “rock” and is simply going through the motions. Take that and combine it with a host of other minor problems – the fact that “The Heartbreak Rides,” “Like A Hitman, Like A Dancer,” and “Submarines Of Stockholm” (which are otherwise decent numbers) all outstay their welcome by about half a minute each, or the fact that the arrangements range from forced to bombastic – and Newman’s gift for lyrics and melody are the last thing you notice. Newman has announced that he has already finished the demos for the next New Pornographers album. Here’s to hoping Get Guilty is simply the sound of the songwriter stretching his creative muscles before the victory lap.

Rating: 6.5
Track picks: “Like A Hitman, Like A Dancer,” “Prophets,” “The Palace At 4 AM”

- Will Preston

score!

I have no shame in confessing that I am the friend/date that makes her party wait till the end of movie credits before leaving the theater. Mostly, if you go to a movie with me you'll end up impatiently waiting, wondering why I'm still adamantly engrossed in something fleeting, meanwhile you've got to pee and your popcorn has turned stale. Sorry, but I do this not to be all righteous and respectful but rather to listen to the music (and to finish my twizzlers, but that is beside the point). There simply is no better time to listen to a single song, slouched peacefully in your seat, watching those credits methodically roll up that spackled cinema screen and letting the projector lights flick the back of your head. The music seeps into every crevasse of the theater, coddling your sensory system like a giant bear hug. And finally, the din of theater goers rustling about concludes your audio extravaganza. Usually, I am a bit teary-eyed from the movie anyhow, so my listening experience becomes very emotional. Most recently, I saw THE BLACK BALLOON (an Australian movie about tumultuous family dynamics directed by Elissa Down) and found myself hysterically blubbering over Simon Day's brazen and comedic "Even." It was a little pathetic to be honest. Nonetheless, movies are a great way to listen to new music. I suggest catching a flick at the Portland 32nd annual International Film Festival (Feb. 5-21) and tuning into the film scores, most films have myspcae pages where you can learn all about their soundtrack and composer, you can even buy the soundtrack if so inclined, but if you're anything like me you'll just milk the rolling credit music for all it's worth.

-mh

OLD SHIT: The Clean - Anthology

Who the fuck knew New Zealand had an awesome music scene. Let's face it, besides those two guys with a TV show on HBO, I bet you didn't think people in New Zealand knew what guitars were. Well the Clean do (sorta), and they are pretty darn good at it.
Anthology is a compilation of all of the band's early singles (capitalism or laziness? both!) released on the fledgling Flying Nun label in the early 80's. Kicking off things right, "Tally Ho" launches with a piercingly cute distorted organ line and shambling, distorted drums. Rumor has it (the internet told me) that no engineers in New Zealand wanted to record the band, so they just bought a 4-track and happened to record a Number Four single (in New Zealand, not on, like, normal charts).
The Clean walk a fine line. No, they tip-toe it holding bricks in each hand, while balancing spoons on their noses. Their songs would sound like every dumb 'indie' band out there, with their vaguely familiar chords & riffs and their simple, dead-on drumming, but everything is a bit more off the cuff and a bit more in your face than the simple crap you'll find being released. They holler a bit too loud and a bit too off key, in that super-happy-super-catchy-but-still-super-badass way that only the 80's could produce.

OF NOTE: In 2001 David Kilgour, guitarist of The Clean, received the New Zealand Order of Merit. Other recipients of this include Queen Elizabeth II, a queen, and Valerie Vili, an Olympic shot-putter.
ALSO OF NOTE: I found this on a New Zealand website. New Zealand has websites!

How I Caught The Blues

Artist: Mississippi Joe Callicott
Album: Ain’t a Gonna Lie to You
Label: Fat Possum Records


I normally wouldn’t write about an album that we just have sitting in the Cave, given the amount of new music that I could be reviewing or ranting about. However, Mississippi Joe Callicott is probably one of the most underappreciated bluesmen ever to have lived. The man needs and deserves a gospel of some kind in order to spread his music and show everybody just how truly brilliant he was, and that task seems to have fallen to me. If I had to compare him to any other musician, I’d say he sounds like Mississippi John Hurt, and while the comparison may be apt, there’s a great deal more to him.
I found this album while I was working as the Circulation Director last year. One of the few benefits of that job was getting to know all of the CDs in our possession really, really well, and sure enough, I happened to be going through the cabinets when I found this album. At the time, I had stopped collecting and actively listening to the blues; I’d been a blues geek throughout part of high school, but from Junior year on my musical focus lay in jazz. It might have been the same day that I discovered a Furry Lewis album entitled “Fourth and Beale” and a Mississippi Fred McDowell album entitled “Mama Says I’m Crazy.” These three albums were responsible for getting me back into blues music. However, I’d heard of the both of them before; Joe Callicott was an unknown.
Joe Callicott was born in Nesbit, Mississippi in 1900 and died in 1969. He recorded two songs in 1930: the “Fare Thee Well Blues” and “Traveling Mama Blues,” along with a few songs where he played second guitar for another artist. These would be his last recorded output until 1967. He was largely unknown until George Mitchell, a musicologist interested in the unknown musicians of southern blues, approached him to record the songs heard on this album. A few songs were omitted from this album, another four were recorded at a music festival in Memphis, and seventeen were recorded for Blue Horizon. This is the sum total of Mississippi Joe Callicott’s recorded output, and it’s extraordinarily difficult to find anything besides this album.
The first track, “Frankie and Albert,” hypnotized me. “Frankie and Albert” is a standard which has been covered by blues and jazz musicians, including Mississippi John Hurt, Duke Ellington, and Jimmie Rodgers, so I was familiar with the song. His guitar playing caught my attention because it didn’t sound like any blues I had listened to before, apart from John Hurt. His singing, however, what was truly caught my attention. Simply put, Joe Callicott is one of the best singers blues music has ever produced. His singing is nothing like other bluesmen; he’s not powerful like Muddy Waters, haunting like Skip James or edgy like Howling Wolf. His voice is smooth and “silky,” to steal a friend’s description, and has an incredible range, going from a high falsetto to a baritone effortlessly. Age did not weaken his voice but rather gave it more character. Callicott’s guitar melodies are not particularly complicated; his guitar playing slowed down and became less advanced as he grew older. However, the melodies are beautiful and work perfectly in conjunction with his singing.
The rest of the album is as good as the opening track and in some cases is better. “Laughing to Keep from Crying” and “Fare Thee Well Blues” are beautiful and sad, “Down to the River Jordan” is peaceful, and the “Good Time Blues” makes you lonesome. Ry Cooder covered “France Chance,” and Callicott does a beautiful rendition of it here. “Roll and Tumble” is one of those songs that everybody has covered, and every performer tries to put their own stamp on it. Callicott’s lyrics are different from every other version out there, and it works perfectly. The songs are firmly in a Mississippi Country Blues tradition, and they make for great listening under just about every circumstance imaginable.
Perhaps I’ve been verbose with this review, talking too much about a musician who by any definition is old news, but Joe Callicott is simply too brilliant for me to not say something about him. The few people I’ve showed his music to have become as obsessed as I have, so something tells me that this isn’t just me. Do yourself a favor, find this album, and celebrate this man who deserves some recognition.

Zeb Larson

KLC World Music/Jazz Director