What freezes you about Daniel G. Harmann’s music is the expanse. A quietly loud expanse. It scans across a highway bridge at night. Someone driving realizes the perfectness of hands. Harmann cuts from quiet and clean to loud and distorted with a crafted sense of timing. When he gets loud, it’s more a movement to volume. His higher range vocals coat the shift and the rhythm steadily drives. Though it grows in volume, the music doesn’t seem louder. The quiet – loud, loud – quiet transition is one that Harmann and his band (the Trouble Starts) wield deftly. It’s a use of light and dark that Harmann has figured out. When he goes louder, it only deepens.

Sound at the Tractor for Harmann was particularly dialed in. No earplugs were needed and that may have been another reason the high end of the band’s clean sounds were so pristine.

Harmann’s lyrics add a layer to his gentle use of distortion and volume. You are paying attention to his words and there is association. In “Beer from a Bottle” he sings, “I’ve been known to drink far too much. And to spend the day washing off the night before. This is not a swan song, this is not a memory.” The way he sings “drink” I hear “drift”.

Here’s a bit of the song from the Tractor. It’s way too dark, so please consider it an audio sample:

I never claimed to be some kind of Nobel laureate.

But my powers of deduction were truly off-point last night. Having received an invitation to attend the Fuck Buttons and Mogwai at the Showbox, I pounced on the opportunity. With all my bills draining my total assets down to a measly $8, the chance to check out these two bands for free was not something I’d pass up. Mogwai was a band that I’d repeatedly tried to appreciate ever since 1999’s Come On Die Young, but it wasn’t until 2006’s Mr. Beast that the band really clicked with me. Since that time, I’ve been working backwards and rediscovering their work. Fuck Buttons, on the other hand, grabbed me immediately. Street Horrrsing is a remarkably catchy record, especially considering its ham-fisted electronics and rudimentary bedroom production. But it works surprisingly well, and I was interested to see how the duo’s noisy meditative numbers translated from the stage.

I checked the ad for the Showbox. Doors at 7pm. All Ages. Considering my lack of a car and my shortage of funds, I opted to walk downtown. Super sleuths should begin piecing together my mistake at this point. I arrived at the Pike Place Market around 7:30pm, figuring I’d still have a little time before the music started. But doors hadn’t even opened yet. A Showbox staff person informed me that doors were at 8pm. I grumbled about the ads saying 7pm, and went for a walk. When I got back, a line had formed for the show, so I grabbed a spot. From 7:45 to 8:15 (when the doors finally opened), I had plenty of time to take in my surroundings. I noticed, for instance, that foliage was obscuring the view of the marquee. “They should really clear that,” I thought to myself, “you can’t even see who’s playing tonight.” I also noted that Mogwai’s demographic was completely different than I expected. The crowd was remarkably straight-laced, with a few hippies thrown in the mix. I was also stunned that the show was sold out so far in advance. And then there was the dude in line in front of me that was so concerned about not having his ID to get into the show. I wanted to tell him to relax, the show was all ages, but figured he was just pining for a beer.

So doors open. And the sign posted at the entryway offered a little tip (for idiots such as myself): the Mogwai show is located at the Showbox SODO, a mile and a half down the street.

Fuck.

And with it nearly 8:30 at this point, and my $8 wholly inadequate for cab fare, I solemnly walked home. Someone please tell me the show sucked and I’m lucky to have missed it. Or at least tell me they’ve made the same dumb-ass mistake.

After spending most of Saturday and Sunday moving all of my worldly possessions halfway across town in a Volkswagen Golf, and dropping more than I had in my bank account on first, last and deposit, I arrived for the third and final day of Bumbershoot, exhausted, broke, and late. When colleague Dave Segal caught me trying to pour a cup of water from an empty water jug in the Press Room, it was time to go view some music. We agreed to walk to the Sky Church for Feral Children, and were met with a cursory line held by a security guard who continually allowed teenagers to cut in front of us. Inside the Church, Feral Children were several songs into their set. They looked somewhat anachronistic under the array of flashing and blinking lights afforded by Paul Allen. Sound quality from the side of the room was a bit sub-par, and the lights made me dizzy. Neverthless, several quality songs were witnessed before I was forced to move on.

^{photo by Dagmar Sieglinde}

Next it was off to Arthur & Yu on the opposite side of the Center. A Mirror Pond ($7, plus a $1 tip) was much needed after bumping into approximately 37 people during the traverse. It was, of course, not nearly enough alcohol to curb such crowd-induced anxiety, but my financial situation rendered me incapable of purchasing more.

^{My $8 beer two minutes after its purchase.}

Arthur & Yu put on a fine set of subdued, relaxing numbers, including some new material that went well under the setting sun.

^{photo by Blush Photo}

After Arthur & Yu, Mr. Segal and I stopped at the Horn of Africa stand, where he purchased a delicious iced tea ($2), and I tried a lentil Sambusa ($2), both of which were excellent and bargain-priced relative to most things in the Center during the last three days.

We then foolishly attempted to "stop by and check out Del [the Funky Homosapien] real quick." Predictably, the Fisher Green Stage lawn was packed with droves of hip-hop fans and marijuana smoke, the combination of which rendered Del almost invisible. Our photographers clearly had a better view:

^{photo by Blush Photo}

Due to the aforementioned lack of view, and my attention span deficit, my focus fell on the statue guy to the right of the stage. He was dutifully shaking hands and doling out hugs when not being a statue, but some just weren't interested.

^{Kid won't make nice.}

Thankfully, Mr. Segal wisely pulled me out of my trance in time to make it to what was to be the apex of both our Monday Bumbershoot experience, Battles. I'd never seen Battles before, but I'd heard plenty of good things about their live show, and they did not dissapoint. Drummer John Stanier's sparse-but-thunderous drumming is the perfect backdrop for the band's minimalistic future-rock structures, and the sound at the Broad Street stage was true quality. With the air here containing equal parts marijuana smoke and patchouli, Battles' precise sound cut through the fog like razor wire.

^{Battles heal the masses, by Blush Photo}

End tally:

Total dollars spent: $13
Total acts seen: 4
Total number of people bumped into: 347
Winner: My new landlord.

^{Death Cab For Cutie by Michael Landry from the Stranger Flickr pool}

Maybe someone else here on Line Out will be able to better do justice than I to Death Cab For Cutie's Bumbershoot-closing headlining set last night, but for me nothing was going to top Superchunk. Still, I figured I'd give the band a chance. There was a time when I was a huge DCFC fan, roughly through the first couple few records. (Also: Postal Service, yes!) But for the last couple records, the band has grown increasingly vanilla, bigger but not necessarily better. They're still totally proficient, and Ben Gibbard remains a fine singer and a sturdy songwriter; they just haven't landed a song that's wowed me for a while ("The New Year" was the last one to come close).

In any case, a half dozen songs in, and the band still wasn't wowing, although "The New Year" sounded fine in the big, starry stadium, flickering with those little neon flashing trinkets people were throwing around. I was hoping to hear a couple older numbers right up front to get me hooked, but it all seemed like newer stuff. And after those first six songs, when a friend offered a ride home, exhausted from three days of Bumbershoot, I decided to bail. On the walk out, "Company Calls" was echoing out of the stadium, and though I love that song (and most all of We Have the Facts), I wasn't bummed to be leaving. I've seen a lot of great Death Cab shows, last night's just didn't seem like it was going to be one of them. I do hope it was for everyone else, though.

Update: Turns out the mere six songs I caught was still more of Death Cab's set than any of my colleagues here on Line Out managed to take in of last night. So, in the interest of fairness and because no more detailed post is forthcoming, an attempt to further explain the vanilla turn-off that was the first half-dozen songs of Death Cab For Cute:

First, a point of clarification: I suppose “Why’d You Want to Live Here,” the third song they played, is more or less an older song, and one that should resonate mightily with anyone who’s spent, say, 12 hours or more in LA. And it’s a pretty fine Death Cab number—cutting sentiment, steadily driving verses, though with more of an extended sigh than a proper chorus. The sound was okay overall throughout their set, although Death Cab's lighter moments can just float right away in that giant open-air stadium, especially if you've left the front following Superchunk.

“Bixby Canyon Bridge” is a bit of a snooze—if you want Gibbard meditating on Keruoac, a better bet is Styrofoam’s “Couches in Alleys,” which features the DFCF singer. “Crooked Teeth” and “Long Division” provided some small shots of energy, Gibbard swinging his guitar in time while singing his verses, and while the former has a nice enough chorus, the latter’s one-word refrain, while melodically agile, wasn’t much to sing along to. “Grapevine Fires,” which Gibbard introduced by observing, “Sometimes beautiful things do happen,” has some nice turns of phrase—the alarm clock of impending doom, for instance, or the paper cups borrowed from Something About Airplanes—but it was, again, kind of a sleeper. I know Death Cab's always been more of a mellow band—I wasn't expecting them to come out and be Cheap Trick or whatever—but for whatever reason (their's was a fresher sound at the time? less pop-cultural saturation? I'm a bitter old gas-bag?), I just dig Death Cab's older songs more, and on this final night of the weekend my spent ass either needed more energy or more old gems right out the gate to keep me on my feet.

