White Rainbow, Charles Berlitz presents The Garnet Tucan, Caspar Sonnet, Rene Hell Wed, 1/25: Valentine's

Valentine's is a sweet, secluded spot next to Voodoo Donuts, in SW Portland. They have free live music every Sun., Mon., and Tues., and there's always interesting art on the walls. They apparently also serve Real Absinthe, for those that want to make like its Paris circa 1923.

I arrived typically late, to a surprisingly packed house, with the sounds of, (i'm assuming), Caspar Sonnet, already in full tilt. Two fellas, one playing unsteady electric guitar with the other on some ukulele like instrument and vocals. Their sound was akin to Math Rock, with a Jandek-ian vibe. They seemed to live in a world of their own, but their was a dream logic, an internal structure, and they were able to keep their mutant dirigible afloat, peeking in at verdant valleys previously unexplored. I admire people who do their own thing, doubly so in front of a crowd, and especially when they can PULL IT OFF.

My buddy Nate poked me in the back. He came out to see Rene Hell and White Rainbow, and i also ran into some friends from the House of Good Spirits, in Northeast Portland. It felt nice, a free weird show, a night on the town. Friendly faces.

Rene Hell up next, and it was not what i was expecting, AT ALL. I'd listened to his recordings quite a bit, and had been expected some dreamy, synthesizer scores; cyberpunk dystopianism, with a dash of nostalgic somnabulism, a la Emeralds or Oneohtrix Point Never. What i got, instead, were two dudes blasting out a furious smoothie of digital noise, like Squarepusher, but all the way broken, all the way down. The collective migraine of the information canals. Here, also, there was rhyme and reason, seasoned shamans of the digital id, this was a new jazz, albert ayler and sonny sharrock teleported to the end of the Mayan calendar. These guys were delicate listeners, and could pirouette like a ballerina, or a nascar driver at 117 mph. Quick. On their toes. The music ebbed and flowed, and occasionally rumbled into some broken machine funk, reminding me of Pole, but without the dub. My body began writhing and head-banging, involuntarily. A guy next to me nudged me, asked if i was actually DANCING to this music. I told him that i actually LIKED this music, that i thought it was good. He seemed satisfied, and after a thoughtful pause, added, 'its kind of refreshing.' We were friends, after that. Apparently Rene Hell are gonna be in Portland for the next month, so keep yr eyeballs peeled for future appearances. I highly recommend seeing these dudes live, and listening to their albums, as well.
(i read that Rene Hell was one person, but i swear there were two guys bringing the noise. I dunno what to tell you...)

Next up Charles Berlitz presented the Garnet Tucan, a daydream of an extra-terrestrial swamp, not a real extra-terrestrial swamp though. A daydream of a pixellated, technicolor extra-terrestrial swamp. This music was NOT trying to be genuinely ethnographic; again, two dudes, one guy blasting out crunchy, plastic African beats while the other played gamelan middle eastern scales on a cheap, destroyed keyboard, while a hazy image of a crescent moon and stars and night-time were projected on the wall, from an old overhead projector like you took notes off of, when you were in High School. The music was pleasantly evocative, rhythmic and trancy and made for some of the nicest furniture music i've heard in a minute, light conversations about the pictures behind our eyeballs. Beats the fucking movies any day of the week, if you ask me. (i like to go to the movies, too, don't get me wrong.)

Lastly, the Headliner, White Rainbow, infamous in Portland Town for 80s fetish sleazy funky dance parties. He was rocking an ableton set-up, with a swarm of controllers around, which he used to summon, and then mangle, disembodied bass lines, hip hop beats, and a VERY legitimate sounding 303 lead. All this to the good, but i was mostly struck by his stage presence, super real and down to earth, 'oh, adam, yr so good at making the ableton beat.', 'no, that one sucks.' cutting off jams midway, and then bringing the typhoon full-force. It seemed like a perfectly normal night on the town, DJing for yr friends, making beats in yr bedroom. In a word: pure, and in my world, that makes it good. I watched the fuckers dance for a while, swooning on a bar stool, not much into a dancing mood, too many heady visions coalescing in my synapses. Had a number of conversations with progressively drunker new friends, and thought for the millionth time, how glad i am that i don't drink anymore. Not that there's anything wrong with that, y'all do what thou wilt, but i will way that is much easier to not make an ass of thyself, when one doesn't drink, and the bartenders hate you a lot less.

Struck out into the streets or Portland with my friend Nate, who was pretty wasted at the time, and observed the bars vomitting out their revellers onto the streets, and the hustlers trying for one last score and one last taco before bedtime.

