• K.C. Fennessy
• Holter with drummer Corey Fogel

Los Angeles artist Julia Holter brought her ethereal aesthetic to lovely life yesterday in the rosy-hued confines of Barboza on a damp and clammy night.

The comparisons to Laurie Anderson make sense when you listen to her records, Tragedy and Ekstasis, but that influence has little bearing on her live show. Afterwards, it occurred to me that Holter is what you'd get if Lisa Gerrard had formed Dead Can Dance with Arthur Russell instead of Brendan Perry.

More pictures and a Jib Kidder collaboration below.

Continue reading »

The first night of this weekend's Psychic Circle mini-fest kicked things off in high fashion at Electric Tea Garden. Second Sight DJs Rxch Wxtch and Ozma Otacava kept the room moving with dubby beats and euro rave-ups in equal measure. Portland's Litanic Mask stunned with '70s-tinged ballads that sounded like an explosion filmed on one of those fancy slow-mo cameras played in reverse... under water.

The air in the room was suitably thick as Light Asylum took stage. They tore through their goth-as-hell synth manifestos with fury and finesse. Front woman Shannon Funchess is an absolute force of nature, her eyes bugging out of her head and every muscle in her body held taught as she sung and dance and basically just rocked the fuck out. This is an act to see live — their recordings paling in comparison to the power of their performance, which is not said as a slight — they just really bring it on stage.

All in all, it was a great start to what should be a great weekend.

• K.C. Fennessy
• Tim Presley (White Fence)

From the moment I arrived, I stood directly in front of the stage, but the pushing, shoving, and drink-throwing started early on. Until then, I took as many pictures as possible of White Fence and Ty Segall, but when I couldn't take it any more, I moved to the side, where the situation was more calm, although that presented another problem since I ended up in the path of the oil plates, which a couple of Chop Suey staffers changed out repeatedly to keep the light show going. To their credit, they didn't spill any oil, despite all the non-stop jostling (due to my work schedule, I missed all of the Tea Cozies and most of the Pharmacy).

Continue reading »

• K.C. Fennessy

It wasn't supposed to happen this way, but Chicago busker-turned-recording artist Willis Earl Beal turned out to be the first artist to play Barboza, the new basement club located beneath Neumos, when the venue wasn't ready in time for the other acts—Tanlines, Frankie Rose, etc.—Eli Anderson had booked before last night.

Beal proved himself an odd, but hardly unpleasant choice. On the contrary, he poured his heart into his set, and the audience was into it—those gathered around the low-slung stage, that is. The people at the bar and in the back booths couldn't give a shit, or they would've minimized the chatter whenever Beal turned down the volume—which wasn't often. I don't mean to be harsh; maybe there's something about the acoustics in the room that amplifies conversation, but it was like a loud, irritating buzz around my head (and no, I hadn't been drinking).

Continue reading »

Colin Stetson emits strobes of sound. Last night at Columbia City Theater was remarkable. His bass sax is more an armada than an instrument. His songs are more physical expenditures where he rifles through cycles of notes to create lattice or web of sound. Out of that, harmonies rise from his throat and parts of the sax you didn’t know existed. To see Stetson play, is to wonder how he does it. Throat veins and neck muscles engorge and bulge. He’s a physical specimen. Many things simultaneously happen when he plays (using all parts of the sax): circularly breathing, tongue slapping, throat singing, and the keys sound off as beats. Sections droned and growled. Other phases knifed through scales. Stetson is a singular force, a one-man fleet, moving out large chunks of sound.

Here's some (non-professional) video from the show:

• Click to see crapiness of photo in greater detail.

And for much of the remaining set, that wasn't a problem. In front of a crowd of 40 or so (occupancy at that hour seemed to be about 75-80 total, although I'm a horrible judge of such things), Beal bellowed and crow with a power that filled every inch of the room and made up for any spareness in his accompanying instrumentals. There's no question Beal is someone to watch in the next few years.