^{Superchunk by smohundro from the Stranger Flickr pool}

For me, the whole weekend was leading up to Superchunk. They took the Memorial Stadium stage in a cloud of fog machine smoke flooded with pink and blue and yellow lights. After Stone Temple Pilots the night before, it was great to see Superhcunk up on that stage looking like normal dudes (and lady) instead of total douchebags, rocking out in front of just regular stage lights instead of some retarded screen-savers.

They started with the fantastic "Throwing Things," sounding just perfect if a little less heavy on the feedback than in the old days. They played a solid set, leaning on the harder, faster (more hyper) songs in their catalogue, which was kind of a bummer as I've been really digging into their mellower numbers lately. But then, I really could have watched them play three headlining sets this weekend just to cover more ground.

In any case, the set was a blast, Superchunk rocked hard, and kids crowd-surfed seven or eight at a time (I got the impression there were a lot of younger folks there who were just super amped for Death Cab and unable to contain themselves, but everyone seemed to have a good time, so maybe the 'Chunk won some new converts). Mac McCaughan cracked, "I was worried there wouldn't be enough crowd surfing, but it looks like my fears were unfounded." Man, the '90s really were a golden age for sarcasm.

They sped through "The First Part," "Detroit Has a Skyline," "Baxter," "Driveway to Driveway," "Why Do You Have to Put a Date on Everything?," "Cast Iron," "Slack Motherfucker," "Precision Auto," and closed with "Hyper Enough" (there were a couple more in between that I didn't quite catch; Bob in the comments identifies them as "Mower," "Misfits & Mistakes," and "Package Thief"). "Detroit," with its lines about listening to records on repeat, crushes, and how nothing works out, is a jam. "Driveway to Driveway" is epic. "Slack Motherfucker," subcultural relic though it is, remains fun as hell to scream along to, even in a football stadium. "Hyper Enough" made a fine closer for a set that felt too short and too fast, giddy and fleeting and nostalgic, like being a kid again for 45 minutes.

^{Two Gallants by Blush Photo}

Man, best laid plans. I had meant to get down to the third day of Bumbershoot in time to catch Paramore (really, I wanted to see this band one time) or at least Monotonix (who were sure to be a total fiasco), but it was just not to be. Instead, the first set I really made it in time for was Two Gallants. The choice between them and the simultaneously performing Dan Deacon was no choice at all. Deacon was doing his crazed camp counselor schtick (which I'm sure he does as sincerely as Two Gallants does theirs) inside the dank Exhibition Hall, while Two Gallants were playing out in the afternoon sun on the Broad Street Lawn. There was just no way I had the energy or inclination for Deacon at this point in the long weekend. Two Gallants, though, was just right. You could sit on the grass and still se them. Their ragged, road-worn acoustic folk sounded fine floating over an outdoor crowd, especially their anthemic jam "Nothing to You." Dude probably gets the Conor Oberst comparison a lot, but the band really do have a similar, shaky quaver to their singing voices. I remember when these guys just played house shows and teen centers when they toured through Seattle; it's nice to see them rocking such a big festival crowd.

^{Dan Deacon tries to keep 'em separated, by joshc from the Stranger Flickr pool}

You know the deal with Dan Deacon, right? He’s not so much a musician—though he’s quite a fine one, when he gets around to it—as he is a summer camp counselor with power-drunk tendencies and control-freak issues. Deacon’s shows largely consist of him instructing his minions to sprint around, hold hands with audience members, slap high 5s, make random, whimsical gestures, form human tunnels through which others dance, and to generally break out of the conventions of a typical live musical event. At this he succeeds (kids will do anything he says), although the shtick can become tedious after about 15 minutes, and one wishes he’d focus more on his exceptional musical talents.

As usual, Deacon set up on the floor and immediately drew the mostly 21 and under Bumbershoot attendees around him, so he was obscured unless you were smack up against his gear. He began by chanting the Offspring’s famous chorus, “You gotta keep ’em separated” as if it were a sacred mantra. (The Offspring had just finished playing Memorial Stadium and Deacon mocked them sporadically throughout the afternoon.)

“Okie Dokey” started the set proper with some toytown Suicide à la “Rocket USA.” A small lime-green stuffed dinosaur was tossed around; you know the drill. Then came some more kiddie-punk Giorgio Moroder-esque/Martin Rev-like throbbing electronics, de-eroticized for the safety of minors. A new song was aired, sounding like uptempo bubblegum Neu!, a fab, percolating soundtrack to inspire incredible bursts of energy. It did the job.

(Spotted in the audience: a 40something guy with a looonnnggg curly mullet and a 20something dude in a tie-dyed onesie.)

After more “you gotta keep ’em separated” mockery, Deacon unleashed some of the most effusive electro pop ever, something so joyous it would’ve been too much for Mardi Gras and the Fourth of July combined. The track gradually slowed until it seemed like it was being sucked into a black hole, and then it was resurrected into a gruesome brown tone before transforming into a Boredoms-on-Ecstasy flourish. Jesus should be so lucky to have the Second Coming scored by this piece. (By the way, Deacon’s music somehow can thrive in Ex Hall’s abysmal acoustic environment, much more so than Brother Ali’s hiphop the day before.)

I needed some mundanity after Deacon, so I walked over to J. Boogie’s Dubtronic Science thing for some Latino funk and jazz, replete with flute, trombone, decks, and congas. Amid the feel-good jams, I was shocked to hear the theme song to ’60s TV show My Three Sons surface. Does anyone else remember that? Good, good.

On to the EMP Skychurch to catch a glimpse of Seattle quintet Feral Children. They packed the place and their surging, sinewy rock, with its memorable hooks and vocal quirks, triggered thoughts of Mission of Burma and Pixies. Feral Children—keep an ear on them.

At the Wells Fargo stage, Arthur & Yu eked out solemn, pensive folk non-rock. It was kind of dozy, marked by laggard mallet hits on the drums and sedate guitar strums. I felt an urgent need for Battles and some Rockstar Energy Drink, so I strode over to the stage bearing that brand name.

^{Battles cause Space Needle to genuflect, by Blush Photo}

No contest, Battles ruled this Bumbershoot. Bassist Dave Konopka and guitarists Tyondai Braxton and Ian Williams all hold their weapons high on their chests, and somehow this adds to their nerdy übermenschen appeal. The first song started with Konopka’s momentous bass solo, before the other three joined in to instigate a hard, staccato clamor. Drummer John Stanier sounded way funkier than I recall him ever being. The next track used the sound of a car engine backfiring to create a hypnotic rhythm. Guitar riffs came at us like Taser zaps. Stanier proved himself time and again to be more precise and powerful than any drum machine. I wrote “vital and apocalyptic” in my notebook, the first time those adjectives have been scribbled so close together in my 25 years of music journalism.

^{Battles' Tyondai Braxton: "Atlas" slugged, by Blush Photo}

Battles’ guitarists also play keyboards and both finger their instruments with the sort of pointillist finesse that makes me think of King Crimson’s Robert Fripp and Soft Machine’s Mike Ratledge occupying the same body. (That sound you just heard was all the world's prog-rock aficionados having multiple orgasms.) They generated thrilling hairpin dynamics and radiant textures, resulting in music that’s paradoxically lean and excessive (in all the right ways).

“Atlas,” of course, provoked the greatest crowd response. A “Rock & Roll Pt. 2” for an advanced alien race, the song is a strange new hybrid of glam, techno, and math rock. Braxton’s heliumized, loop-da-loop vocal acrobatics and a naggingly gripping keyboard motif that inverts the Get Smart theme make this a template for the future of... I'm not sure yet, but it's damned exciting.

Battles ruled this Bumbershoot with awesome musicianship in the service of innovative ideas. It was as simple—and as complicated—as that.

^{Lee "Scratch" Perry by Corey Bayless}

Lee "Scratch" Perry vs Scott Weiland: Who's more crazy? Dave Segal makes a convincing case for Perry, who wore lit incense in his hat, rhymed a lot of stuff with his name, riffed on variations of "rub-a-dub dub," extolled the virtues of marijuana, and just generally looked like Juan the Frye Apartments Guy fronting a dub band. Which is to say: Awesome!

^{Stone Temple Pilots by Dagmar Sieglinde}

But holy shit, Stone Temple Pilots! Over at Memorial Stadium, the '90s band was playing in front of some ridiculous screen-saver video backdrop straight outta Windows '95—a black and white spiral, some dancing plaid, dots and loops, fucking sunlight refracting underwater! Weiland preened on the monitors and strained his throaty voice against his band's brutally average stadium "grunge," spotlit so as to stand out from the flying toasters or whatever the fuck was going on on that screen. They played "Creep." They played "Plush." They played a motherfucking version of Bob Marley's "Redemption Song" with Weiland mumbling/scatting over languid bass and guitar noodling. It was insane. (Jherek Bischoff and Nick Tamburro from the Dead Science were there, so who knows, maybe their next joint will be a avant rock opera about Velvet Revolver—I would listen to that over Core in a heartbeat.)

^{The Saturday Knights by sonoazure from the Strang Flickr pool}

So Kid Sister cancelled right around the time the Stranger's Bumbershoot Guide was hitting the presses, leaving a big TBA on the printed schedule. A TBA gracefully filled by TSK, who are always, always game to, you know, Mingle. Andrew Matson introduced them, but I was busy making my way over from the Weakerthans. Tilson and Barfly are perfectly complimentary MCs—Tilson all bright cartoonish energy; Barfly all derelict and gruff. Suspence goes beyond DJing and scratching to play tambourine, sing choruses, and destroy every mic stand he can get his hands on. And their backing band, featuring Truckasauras/Foscil's Tyler Swan sitting in on drums, was rollicking but not overbearing.