Caspar Sonnet
Rene Hell
White Rainbow

Concert Review: Monopoly Child Star Searchers, Tenses, Fake Hospital, White Gourds; Ella St. Social Club, Portland, OR

Egads, this place was hard to find! Turns out there's a SW 20th Place as well as a Street, and its one block south of Burnside, for some reason. This mission turned from, 'i'm gonna put on my boots and go to the show,' to 'i'm gonna go wander around in the shadowy nether-regions of Portland, racking my brain, mentally calculating how many amplifiers i can run with my sundry delay pedals.' En route, i listened to Skullflower, Jim O' Rourke, Future Islands, and The Beastie Boys, as i trekked through the damp chill of the Nov. evening. I was in prime condition for a noise show.
Ella St. Social Club is an old mausoleum; the walls flat burgundy, classy antiquated light fixtures cast cream dimness across the ceiling. The neon wurlitzer was playing 'Where is my Mind,' by the Pixies, before segueing into Cab Calloway, and i realized that i had found my new home in Portland!
Arriving early, the only people milling about were the performers for the evening. Eavesdropping, i listened to people about to depart for Los Angeles or Australia; watching people loading in gongs and record players. I felt at home in this world, in that moment; thanked my lucky stars for being an underground music junkie. Four awesome bands for five bucks. The guy at the door felt bad for taking my last five dollars on earth, and i glowingly told him i would give my last five bucks for awesome music, every time.
Tenses (featuring members of Smegma) played first, manipulating tabletop guitar and turntable to manifest soupy birdcalls and crackling hymns from thin air. People say that Ella St. is haunted, that the black drapery behind the stage conceals an elevator used for transporting the bodies for viewings. I like to think the spirits were given voice this evening; spectral vocals over the PA, from long ago and far away.
There was a sense of respectability during this set, more art house than sweaty basement show, as Smegma have been peddling their free noise associations since 1971. Finesse and nuance were in full effect, the two improvisors paying close attention, playing off of one another, against the backdrop of random images projected onto a screen. In this kind of music, its all about the subtleties, like the guitarist occasionally putting down his ax to play a bit of muted trumpet or windchimes, to seperate the gold from the endless leaden onslaught of mediocre harsh noise. There is nothing like age and experience, and i vowed to take a couple of notes from my elders.
I returned from a hurried meal at the Fred Meyer's across the street (another badass venue near a Fred Meyer's! Is this a trend in Oregon...) to bells and the sultry sounds of alto saxophone, creeping across the night as i smoked cigarettes i found in the ashtray. Returning inside, i found a lone woman in a cloak, performing against a backdrop of Atu IX, The Hermit, as she solicited a series of tones and squeaks from a saxophone, wind chimes, bowed gong, before climaxing into a bloodcurdling banshee wail, and looping the sound of ceremonial swords, sharpening. A+ for presentation and mood, however her loops were a little choppy and in this saturated world of antisocial looper artists, you have to be REALLY fucking good at what you do, to pull it off. Trust me, i am a novice sampler myself, i can't pull it off yet, either. This young lady is potent, and i will be watching expectantly to see what comes next.
I knew i was in for a treat when the third band pulled out a Dream Machine! Fake Hospital, also from Portland pulled off a set of middle-eastern trance panic pandemonium; clarinet, bamboo flutes, delay pedals and pulsating loops woven masterfully and magickally to coalesce in an event horizon of moment, slo-motion movement, reality running backwards, like flickering celluloid, stained technicolor with a psychedelic light show. Brian Jones would have been utterly stoked, as these two fine fellows brought a hint of vines and the rustle of bird-calls to the damp chilly evening. I could practically feel the Jaguar's breath, on the back of my neck.
Last, but not least, Spencer Clark's Monopoly Child Star Searchers. Spencer's infamous in the glorious glo-fi underworld, hypnagogic hierophant of Skater's fame, i was definitely not gonna miss this, but truly and utterly did not know what to expect. I've listened to MCSS quite a bit (see here for previous analysis) and had been bewitched by his plasticine bedroom devotional newage. He ended up playing a set of Atari gamelans, swooning keyboards pads and taiko drum samples, cresting like waves while you sip some cliche tropical drink. Except that drink would be laced with ayahuasca, because escapist easy-listening xxxotica this is not. Its cheap and funky and inspired, a stoned teenager's astral journey over antiquated National Geographics. In a way, this music is even more potent and beautiful than that which it is emulating, stodgy dusty field recordings from distant lands, because it makes no attempt at being authentic. This is music of the imagination, and the imagination is a powerful thing.
* * *

As i faded away into the city streets, high on hope and possibilities, i reached the conclusion that this was one of the favorite performances i've seen so far. Just the perfect combination of ambiance, inspired music, obscurity, and the random nature of how i ended up there in the first place. The people were all super friendly and accessible, most artists and musicians in their own right, eager to exchange ideas and contact information. It was like a cool breeze after dealing with the infernal heat of spiky metalheads, and i melted into the shadows, to collect bottles and cans.

Ella St. Social Club is the fucking shit, a total gem, and they have music almost every night of the week, often times for free. Their jukebox fucking rules, and i'm told their drinks are reasonably priced, although that has no relevance in my world. If you live in Portland, you should go there all the time. You'll probably see me there!

Monopoly Child Star Searchers
Tenses
Fake Hospital
White Gourd