• Me
• Barboza Blueprints

• Stage from far end of bar (blurry edition)

• Whitman Dewey-Smith
• M83

Mostly due to their horrible name, I'd never investigated Stockholm's I Break Horses until yesterday, which I spent much of listening to Hearts. Verdict: "Hearts"—the second song on the album—is nice enough, but things get rather formless after that. Mixing/sound issues maligned the first few minutes of their set rendering much aural muddiness, but were corrected soon enough, only by then it'd taken the same turns as their record and grown innocuous. If they've got a great record in them, this isn't it. But, hey, they're young.

Cue hour-long break between sets. I understand, you gotta sell your drinks, but a full hour between the opener and the headliner is absurd.

Thankfully M83 were worth the wait. "This is a fucking huge venue for us! This is amazing for us!" shouted founder/frontman Anthony Gonzales after a few songs, and compared to Neumos, which last time around added an early set after the initial one sold out, the Paramount felt like the right-sized room for M83's brand of glorious bombast. They start with "Teen Angst" off 2005's Before the Dawn Heals Us, and the guy next to me keeps playing a single, passionate air drum as every grandiose shift hits (which he continues throughout the show). Two minutes in, it's evident that M83 have reached a new echelon. Still, I'd have liked to see some of the more orchestral material performed from a band that's now selling out the Paramount. "Outro," a definite highlight from last year's Hurry Up, We're Dreaming was nowhere in the set, and since I've listened to that song more than every other one on that record combined, I was a bit bummed not to hear it. Still, the show was riveting, and when those deep bass notes and chords hit, they rattled in my torso, and it was like the Earth was shifting. You close your eyes at those times and you'll get the chills. Four songs in people are crowd surfing and generally going mad. The bass/keyboard player is flailing about onstage. I won't bore us with setlists and such, but the dynamics last night were well paced, with generous helpings of Before the Dawn Heals Us, Saturdays = Youth, and of course Hurry Up, We're Dreaming. During the ballad "Safe," the lighters inevitably came out. The encore was spectacular and lengthy. The crowd, young (girls sitting on guys' shoulders and doing that weird/lame "sensual" arms-raised-in-the-air-as they-sway-back-and-forth thing were witnessed). The whole thing was over by 11, after a 90-minute-plus set. Lovely.

UPDATE: See more photos and see/hear a mediocre video of "Colours" from last night's show after the cut.

Continue reading »

Was it a nice showing? Does that soft, sweet music translate live? Also, read Trent Moorman's interview. It's really good (and maybe smells a little like baby oil and pizza sauce.)

• SAUMAYA SHARMA
• The Perfumed Genius

Continue reading »

• Josh Bis

Last night, Elvis Costello and the Imposters brought their Spectacular Spinning Songbook show to the Paramount, and it was wonderful. As I mentioned in my preview piece:

Tricked out with song titles spanning Costello's career, the Spectacular Spinning Songbook is a Wheel of Fortune–style contraption spun by lucky audience members, with the band banging out whatever song the wheel reveals. If live-action Costello Song Roulette isn't gimmick enough for you, the stage also holds a go-go dancer shimmying in a cage.

What I learned last night: the cage-dancers are, more often than not, the lucky wheel-spinners themselves, and I am happy to report that despite our region's reputation for not dancing at rock shows, last night's audience-participation cage dancers totally brought it. I don't know if I've ever been more proud of my city. (I'm looking at you, Freaky Steve, and also at you, couple that's been married for 26 years and shimmied together in the cage to "(What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love, and Understanding?".)

The band: amazing. Keyboardist Steve Nieve remains Costello's greatest not-so-secret weapon, fleshing out the melodies with simultaneously high-drama/low-cheese touches. Costello is a ridiculous charming showman, veering between enthusiastic carnival barker-isms and wry self-deprecation. And, somehow, Costello's contentious singing voice sounds better and less-strained live than it does on record (or at least than it has on recent records).

Highlights: the aforementioned "Peace, Love, and Understanding," "Girls Talk," "Accidents Will Happen," "Man Called Uncle," "(I Don't Want to Go to) Chelsea," and covers of the Beatles' "Please Please Me" and Chuck Berry's "No Particular Place to Go." Also, a slamming version of "Waiting for the End of the World" that made me wish Costello & co would deign to do a full re-recording of My Aim Is True, the thin, flat sound of which has always been slightly at odds with the brilliant compositions.