The band front-loaded their set hard, kicking off with "45," and keeping the momentum up through "Count it Off," "Dog Park," the pop-singer shout out "Foreign Affair." The Knights were fun as ever, the ideal summer festival act, hip hop enough for the heads, rock enough for the rest, affable as all hell, working the hometown crowd with easy aplomb. They peaked, though, with a fun, affectionate little flip of the Fleet Foxes "White Winter Hymnal." First, they played it's chorus through straight, Tilson singing along, and then Spencer looped the chorus, dropped a beat, and Tilson just murdered it: "I was walking in the snow/I was picking up the snow/Tryin ' to bag up into kilos/and move it on the block/and buy myself a yacht/to go boating with some rich folks" (those lyrics are a best guess). The keys were a little too loud, drowning out the Fleet Foxes loop, but it was otherwise totally inspired.

Their set dragged a bit after that, as they padded out their hour-long slot with some call-and-response and freestyles, including a flip of Band of Horses' "The Funeral" and a number sampling the Black Keys, who were playing simultaneously at Memorial Stadium. For the latter song, they were joined by guest MCs Bles One ("I'm gonna murder this weed/smoke it in the first degree") and Gatsby, who delivered an especially breathless, restless verse. Nothing quite topped that Fleet Foxes grab though. That shit was priceless.

^{Weakerthans by Corey Bayless}

Too bad Bumbershoot stuck the Weakerthans in the Exhibition Hall stage. It's no fun waiting in a long line funneled through a single door to stand in a dark hall while what's left of the summer is fading outside. Still, the Weakerthans are well worth it.

John K. Samson leads a band that look a little like trade unionists—the Indie Rock Local #446, maybe—and they do deliver their big rock gestures (windmills, synchronized guitar swings) with certain workmanlike charm. Samson introduced "The Reasons" as a "love song to the laborers—it's still Labor Day, right?" The song was the first of the weekend to give me a little chill, and I wasn't alone—there was a pretty big crowd for the band; next to me, a gray haired lady smiled and bobbed up and down to the beat, a few rows back a guy was mouthing along to the lyrics. At times, the crowd seemed unable to contain their enthusiasm, breaking into inappropriate applause during breaks in the songs or tried (in the usual, rhythm-impaired Seattle way) to clap along in time to songs too quiet for that kind of treatment. The next song, "Tournament of Hearts" was dedicated to "all the curlers" in the world, most of them in Canada.

Samson is just one of the finest lyricists working in indie rock these days, and song after song—"Benediction," "Reconstruction Site," "Aside," "Left and Leaving"— proved it better than any excerpts here possibly could. "Reconstruction Site" sounded especially sweet, with its lines about "a float in a summer parade" and its bridge about the little boy falling asleep on "the long ride home," wondering about how everyone dies someday. "Left and Leaving"'s bridge, "I wait in 4/4 time" was another chill-inducing moment. But their sped-up performance of "Confessions of a Futon Revolutionist" was undoubtedly the giddy, geeky highlight for me. They ended with "Plea From a Cat Named Virtue" and "(Manifest)" from Reconstruction Site—the cat song was, of course, a big hit. Anarchists, trade unionists, laborers, curlers, and otherwise—everybody loves an anthropomorphized housecat. They added some goofy guitar noodling to the bridge, Samson jokingly made the mic stand squeak during the song's most quiet part, one of the guitarists knocked his baseball cap off windmilling too hard. The Weakerthans might not be the most impressive band of the weekend, but they're a perfectly reliable, proletarian pleasure—easily my day's highlight.

Random observation/newsflash: There are a lotta effin’ white people up in this piece.

Now on with our regularly scheduled B-shoot wrap-up.

Howlin Rain are first on my agenda today, and from song one, the northern California quintet unapologetically fling us all back to 1970 with rock so elemental and soulful they could be pushing a particularly virulent strain of Christian fundamentalism and I wouldn’t give a damn. Front man Ethan Miller (Comets on Fire) finesses out ululating, whammy-barred solos with lumberjack force while Joel Robinow’s Nord Electro 2 swells provide Howlin Rain’s crucial foundation and swirling embellishments. Punk never happened for Howlin Rain and the crowd’s quite all right with that.

^{Howlin Rain's Ethan Miller pours it on. Photos by Corey Bayless.}

Set highlight “Lord Have Mercy” climaxed with a deity-summoning raveup and feral, snarling solo from Miller, evoking what Blue Cheer would sound like if laced with the Allman Brothers Band’s DNA. Howlin Rain go right up to the precipice of masturbatory hard-rock excess, but peel back before plummeting into Spinal Tap-esque parody.

After the set, a white guy who probably hadn’t yet reached drinking age said, “I was waiting for demons to pop up. Man, that was loud. I got good hearing. I gotta save it for Stone Temple Pilots.” He was doing so well for a while there…

Over at Fisher Green stage, eight members of Orgone were laying down the kind of funk and afrobeat that keeps our species alive and vital. A particularly spirited, cowbell-intensive rendition of Manu Dibango’s “Soul Makossa” made me think that it should be adopted by Obama posthaste as his theme song. You know, for that extra push late in the campaign.

Orgone transitioned from song to song without pauses for a half dozen tracks, making seamless segues, as if they were their own DJs. It’s awesome. When vocalist Fanny Franklin entered the fray, things moved into a more conventional Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings soul-funk revue mode. “Seattle, are you on the grass?” Franklin asks with a double entendre so obvious I’m surprised I haven’t heard it before. It is established that, yes, Seattle is indeed on the grass.

^{Orgone percussionist Stewart Killen}

Orgone are a well-oiled funk/afrobeat machine, ideal for outdoor summer fests (although it felt more like fall Sunday) and percussionist Stewart Killen was a motherfucker on his diverse kit. During one Fela Kuti-esque joint, a dad held his infant daughter aloft as if she were flying as he wove through the throng. (Don’t worry, she had headphones on.) Cutest thing at Bumbershoot… maybe ever. But pops should’ve waited till Orgone covered “I Get Lifted.” Just sayin’…

I was pumped to see Brother Ali, the greatest albino Muslim rapper of our time, but I mistakenly figured that Exhibition Hall would by now have solved its worst-sounding-venue-in-the-world issues. Not the case. All definition from all frequencies of the sound spectrum are lost in the vast rectangle of hard surfaces here.

Nevertheless, Ali had the large, largely youthful crowd (the power of Rhymesayers empire surely has elevated his profile) eating out of his very pale hands from jump. If Brother Ali had commanded his fans to piss into the mouth of the person next to him/her, everyone would be gargling urine within seconds. Ali’s stage presence is authoritative without being thuggishly macho and his voice has a confident, Ice Cube-like timbre to it. He fearlessly speaks truth to power and delivers affecting personal tales, too. What a shame that “Uncle Sam Goddamn,” one of the best tracks of 2007, was neutered in this nuance-nullifying box.

I bounced outta there to check Lee “Scratch” Perry at Fisher Green. He came on about 20 minutes late, donning a silver glitter hat with incense sticks burning on its crown. The 72-year-old dub-producer legend now emphasizes his crazy ol’ front-man persona over sonic invention. Perry’s backing band—the White Belly Rats—play their stadium dub with supreme competence, but much of the set tonight seemed dead in the ass (even the Bob Marley covers, brah) and Lee’s onstage patter and lyrics inspired more head-shaking than admiration.

^{Lee "Scratch" Perry: mad as a hatter}

“I am a madman, yay!” went the refrain from one track. Other lyrics reflected on partying and young pussy, with "Pum Pum" containing this gem: “Pussy may come, pussy may go, but Jesus Christ remain”; whatever you say, boss. Check the video for the track on his MySpace for some serious creepiness.

The most cogent thing Perry said all night was, “Let’s ban cigarettes and legalize ganja in Seattle.” He exited the stage with, “We gotta have some peace.” Right?

^{TI by Dagmar Sieglinde}

Memorial Stadium was pretty packed for TI's afternoon set yesterday. The sun was beating down, and from up in the bleachers it looked like people were spontaneously combusting, there were so many plumes of fragrant smoke rising out of the crowd. People managed to reek up a goddamn open air stadium, which I think says a lot about how dedicated yesterday's Bumbershooters were to having a good time.

TI was also dedicated to providing the good time, as were his two hypmen and DJ Drama of the Gangsta Grillz series. The King started with "Beat Down Low," and the bass in the Stadium—apparently responsible for muddying Beck to all shit last night—resounded and rumbled all the way up to the cheap seats. He played maybe 30 seconds of the giddy "Rubber Band Man," letting the crowd sing it before cutting it off to play "Ride Wit Me." (Spotted at TI: Saul Williams in civilian drag, Aziz Ansari and Paul Scheer, some music critics.) TI did "Da Dopeman," whose chorus Jeff Kirby claims to have written years ago. He (TI not Jeff) talked about how nothing short of a casket was going to keep him offstage, how all the people who were talking about how he was done clearly "don't know me." He launched into "You Don't Know Me," to huge applause. For his next song, he asked if there were any ladies in the house, and then Drama set off a chain of gunfire/explosion noises—as if to say, "Are there any ladies in the audience? Because I will blow your asses away (with love)." He rapped his spot from "Love in This Club." He did "Bring 'Em Out," Swizz Beats' ridiculous rave whistles trilling through the arena, setting off waves of pogoing and raised hands. He did his part from "Superstar" in between two rounds of the song's limp blue-eyed soul chorus, and it seemed like you could hear TI nailing his cadences but you couldn't really pick out his rhymes, just the inflections on the beat.

He dedicated the mawkishly literal "Live in the Sky" to Big, Pac, Jammaster Jay, and everyone in the crowd who's lost someone they love. He took his shirt off for "Do U Potna" and "Big Things Poppin'" (Larry Mizell: "Shirt's off, it's business time"). He did a speech about everyone's responsibility and obligation to register to vote, about the size and sway of the hip hop generation and how it has to change the laws to reflect their needs (he didn't endorse a candidate, though). Then he played "What You Know?" Rather than end on that highpoint, though, he did another slow jam for the ladies, offfering that if anyone in the audience's boyfriends weren't giving them what they needed, that TI would he happy to take care of them (presumably by having Drama blow them up); they kicked into "Whatever You Like"—girls literally ran towards the stage.

^{!!! by Kelly O}

There was, for me, no conflict whatsoever about skipping Beck to watch !!! last night. Despite the jabs at Beck's Fluxus-friendly faith in the Stranger's Bumbershoot Guide, I don't have anything against the guy as an entertainer—and he is one hell of an entertainer. I even like a lot of his music; it's just been several years since he's made a record that would get me to brave the Memorial Stadium crowd (where, btw, I heard the sound was ass for his set). Really, the choice was simple: somewhere in the Stadium and craning my neck at Beck, or right up front dancing my ass off to !!!? Easy.

^{!!! by Kelly O}

!!!, though, are not quite the band I remembered. They've been through some line-up changes lately, losing both sometimes vocalist John Pugh (now with electro funk duo Free Blood) and mixer/musician extraordinaire Justin Van Der Volgen, who's doing who-knows-what, as well as their whole horn section. Seattle expat Shannon Funchess has replaced Pugh on vocals, and while she brings a lot of style and some serious pipes to the mix, it's still a very different animal than !!!'s old, sprawling, brass-enhanced disco beast. The horns are made up for with the addition of more keyboards and effects, although often the band just plays stripped down to percussion, bass, guitar, and vocals. Frontman Nic Offer responding to some audience request by saying their new drummer didn't know how to play that song, in fact, he said, "He doesn't know how to play any of the songs we don't like playing!" The same audience member must have asked Offer to strip, because he then said, "You take your clothes off...So don't ask for something you can't give. You can't play 'Intensify,' either!" He remains a deeply funny dude, but it was definitely a bummer that the band didn't break out old hits like "Me & Giuliani Down by the Schoolyard (A True Story)" or "Intensify."

Offer wouldn't have had much clothing to take off anyway, though, as he was just wearing short shorts, a t-shirt, and some slip-ons. Another band member was wearing shorts but had towels duct taped around his legs. It seemed like these guys were as surprised by the screeching halt of Seattle's summer as the rest of us. But Offer said that while he was freezing backstage, he was feeling fine up on stage, and indeed after a couple songs, with the crowd dancing and pogoing and just generally causing friction, things warmed up nicely. (A note to the people who stand right up front for a dance band, don't dance, and then look aghast every time some reveler nudges into them a tiny bit: Kindly fuck off. I don't dance in the front row for Neko Case, don't bum my party for !!!.)

In fact, all the non-dancers must've kindly fucked off, because a few songs into the set, the whole crowd (at least as far as I could see) was moving. Highlights of the set included Yadnus," "Must Be the Moon," "Heart of Hearts," and whatever song they played off their first album ("Feel Good Hit of the Fall"? "Kookooka Fuk-U"? I forget). Also fine if not outstanding were the handful of new songs the band played out; no new anthems on the level of their old hits, but everything sounded groovy enough, playing well to the band's new strengths (ie, synths and Funchess). (A side note: the band's new lineup, with the synths and all, really made me miss Outhud and hope that they might strike some of those style grooves in their new stuff. They don't, and I can't help but wonder if their new stuff might sound more that way if Van Der Volgen was still on board.)

^{!!! by Kelly O}

The best moment by far, though, was when Funchess had them bring the stage lights all the way down and told the crowd to imagine they were at a rave ("You ever been to a rave?") an hour or so outside of Seattle with a couple thousand of their closest friends. And with the lights down and the whole crowd moving, it sure as hell felt like a renegade massive in the middle of a field rather than a big, caged-in music festival. After that party there was just no question of whether I was going to try to catch the last few songs of Beck—there was no way it could have been anything but a let-down.

During my walk to the Bumbershoot entrance, I caught some of Lucinda Williams’ set wafting out of Memorial Stadium; her warm, familiar, folk rock undoubtedly went down a treat with the menopausal/annual-prostate-exam/NPR-listening demo.

Credentials secured, I beelined to the Fisher Green Stage to catch Nino Moschella and Darondo. Moschella and his bi-racial troupe did 30 minutes of feel-good funk, topped by Nino’s Jamie Lidell-esque white-boy soul vox. It was all very sly and stoned. “We all just wanna love on ya,” the percussionist unctuously announced at one point.

Then Darondo came out for the final half hour, duded out in shiny bronze zoot suit and suspenders and white chapeau. After a mic mishap during the first song, “How I Got Over,” things went smoothly for the sexagenarian sex machine. An obscure soul singer who’s enjoying a late career revival thanks to UK DJ Gilles Peterson and Ubiquity Records’ Luv N’ Haight imprint, Darondo comes on like a raunchier Al Green. His spiel about fellas using whipped cream and cherries on their ladies for romantic/carnal enhancement slayed the crowd. “It might get a little wet down there,” D cautioned. “Don’t worry about that.”

Darondo: Suspendered, animated. Photo by Kelly O.

Darondo closed his show with the lewdicrously [sic] funky “Legs (Part 1).” But before breaking into this molten track, he explained, “Radio wouldn’t play this because they said it was too… lacificus? What’s that word?” he asked Moschella. “Lacificus,” his mate replied. Comedy.

Afterward, I happened upon five African dudes from multiple generations playing myriad percussion implements. They were effortlessly mesmerizing and I tossed a Washington into their bucket. I doubt I'll witness a more pure, joyful display of art all festival.

Continue reading "Bum, Brrrrr, Shoot! Day One" »

^{Saul Williams by Kjten22 from the Stranger Flickr Pool}

Estelle vs the Walkmen wasn't the only conflict yesterday, it was just the only one I'd worried about beforehand. Indeed, having seen Saul Williams' Black Bowie/Native American Alien thing at SXSW this year, and having never seen Man Man, I hadn't planned to catch Williams yesterday at all. But then I was there at the Fisher Green stage with a friend who was way amped for the set, and Williams' band started making a fantastic noise, all digital buzzing and beat mulching, tinny and sharp and totally at odds with the prevailing feel-good festival vibe, and I thought maybe I'd check out a few songs. They came out to the stage one at a time—bright, primary color attired drum machinist followed by tinfoil spaceman guitarist followed by futurist Blackula keyboardist followed by Mr Tardust himself, with young child also with neon green feather hanging in the back/wings of the stage (a friend: it's like Bad Brains on Halloween). He dedicate the set to Chief Seattle, which is way cooler than the average, "What's up, Shelbyville." I mentioned it at SXSW, but it's worth repeating, the rock band thing is a great look for Williams, who clearly enjoys the fuck out of playing the rockstar (and I say playing not because he's not a legitimate rock star, but because he plays the part with a serious dramatic flair, climbing the rafter, striking the stances, etc). His band, too, rocks the shit of their not very "rock" gear, the drum machinist especially, standing on his table of gear, pounding then stomping on his MPC. Remember digital hardcore? It's back. There was, of course, the usual Seattle festival dissonance when an African American gets radical on stage—the sea of white kids fist-pumping along to lyrics about Malcom X (see also: Dead Prez at the Evergreen State College)—but that hardly diminished the powerful performance.

^{Man Man by Kelly O}

Over at the Broad Street Lawn, Man Man were like a reverse image of Williams: all white dudes in all white attire with all white faux native face-paint. Casual listens have yet to land any of the band's albums in my regular music rotation, but holy hell do these guys kill it live, upping the percussion to turn their boozy/drugged carnivalesque songs into a wildly unhinged dance party. Also, watching the band impressed upon me something that I realized when watching their Philly brethren Pink Skull (while we're on Man Man's Philly family, can I also say a kind word about Need New Body? They had a jam back in the day) back at Nectar not too long ago—these guys aren't fucking around, or they are but they're also seriously good musicians, playing saxophone for one bar then hitting percussion for the next, hitting the drums in an off-kilter mess like Animal from the Muppets while still keeping time, murdering the piano while still barking out vocals. I'll be revisiting my Man Man records, although I'm still not sure I'll ever want to put them on at a dinner party, but I'll definitely be at their next Seattle show.