Dashed Hopes: The wheel never landed on Imperial Bedroom's "Man Out of Time" or King of America's "Suit of Lights."

More Josh Bis photos after the jump.

Continue reading »

The reports started yesterday from Portland. "Hot Snakes more or less destroyed everyone and everything," said Red Fang fifth man Chris Coyle on Facebook. I'd been peeing my pants about this show for months years, and I'm glad to say Hot Snakes delivered last night in spades.

God knows how scalpers get word that a Hot Snakes show is sold out, but they did, and two or three of them were out in force. I missed Spider Fever due to a work-related meeting, but they sounded promising from the line outside. Just inside Moe Bar were the absolutely converse machinations of Moe Bar Mondays, a long-running night scored by commercial hip hop and twentysomethings. After the line was the showroom, where the Bangs (yes, that the Bangs) were on. Their set built energy head-on toward the end, but the crowd wasn't responding well. Maybe the fan bases don't mix, but either way, most of the crowd didn't appear to know how rare an occasion it was to see the storied Olympia rock trio. "We're almost done," said the frontwoman (I don't know which one.), almost sheepishly. "Hot Snakes are on next. This microphone smells terrible."

Hot Snakes start with "I Hate the Kids." Then they rip through Suicide Invoice like it'd just been released. The crowd quickly simmered into a boil. By "Who Died," beer cans and bodies were flying. "It sounds exactly like the album," yelled my giant Samoan companion, who'd never seen them live before. Jason Kourkounis is on drums for all of this, but when they switch to songs from Audit in Progress, Mario Rubalcaba comes out. Both drummers crush it, and when those breakdowns with Gar Wood's low-note bass lines come in, I'm shouting and pumping my fists like a sports maniac, like I haven't done in years. John Reis is hunched over his guitar, slashing at it with a fever, Rick Froberg and Wood more laid-back, and it's that dichotomy that creates the inexplicable magic of those melodies.

• Kelly O
• Destroyers

A few songs in, I can no longer contain myself in Neumos's Sound Sweetspot™, that area just mid-back of the center of the room where everything sounds balanced, but god damnit, it's just not loud enough. I surge into the pit like a kid. Yos-Wa from Monogamy party is somewhere in there. A guy in a red shirt is literally picking up his friends and carrying them into the fray. At some point, I get knocked so hard my glasses go flying. This is the same thing that happened at King Khan & the Shrines, but this time the outcome is downright touching. Immediately, two or three people have their cell phones out and are scanning the ground. A security guard with a flash light appears like a giant hairy angel. Then Kristen Naranjo is suddenly there and handing my specs back to me. I thank everyone profusely and move back out of the chaos. Hot Snakes do an encore with some covers and end with "Plenty for All." I'd go on, but I already have for too long. Words can't do justice, but, you know, it's my job to try. I'm still glowing.

Some days you decide to go ahead and say "yes" to every adventure that presents itself to you, and those are the days you end up applying lipgloss to cover up your wine lips in the bathroom of an Ani DiFranco concert. That's what happend when I accompanied a friend to the Showbox night before last to see her buddy Seth Glier, who was the opening act. But when we stayed for the set afterward, my friend blew my mind with her vast biographical knowledge of Ani. "This song is about one of the two abortions she had," my friend explained matter-of-factly as she sipped on her plastic cup of $7 red wine.

I never got exposed to Ani DiFranco during my young college feminist stage... her music doesn't seem horrible or anything, it's just as a teen I avoided the singer/songwriter genre in favor of grrl punks. Upon asking around, it appears many of my legit rock friends secretly have a firm DiFranco staple from their youth that I didn't know about. "I had all her records in high school," my other friend Laura explained. "Getting into her music really made me devolve into some Jack Johnson/String Cheese hippie bullshit for awhile, though." Ani DiFranco fans were not as hippie-d out as I thought they would be (Although I did see one peace sign back tattoo was surrounded by yin-yangs.), and everyone seemed so sincere and stoked to be there. I am being told that To the Teeth is actually a really great album that's worth investigating. What do you think?