This was the one head-to-header yesterday that I really struggled with ahead of time. On the one hand, Estelle, an up and coming R&B singer with a Kanye-dusted summer hit, "American Boy." On the other, the Walkmen, a studiously trad East Coast rock band with one amazing anthem, "The Rat," now several years behind them. Turns out I watched a little of both and wasn't too impressed by either.

^{The Walkmen by Corey Bayless}

The Walkmen are a perfectly fine rock band—not "fine" like jewelry or china, but "fine" like "whatever." They played the excellent ballad "In the New Year" from their latest, You & Me, and it sounded great, instruments swaying and serenading as if at some NYC/Old World sidewalk cafe, singer Hamilton Leithauser's voice strained and striking the notes just so. Leithauser, it should be noted, has a name that makes him sound like some minor heir, and from afar he has kind of a James Spader from Pretty in Pink look (if you wanted to be a dick, you might imagine him going boating with the Vampire Weekend kids). Damn, was the Broad Street Lawn crowded, though—standing room only, right up to the paved walkway, and with lines in the beer garden so long you'd expect Eugene Mirman to be doing stand up at the end of them. The crowd was enough to keep me from waiting around for "the Rat," so if anyone with more fortitude than I was there, did they play it?

^{Estelle by Kelly O}

The Fisher Pavillion's rooftop beer garden was far more pleasant, although from up there Estelle didn't seem too remarkable, even with a full band and three backup singer/dancers. Her voice is clearly competent, as was her band, and she's certainly young, pretty, and stylish enough for Youtube (insert tired rant re: MTV/playing music videos here), but I can't help but agree with a fellow beer gardener who said she should just "bring Kanye West out" already.

^{Grynch and D.Black by Corey Bayless}

Late pass me, guys: Yesterday was the first time I caught an entire set from Grynch, who impressed the hell out of me with his guest spot with the Physics at this year's Capitol Hill Block Party. On that big stage, from up in the beer garden on top of Fisher Pavillion, Grynch looked tiny. Tinier than usual. But he and DJ Nphared sounded plenty big. The beats were big and bass-heavy enough to rumble the lawn, and Grynch more than makes up for his slight physical stature with energy, breath, and deftness on the mic. An Eminem comparison is probably lazy and racist, but on at least one song, rapping about how he doesn't look the part of a rapper and maybe he should try acting, Grynch's self-aware humor and tongue-twisting punch-lines definitely reminded of that other white meat. Most of the time, though, Grynch had plenty of his own style, especially on the breezy 206 summer ode "Summertime" and the appropriately aggressive "When the Beast Comes Out," which was like a battle rap only with no takers. Also good was a little a cappella interlude in which Grynch, in a sure-footed cadence, acknowledged his local buzz while examining his less than monumental place in the larger rap scheme of things, concluding that, in that world, he "still ain't shit." Has Seattle evolved its own definitive hip hop style yet? If so, that shrewd, comic self-deprecating stance (so "alt") certainly must be a part of it.

I tried to make it down to Bumbershoot a 12:30 yesterday for Throw Me the Statue, but a late brunch date and a slow, ass-packed bus delayed me until about 12:45. So I only caught half of the band's set, but from what I saw it was another fine, if not exceptional, performance from them. The Juno-60 and the the kick drum seemed a little loud from where I was standing, and the band might have missed a couple marks, Scott Rietherman's next line not quite landing on the final beat of the preceding drum fill. But then, it was just past noon.

"Young Sensualists" sounded great as always, really accelerated by live drumming; "Yucatan Gold" also benefitted from a live percussive intro. Their regular horn section was on hand for a couple songs (one or two of these horn players would reappear later with the Walkmen and Man Man). Throw Me the Statue played a couple new songs, "Parade," which they debuted at Capitol Hill Block Party, and another one, no name, that they had just written as part of a week-long EP recording session which they said they were halfway finished with. This debut was less impressive than "Parade," key-heavy and mellow, without a big (or really any recognizable) chorus and with none of the former's grand guitar sweep. The time-slot and the so-so show may have made for not the greatest introduction for any Bumbershooters seeing the band for the first time, but they still have one of the best albums with many of the best songs to come out of Seattle in the past year; here's hoping they sort out that EP.

Last night at the Oi Vay! weekly in the Baltic Room, DJ Struggle was spinning an excellent set of unconventional deep house music to a sparse crowd. Unfortunate, but the circumstances didn’t dampen Struggle’s mood nor mar the quality of his selections.

One track in particular riveted me: Juju & Jordash’s “Blue Plates” on London’s Real Soon Records (you can hear it on the label's MySpace). The cut exists at the hazy but fascinating nexus where cosmic disco, house, and dubstep (rarely) converge. “Blue Plates” is methodical yet sexy, meticulously detailed yet pregnant with the pleasure principle, weirdly off-kilter yet danceable. I haven’t heard much like it lately, and I’m grateful to Struggle for turning me on to Juju & Jordash and Real Soon.

Here's a vid of J&J's "Time Slip," their only representation on YouTube.

Just sent to Last Days from Hot Tipper Jack:

I was standing outside of King Cobra last night around 12:30 when two guys decided it would be hilarious to steal the hat off the head of notable Seattle hipster Slats, who was standing nearby. One of them grabbed it and they took off running. Slats got about ten feet after them but then he dropped his head band, which he had to stop and go back for, and by then the hat-thieves were long gone. Slats and another guy went off looking for them, but to no avail. I wonder if this means future Slats-sightings will be of the hatless variety? Or if he has a hundred more identical hats and "SlatsSuits" back at the "SlatsCave?"

Dear Jack: Thank you for noticing and sharing. I have no answers to your questions.

Dear thief of Slats' hat: What you have done is morally wrong. Should you want to return the hat, and you should, you may drop it off with no questions asked at The Stranger's front desk during regular office hours (Mon-Fri 9:30 am-5:30 pm).

Liam.

Noel.

Ryan.

Photos by Piper Carr.

If the subject sounds like a kind of exhausting evening, it was—but in the best possible way. First stop was the Vera Project for Indian Jewelry, Eats Tapes, MNDR, and a minute or two of Flexions. The show was part of "the Series" at the Vera, in which bands play on the floor of the lobby rather than the mainstage (usually with a slightly cheaper door price). The effect is to make the Vera feel a little more like a house show, and it works well with a smaller audience, such as last night's.

MNDR is a one-woman act from Oakland with serious shades of Blechdom. She played a Suzuki Q-Chord, a kind of electric autoharp, for her first song, which she introduced as a cover of a Chicago soul classic, making pains to assert that she sung it without any irony. During the chorus, she stomped a control pedal hooked up to her table full of delays and other boxes, doubling and looping her voice. Her song was cut off when the looping started to clip badly on the PA. The young, presumably volunteer, sound guy, seemed in a bit over his head with this bunch of gear heavy, non-traditional acts (it sounded like he was playing recent Green Day between bands). Hilariously, between songs, trying to right their respective settings, MNDR sent him a distorted, gurgling synth rhythm—it was kind of impossible to know if it was sounding "right." For her second song, she mangled that upbeat synth rhythm and shouted ghetto-tech/Baltimore club style commands—shake it, get down, etc—stomping her pedals to create tight 1/4 note length loops—"shake it/ake it/ake it/ake it," etc. She only played the two songs.

I have to offer a correction in regards to Eats Tapes: they are not, as I claimed in the Stranger Suggests, "all-analog." In fact, they have a laptop in the center of their still mostly analog rig. I should have known this, they were talking about using a laptop the last time I spoke to them; maybe I just got caught up being alliterative. In any case, my deepest regrets. Still, the spirit of the Suggestion stands, as Eats Tapes are still a totally gleeful, goofy blast, 4/4 faux 909 kick thump pulsing relentlessly underneath acid bass and detuned, wildly oscillating synths. At first, I was bummed they were playing the Vera, though. I think it's admirable that Eats Tapes peddle their DIY rave at "punk" type shows and venues (seeing them elicit dancing from the kids at the Punkin House is something I'll never forget), but for once I'd like to see them playing a full-on party—big sound system, enthusiastic ravers, the works (their Chop Suey show a while ago was close). But a song or so in, the Vera killed all the fluorescent lights, the kids starting dancing, and it was great. Eats Tapes bring the rave with them.

Another correction is due for Indain Jewelry. Having never seen the band and only heard of them via their most recent album, Free Gold!, I may have underestimated just how sinister is their psychedelia. They played in the dark, lit up by a pair of blinking strobe lights; one singer/guitarist brandished a whip, occasionally cracking it over a cymbal; the other guitarist wore (in what stuck me as a tad overly literal) a southwestern-styled poncho and headband. Their sound was heavier and darker than on record, relying on bass-buzzing synths as much as searing guitars; it was desert rock in the sense that you find peyote in the desert, and that you may die there. The vocals were looped and buried and delayed and just generally blended into the heavy, pulsing wash of sound. It was a lot to endure, and it was awesome.

Moving on to the Free Sheep Foundation, I caught a few tracks from Truckasauras, who were ruling the muggy, crowded warehouse room in their usual style. There was a rumor that Eats Tapes was going to hop on this bill, which would have been the perfect solution to my earlier rave-jones, but if they did, it must have happened after I left. (Confidential to the Free Sheep people: Can you PLEASE get !!! to play some kind of show here Bumbershoot weekend? I would be forever in your debt.) Filastine was fantastic, mixing strains of world music, dubstep, hip hop, and the like with his live anarcho-martial drumming (on traditional percussion as well as his trusty shopping cart). The heat in the show room made drifting in and out of his set a necessity, but every time I drifted back in, I was determined to stay a little longer. The Free Sheep Foundation's space is set to be demolished in a matter of months; be sure to check it out while you can.

Radiohead at White River Amphitheatre

^{photo by J-Justice}

^{photo by J-Justice}

^{photo by J-Justice}

^{photo by J-Justice}

^{photo by Piper Carr}

^{photo by Piper Carr}

Panda and Angel were more raucous last night than I remember them. For their Tractor set they were a combination of furtive, low key grace. Raw grace? They pull off raw grace. The his and her vocals tied off the songs. The band sounded great. They have a presence. Carrie Murphy’s vocals are just as effective loud as they are quiet. Loudly, they proclaim and state. Quietly, they hold up a mirror and introspect.

Panda and Angel write songs that make you cry. If listened to on certain days when sentimental nerve endings are firing in your brain, you will cry. “Our Town” is one of those songs.

Murphy sings “Kiss me like I’m yours to hold and I’ll give you everything / It may include, it may not be limited to, forever, you and me.”

The song goes on to punch out the orchestration of a small town storefront. There’s a mannequin there that looks at you like it’s real. You’re telling it you’re sorry for your mistakes. It’s fall and it’s drizzling and you stare at the mannequin until your head is soaked.

I cry. I also cry when I hear Christopher Cross' “Sailing”, but who doesn’t?

Panda and Angel were the BBC Radio 1 Demo of the Week recently. Looks like they have been doing some sailing of their own.

So last night I was headed to a “luau party” in the U-District, and I was pretty stoned. Stoned enough that I saw a big party and walked inside without checking the address, assuming it was where I was supposed to be. The place was packed with a young crowd, much younger than I’m used to, mostly recent high school graduates. The whole scene was pretty typical – bros playing pong and chugging Coors, flocks of giggly teenage girls. But then there was this band playing in the living room, and they stopped me right in my tracks. As far as party bands go I don’t know if I’ve seen a more appropriate or tastefully discerning group than these guys. They call themselves the Freetown, and they play “Rock, Soul, and Funk,” which theoretically should be the recipe for a bullshit cocktail, but somehow these guys were not only pulling it off, but excelling at it. Their set was a mix of original tunes and a handful of covers molded into their own style. The keyboardist had an amazing high-pitched soulful croon, accompanied nicely by a female backup singer. They were all young kids, early twenties, but they had legitimate chops. They covered songs everybody knew, but changed them enough to keep from being too clichéd: Some highlights were Radiohead, the Pixies, and Outkast, performed with just the right amount of party jamming and soul. It could have - should have - been poison. But it wasn’t. Color me surprised.

Since there was hardly anyone at the party who was 21, beer was something of a scarce commodity, so I walked down the street to the Plaid Pantry to get myself something to drink. It was on the way back that I passed a fenced off yard full of people in Hawaiian shirts and leis and realized I had wandered into the wrong party. Inside the luau a middle-aged woman was singing one of the songs from Shrek, and through the fence an old guy in a funny hat totally mean mugged me. Fuck that shit. I went back to catch the rest of the Freetown; they were doing a spot on Otis Redding cover. Well done, crew. You are on your way to mastering the art of the party jam. If this review turns out to be any way helpful to your band, don’t thank me, thank my weed.

I eventually made my way over to the luau, and it also turned out to be a blast, though at that party I was the youngest guy instead of the oldest. The host Kevin had a massive wall of vinyl, and played me David Faustino (“D” Lil) from Married With Children’s rap record circa 1992. He also played me Brian Austin Green from 90210’s rap record from the same era. It was a valuable and enjoyable learning experience. This was a legitimate adult party, Samantha and Kevin’s 10th luau, so it was decked out with a huge spread of delicious food and free liquor. I spent the night hopping back and forth across the street. Outside of the illegal party I asked the Freetown which member of the band would sacrifice his life for the good of his band mates, and they unanimously chose guitarist Jordan Platz. I rewarded his possible altruism by taking him over to the luau to take some shots. I wasn’t sure how they would feel about me bringing this guy in, so we entered the gate stealthily and shot straight to the kitchen. Shortly thereafter an overzealous “bouncer” who thought we wandered in from the bar next door tried to throw us out. He really looked like he wanted to beat us up. He did not give shit one that I was there to “crash the party.” After he calmed down I stole his soul with my digital camera. Then we drank.

The Freetown play August 15th at the Lenin Statue in Fremont.

One of my favorite music scenes – practically a genre unto itself – is what the Kinsella brothers and their associates were doing in Chicago about a decade ago. American Football, Owls, Ghosts and Vodka: They had their own unique sound that’s never really been duplicated. It’s fitting that a week after doing an interview with Mike Kinsella and asking him about his old bands that I should finally see a new band that has managed to brilliantly recreate that forgotten sound. It’s easy enough to tell from the songs Rooftops posted on their Myspace that they count those Chicago groups among their top influences, but since those recordings they’ve added a third guitarist, a low-end rhythm guitarist, moving them away from just a trebly tap-fest and more towards sonically balanced songwriting. The result is something I couldn’t want more: Their set last night at the Blue Moon was like a time machine to a music scene I was too young to see or appreciate when it was actually around. Here were four dudes with the skills and sensibilities to legitimately follow in the vein of American Football. Like I mentioned in my preview of this show yesterday, I’d seen members of Rooftops in previous Bellingham bands over the years, but I've never been so thoroughly impressed by them as I was last night. The set didn’t go without its share of snags (apparently when you’re really good at playing guitar it goes massively out of tune by the end of every song and requires extensive knob-twiddling), but Rooftops are still a very young band. Two of the band members are actually young: Guitarist Drew Fitchette is only 18 and drummer Wendelin Wohlgemuth is 20 (he was in another solid Seattle group, In Praise of Folly). Rooftops rest squarely on the right side of being influenced by a scene without ripping it off, of carrying on a forgotten sound without marring its memory. I can’t wait until they have a proper recording.

The best and worst part about dubstep is its one, long, '2001'-monolith-like bass creep into the horizon, and it can start to feel like it has just a single sound and point to it all.

Skream, from Croydon, meanwhile, crumples up the problem by injecting everything with a sense of genuine pleasure, a restless enthusiasm for the new, and an impatience for another English dance subculture potentially headed towards a creative lockstep feedback-loop.

If most of dubstep is slow and intent, Skream is a prolific splatter-shot of paint in strobe, alive and young -- and inventive -- where others are old, serious, and obsessed with death.

Tonight's warm-up includes Seattle's Zacharia, who does a nice enough if front-heavy low-build, and San Francisco's Roommate, who gives the night a bit of a mixed-results hip-hop vibe.

But the last time we were in front of Skream was in London, and the crowd is now, in a comforting way, still up for it. The place is packed. "Not bad for a Wednesday night," someone says. People swarm around when Skream takes the decks, and soon the place is all snapped photos, laughs with strangers, and knees-up dances to the bass and whoosh. Some yell along to their favorite tracks and it's hard not to like it.

The set's long and we hear everything from the worried "Wobble That Gut," with sounds like an air-raid for insects, to Caspa's murderous remix of TC's "Where's My Money," Skream's hollowed-out rejig of Klaxons' "Not Over Yet," the classic "Ghost Town" by The Specials, Skream's work with Warrior Queen, a couple of new ones, and Skream's own "Midnight Request Line" (twice), which helped define the genre.

It's not Skream's best night. There are loads of technical problems and he apologizes for "being a bit bumpy."

Even at half-speed, though, he does well. Skream is thin and a bit of a geek, which is a good sign, and the actual records are crisp and nasty, always sounding modern and often sliced to pieces with extreme bass and harsh-but-open-armed highlights, while the BPMs are bashed up and down to keep the energy aloft.

Skream's often brutal, but he's got a massive ear for a tune.

You can hear how one of dubstep's champions -- dubstep's most important champion -- is never satisfied with a single sound. A single trick or palette. He pushes and pulls the genre tonight, managing to be, like the musicians that matter, both experimental and popular.

While Coki, Scorn, Kromestar, Warlock, Synkro, Unitz, Toasty Boy, Benga, and Burial have good ideas, Skream has them all.

Dubstep, and dance music, would be a worse place without him.

Owen @ Neumos

After years of touring with just an acoustic guitar, playing at venues with too many people who would rather have a conversation than listen to his songs, it’s become clear Mike Kinsella doesn’t really give a shit about his audience. On the Owen records Kinsella plays all the instruments, and most of the songs sound like a real band. But live it’s just a man and his guitar, playing stripped down versions of his own songs. He doesn’t even try to win the attention of the room, starting his set with “Good Deeds,” an especially soft, finger-picked number. The background noise downs him out. A note to the people sitting at the far end of the upstairs balcony: You need to shut the fuck up, forever. What were you even doing at an Owen / Rocky Votolato show if all you wanted to do was have a loud conversation? These are two of the highest caliber acoustic performers: if you want to have an asinine yelling match go in the other room and stop ruining everyone else’s show. Or die. Just go die somewhere, quietly. If only you had been paying attention to the lyrics during “Bad News,” that song was written precisely for you: “Whatever it is you think you are / You aren't: / A good friend, unique, well-read / Good-looking, or smart / Well now you know.” There must be assholes like you at every show Owen plays; it’s no wonder he comes off so jaded on stage.

People yell out songs for him to play, and they are of course ignored. “These guys came from Utah and asked me to play like six songs, and I’m not going to play any of them,” he shrugs. Someone yells out, “Fade to Black!” That sparks his attention. At the end of his set, Kinsella announces, “Okay, now I’m going to play every riff I know from “Fade to Black.” He knows most of the 7 minute Metallica epic, and goes from riff to riff for about three minutes, adding the occasional guitar solo with his mouth. When he’s done with that he announces, “Now I’m going to play all the other Metallica riffs I know,” and proceeds to toss out random sections of different songs. The crowd starts to get restless. Someone yells something at him, he responds, “Fuck you dude, I’m playing Metallica.” After several minutes he walks off stage saying, “You don’t want to hear this? These are the highest selling riffs of all time! I’ll save them for an audience who cares.” There is scattered applause. Outside I hear a girl tell her friends, “That was the shittiest performance I’ve ever seen, and I’m from Montana.”

This is the genius of Owen. He is the Larry David of musicians. Awkward Metallica antics aside, what he has to say is often too real for most people to hear, and it can make them uncomfortable. I realized a few songs in that it’s not particularly great music to take a date to, especially a date with a girl you don’t know that well. Take “Breaking Away:”

Well just between you and me
This thing between you and me
Might not be anything worth singing about
Or it might be just what I need
Someone to take my mind off things
At the end of a long day
Someone to take my pants off for me
At the end of a long night
Either way, we're here

We're two bicycles, ridden too tired to know
Which one of us of us two
Was dumb enough to choose the other as a lover

It’s not really a scenario you want detailed out early on in a date, especially if there's a good chance that awkward situation is actually going to play out later in the night. Kinsella is a poet for the lazy everyman. His outlooks on life and young love are some of the most astringent, generally relatable sentiments since Holden Caulfield. And somehow, fittingly, he’ll probably never get the attention or respect he deserves.

^{Photo by Corey Bayless}

I got sick last night, so I arrived roughly five songs into the headlining set at Neumo's, and then spent the next two songs in the bathroom. At that point, sweating on the toilet, I was hopeful the show would go badly so I could mine the metaphor. Sadly for Conor Oberst haters, the scatological setup didn't fit.

Like I said in yesterday's U&C blurb, Oberst's forthcoming "solo" record is anything but, an organic, bong-in-the-basement batch of road-trippin' country-folk. Last night, he proved to have formed the live band to match that sentiment--surely, the Magnolia Electric Co. to his Songs: Ohia. If anything, the Mystic Valley Band--six dudes deep--often outpaced Oberst with guitar solos, organ ruminations, and Young-like breakdowns that left the tightly-packed, wide-eyed front row of young girls bored on occasion (a posse that would routinely perk up only when Conor took to the mic solo). But the imbalance of Oberst's nasal, chirpy delivery to the sweaty rock could probably be attributed to this being the first show of the new band's nationwide tour--and closing song "Breezy" saw the band mesh its output with Oberst's delivery, so chances are, they'll sync up soon.

The album's sessions in Mexico apparently did Oberst some real good, willing him to chat with the audience more than I'd ever seen him do before--he skipped out of singing one song just to spend its runtime signing autographs for front row patrons, and he even rolled out the "we've got stuff for sale over there" line like he was some no-name shlep touring for gas money in Montana. Certainly, the lyrical content of his newest stuff is at its worst stoic--not sad or melodramatic--and at its best all kinds of celebratory. You could tell he wanted to connect his audience to that newfound joy, rather than shun them, so it felt right that he'd shrunk down from the bigger halls he'd graduated to by Cassadaga. Craziest thing, man--I left a Conor Oberst concert feelin' pretty damn good.

Earlier today A wondered when we were going to post some kind words about the Boris show up in here, so here you go, from a Boris newbie.

I'm not actually familiar with Boris' discography - I was actually there to see Torche, with the bonus being Boris' closing set. Hell, I didn't even know all that much about Torche - I listened to a few songs on their MySpace and read their one-sheet, but never followed up on getting a promo. So I was there just as a casual fan, out for a nice pleasant night of not-entirely pleasant heavy rock.

Torche ripped through their set. Unlike a lot of metal bands, Torche betrayed the usual "so fucking metal" steez by actually smiling as they headbanged, thrashed, and pounded their way through their songs. They still kept it heavy, inspiring the beginnings of a pit by the end of their set. Given the opportunity to see them again, I'd do so. I thought they would have been enough for a good night of music. But sorry Torche, this was definitely Boris' night.

Not to say anything against either of the openers, but Boris rendered them completely irrelevant. Where the other bands played songs, Boris created an experience. I left feeling like my ears were full, which isn't a statement against my earplugs, but is instead indicative of Boris' sonic density, which sprawled in an endless number of directions at once, daring everyone in the audience to keep up. Sure, there were songs, but the band minimized breaks between songs, instead creating a crushing wave of sound that oozed from the stage out over the audience, washing over everyone lucky enough to be there (it wasn't nearly as full as I know now it should have been). The band kept stoic faces other than some encouragement from the drummer, otherwise allowing their sheer command of their instruments and stylistic diversity (soft and sweet one moment, brash and thrashing the next) to do the talking (sure, there were vocals, but since they were in Japanese, they were just part of the sonic palette). Drone, noise, and speed metal all made an appearance, but it all made sense - every style was in its right place. There were some guys attempting to start a pit, but that was thankfully squashed by security, leaving everyone free to remain in their own mental space, surrounded by sound that swirled in your ears like the fog did around the band.

Plus, the double-necked guitar was fucking sweet.

A couple more images after the jump.

Continue reading "Some Kind Words About Boris" »

“I got jacked today,” the singer of Strong Killings explains to a small crowd at the Funhouse. “300 bucks, which for those of you that know me, is about my net worth.” Someone in the crowd corroborates his claim: “It is!” There is a look of utter despair on his face. It’s hard to tell if he’s already drunk, or just in a daze. Strong Killings proceed to give one of the most anguished, explosive sets to hit a Seattle bar on a Tuesday night. There is a moment during one song where the singer screams, “You think I’m on edge? FUCK YEAH I’M ON EDGE!” that is so legitimately tortured it seems possible at any moment he is going to bash his guitar over the bass player’s head. The set ends with a proper instrument thrashing: bass chucked into drums, toms and symbols punted to the back of the stage, and a feedback squeal like a dolphin’s death rattle. Everyone in the crowd looks at each other in amazement. “What a fucking day we’ve had,” the drummer explains to me backstage. I tell him, “You guys were great tonight.” He looks at me like I'm an idiot. “That was a disaster,” he says. ”An A-bomb.” It’s nearly impossible to tell when you’re the one who’s been screwed, but the best art really does come from misfortune. It sucks Strong Killings got fucked over yesterday, but because of it they left an impression so deep it might scar.

^{The Least Terrifying Result of a Google Image Search for "Pink Skull"}

So, yesterday, Philly's Pink Skull played a BBQ at Nectar. I interviewed the band here, and Charles Mudede recommended the event here. Still, no amount of encouragement could change the fact that pretty much anyone who gives a shit about live music in Seattle seems to have been completely exhausted yesterday following two mammoth days of Capitol Hill Block Partying. I couldn't even convince my friends who already really dig Pink Skull's Zepellin III to come out to the event. When I got there, around seven, there were maybe a couple dozen people in attendance, and it seemed like half of them were cigarette reps, because this BBQ was a corporate deal. I try not to get all high and mighty about this stuff, because we're kind of all implicitly in the business of peddling smokes and booze, and I usually don't mind as long as I know what I'm going into, but for some reason I didn't realize this event was going to be one of those things (I should have read the email more carefully), and the surprise combined with the low turn-out was just a massive bummer.

And Pink Skull, if not massively bummed, at least seemed pretty non-plussed about the show, laconically thanking the crowd through a wash of reverb. Still, their brief set sounded great—Nectar really can get away with the kind of bumping sound system that seems to have become suddenly illegal on Capitol Hill. The three piece band consisted of live drums, a laptop, keyboards and delay, and a rack of roto-toms, wood-block, and agogos. They played pretty faithful, but playfully divergent, interpretations of Zeppelin III, omitting bongos here, pushing vocals to the front there. They also debuted a new song, which they said would be on the next album, a vocal track that married Talking Heads vocal quirk to lively big beat far more effectively than that recent Norman Cook track featuring actual David Byrne. This set would have absolutely killed at Block Party. Pink Skull is due back in the fall, with a full band, and it should be a banger of a show.

(Hat tip to young Werther for the headline).

Photo by Andrew G Davis.

Musically, Saturday was a big improvement over Friday for me. I saw more bands, and the bands I saw were better. No one’s mentioned it yet, so I’ll go ahead and say the Cave Singers played a beautiful, spare set. Frontman Pete Quirk was feeling it, too: Near the end, he said to the crowd, “I feel like I could tell you guys anything.” Awww.

Fleet Foxes made it to the next level of consciousness, and Grand Ole Party rocked despite headset mic problems— yeah, that’s the band in which the frontwoman drums and sings simultaneously. They were also the most symmetrical band I’ve ever seen— drummer/singer front and center, two guys (who looked they could be brothers) in blue shirts on either side, playing matching guitar and bass. If only the guitarist had been left handed…

Finally, and not to rant, but if there’s two 21+ stages next year, I think CHBP should consider selling discounted tickets to the underagers. It’s not that you see less music, but you have half the choices while paying the full price. Unfair.

Megan's already touched on Sleepy Eyes of Death's troubled set. It was indeed a great 15 minutes, with the kind of aggression that really works with what they were playing (the new material is a nice progression for their sound). So it was a bummer, but they still delivered, even if in concentrated form.

Less concentrated was Chromeo, who had a longer slot than most other acts. It's almost impossible to hate Chromeo. They're too inoffensive, too friendly, and look like they're enjoying themselves too much to inspire much wrath, even if they aren't your thing. Nowhere near Girl Talk's insanity, but plenty of dancing in the sunshine all the same.

Video from Chromeo

The highlight of the day was Grand Ole Party over on the Vera Stage. I only caught the last few songs of their set, but the lead singer's voice is completely captivating, and the fact that she's able to do that while drumming is nothing short of incredible. Everyone at that stage was sucked into this vortex of soulful rock (let's get them on a bill with Thee Emergency, ok?). They were so good that sold out of CDs after their set. This is definitely one to watch.

Video from Grand Ole Party

After a quick stop by The Saturday Knights and a break, I came back in time for Chromeo's afterparty DJ set. Holy hell, that was a good time. Unlike Friday's afterparty, this one surpassed the day's generally sedate mood. No people on stage for this one, but everyone in the audience was dancing while Chromeo banged it out. I wasn't sure if they'd just be playing a set of Hall & Oates or soemthing, but they played some pretty choice blog house/electro. FourColorZack closed out the night with a selection of party favorites. Around three I finally made the trek home, as the night crew worked to clean up the mess from the weekend (more recycling next year please).

Video from the Saturday Knights
All of my pics

^{Throw Me the Statue photo by Corey Bayless}

One bummer about Block Party—a bummer that's endemic to any big festival, really—is that there will always be two things you want to see at exactly the same time, if not three things. So it was that I ditched out on Chromeo, who are always a treat live, after just a few songs to go watch Throw Me the Statue inside Neumo's. Yes, they're local, and I can see them all the time, but Throw Me the Statue's Moonbeams is one of the best records to come out of Seattle this past year, and the band are easily in my top five or so of local acts. Scott Reitherman's songs are clever as hell, perfectly poppy while still being lyrically somewhat abstract. And they're a lot of fun live. (Plus, what's going to top that completely bananas Chromeo show at the War Room?)

I had a "but if you're here, and they're there" moment before the band started, when I caught their now former bassist hanging out in the crowd instead of onstage. They split amicably, he says, and the new bassist brought some extra keyboards to the band, so that's a plus. The band also had its sometimes horn section on hand for the show to add brass to songs like "Groundswell," "Take It Or Leave It," "Moonbeams," and "Yucatan Gold." There were some good signs for Throw Me the Statue last night: Neumo's was packed, the crowd cheered at the mere soundchecking of the band's glockenspiel, and I overheard a couple girls trying to deduce a band members' name so they could shout it and win his attention. Also a good sign: the band played a new song, called "Parade," which sounded perfectly radio ready (duh, their set was being broadcast live on KEXP, after all): a mid-tempo track with a big, octave-effected chorus pierced by squealing electric guitar feedback. The band isn't perfect live—the sort of flatness that makes Reitherman's vocals so intriguing on record doesn't always come across right live, and he hit one off falsetto on one song—but the strength of the songs more than make up for any rough spots. Reitherman is just a phenomenal songwriter, and "About to Walk," "Young Sensualists," and "Lolita" (despite the fact that I can't bear its opening couplet) remain the total fucking jams. It's also worth mentioning that their drummer is a beast, busying his steady backbeats with aggressive little fills and flourishes (also, I think those girls might have been talking about him).

I was going to post all these reviews in the order the performances went down yesterday, but I'm still far too excited about the Hold Steady to stick to that. Look at Craig Fin, for chrissakes! He is the world's biggest spaz, happiest man, and most positive dude of all time. He did a kind of chubby running man. He shouted to the crowd off mic. He kept making that face and throwing his hands out to the side like he was giving the crowd a gift and saying, "ta da!" And I suppose he was giving the crowd a gift, as the Hold Steady are pretty much the perfect summer festival band—beer gardens and the Hold Steady go together like Tim Harrington and hot dogs. I didn't notice what a giddy clown Finn is when last I saw the Hold Steady, on the jumbotrons at Sasquatch last year—maybe he wasn't as giddy at that show—but the last time I saw someone looking that gleefully dorky on stage, it was Atom and His Package. So, well done, Mr. Finn.

The band played much of their latest album, Stay Positive, with highlights being "Constructive Summer," "Sequestered in Memphis," the title track, and "Slapped Actress." They also played "Chips Ahoy," "Stuck Between Stations," "Party Pit," and "Massive Night" off Boys and Girls in America, as well as "Your Little Hoodrat Friend" and "Stevie Nix" off of Separation Sunday. Everything sounded just right, if never quite loud enough in the busier corners of the beer garden. The crowd looked amped up in the front, but there was no way to get up there, and anyway there were even a few scattered "whoa-ohs" towards the back. I inadvertently taught some stranger about "metal claw." It was one of only two sets I saw at Block Party that kept me grinning the whole damn time (Girl Talk was the other, but mostly for the crowd). You couldn't ask for a better closing night headliner.

Not officially part of the Block Party, but the Cha Cha had a solid line-up of its own all weekend. I missed the final performance of Das Llamas on Friday, but I did manage to catch Kerry Zettel's other project See Me River. Once a solo endeavor, last night it was a full band with piano, acoustic guitar, drums, and either xylophone or glockenspiel. I have to say, the band's dark, folky songs are a much better fit for Zettel's low, droning voice than were Das Llamas' equally low, droning post-punk. Here, the more conventionally pretty arrangements act as a counterpoint to Zettel's haunted baritone rather than as reinforcement, and the effect is perfect. See Me River belongs to a long, long line of mopey motherfucking ensembles to come out from behind the bar of the Cha Cha—apparently, it's a hard, dark life down there—and they do quite well by that tradition.

^{Physics photo by Piper Carr}

With all due respect, I have no idea what the fuck Charles Mudede is talking about when it comes to the Physics. What else is new, right? To my ears, they're a fine, but not outstanding and hardly futurist hip hop act—solid beats and grooves; regular, easy cadences; and one song that abysmally rhymed "my way" with "information super-highway" before going on to name-check Myspace, Starbucks, Bill Gates, and Boeing (ugh). Not helping matters any is that when the group brought out some friends—Grynch, Gatsby, and Macklemore—for a posse cut ("this is how we chill / from '08 'til"), their guests handily stole the show (this is, I suppose, the danger of having guests). Grynch and Macklemore, neither of whom I'd seen before, were especially amped, rapping double time and working references to the Block Party into their rhymes. Macklemore had the best punchline of the day, too: [something about real hip hop] "the radio ain't playing them / we need KUBE like we need another stadium." See, now that's how you geek out on Seattle, not with some Bill Gates shit. After that heated performance, it was pretty hard to get too invested in the Physics' last song, the mellow single "Ready For We."

So, Stranger all-ages columnist Casey Catherwood has this band, Little Party and the Bad Business. They sing (and, dear god, sometimes kind of rap) songs about stuff like freeboxes, DIY, and partying too hard, and their songs are fun, athletic punk pop workouts. They're young and awkward and funny—Catherwood kept talking about how he didn't feel too good, how, in fact, he felt like he had to "poo;" he also noted that all of us were in the middle of "a revolution," as there were three new flavors of Mountain Dew or something (I'm kind of out of the soda game these days). LP&BB used to be just Catherwood and his buddy Dale Metteer on casiotones and vocals, backed by a drum machine, but recently, the band has expanded to include guitar, bass (Mark Greshowak from Talbot Tagora), and drums. It sounds a lot better this way, especially on the band's more recent songs, where it feels like the band was able to steer things away from punk-by-numbers progressions. The rhythms are genuinely punchy, for one thing, but maybe more importantly the added instrumentation gives Catherwood more time to get away from his keyboard (he and Metteer have their little keyboards set up facing each other, like some miniature grand piano duet) and goof off. It was 2pm and there were only a couple dozen people at the Vera Stage, but Catherwood still danced in the crowd, climbed amps, hopped the fence to run around the stage, punched the monitors until his knuckles bled, and just generally screamed himself red in the face. Even with the full band, LP&BB aren't perfect—Catherwood and Metteer are better shouters than they are singers still—but pretty soon I could see them playing alongside bands like the Death Set or Team Robespierre and easily holding their own.

Last night, standing outside Quinn's, which isn't that close to the stage, I was lifted off my feet. I'm not being poetic. And I'm not light--six-foot-five, 215 lbs. I lost touch with the sidewalk and was floating on the sea of humanity. I wasn't trying to lose the asphalt, it just happened, because there were so many people jammed in there. There was a lot of feeling going on.