Malaikat Dan Singa, Skrill Meadow, Free Weed, Rollerball; Ella Street Social Club, 3.30.12

I was running characteristically late; pounding pavement down Burnside, chucking over every aspect and nuance of society, of creativity, what to say and what not to say to Arrington De Dionyso. I had met him a few times over the summer, when i was staying in Olympia, knew a few of the same people, saw Malaikat Dan Singa play a few times, most suitably impressed with his no-wave trance mongolian transgressive rock. There was a moment at Helsing Junction Sleepover, when my head was full of cobwebs and mildew, and Arrington's mixture of chant, bass clarinet, spiky repetitive bass grooves and dancehall rhythms saved my soul.

I arrived early to interview him (more on that later), so was there pretty early, kicking around Ella Street's red interior with my notebook and pen; on assignment. The interview went surprisingly well, seeing as how i had not prepared AT ALL, other than mulling about in my head what i, and what other people, might like to know about this person. We talked about Indonesia, the void, trance, daniel higgs, the physical properties of sounds. About talking with spirits. I was struck, as i am often struck, by the ambiance of Ella Street, its like a Seance Parlor over there, the walls of time just seem thin. Old jazz on the stereo, antiqued hanging lamps. I fell into a lull, lapping up the light. Shooting a game of pool. A very receptive mood for Arrington, and what he had to show me.

A pleasant surprise of the evening was my friend Markley Morrison, who usually plays in Lake, but this evening was playing with Malaikat, as well as performing solo under the name Skrill Meadow. Mark's a good ol' boy from Southern California, he's from the same town as Captain Beefheart; Lancaster, Ca. They have a lot of fluoride in the water. He knows a lot of country songs. He's got a killer soul vinyl collection. Skrill Meadow played with a funky old keyboard, a set of roto-toms, a ghetto blaster, and two microphones; totally nailing a set of '80s plastic funk, echo-laden Motown b-sides, a New Romantic version of 'Nobody Wants To Play Rhythm Guitar Behind Jesus'. Lake did a tour with R. Stevie Moore this last fall, and the connection of their eccentric pop genius is evident, similar also to Ariel Pink. Perfect pop songs, 20 years too late, recorded on a ghetto blaster. But Mark really means it, he goes for it, so many intricacies and nuances and flair. Sweet drum machine fills, a roto-tom solo. A consummate performer.

I went for a walk, found some fruit on the ground, listened to the next band, Free Weed, through the wall, smoking cigarettes and writing in my notebook. Fell into a heavy make-out session in the back of a car, and was pulled away from the next two bands, got back in time for Malaikat Dan Singa. My endorphins were revved, and self-consciousness forsaken, Ella St. was particularly primal this evening, sloughing off its usual opium-den languor to get tropical and sweaty. I felt like a panther as my body began to sway and pulse to Nehemiah St. Danger's slinky bass, Arrington's jagged shards of guitar, like the angular thoughts in my brain, high and bright over the meat carnage of sinew, tendon, and bone. Arrington talked of igniting a spark, transmitting a message, taking people on a voyage, and Ella Street Social Club was the conduit for the current, last evening. It went off; 20 bodies slammed into a small dance floor, moving with abandon. Complete (forgive the pun) Dionysian abandon. They played a surprisingly short set, or maybe i just missed a bit of it, but it mainly consisted of trance-y rock grooves, almost kosmische in their repetition; two guitars, bass, drums, synth, voice. Arrington played his bass clarinet, but not a ton, focusing more on his Mongolian James Brown routine. Charismatic as always, total presence; this is like the fourth or fifth time i've seen them live, i'm just mesmerized every time. Quickly becoming a favourite, and a genuine and decent guy, to boot. Last night was the first night of a ten day tour down the west coast, so if you should get this in time, do. not. sleep. on. this. This tour's gonna rock socks! If you live in Portland, and didn't get to check out last night's show, you have another chance, next weekend, 4.8.12, with like minded cosmonauts, Million Brazillions.

Arrington gave me some links to some cool Indonesian music to check out. Check back on Chain Dlk over the next couple of days, to scope the full interview.

Wukir & Rully - Senyawa

West Coast Tour Dates:

Saturday, March 31st, ARCATA, California- TBA! Probably at HSU at 8pm

in front of the Ceramics Lab? Maybe? Or we’ll crash a house party

somewhere?

Sunday, April 1st- BERKELEY= EARLLLLY ART SHOW AND PERFORMANCE=

6pm!!!! www.facebook.com/events/328748727178840/

at The Tarot Woman 3140 Martin Luther King Jr Way Berkeley, CA 94703

(510-542-6196)

MONDAY April 2nd- San Francisco- at THE KNOCKOUT!

www.facebook.com/events/320403538009215/ w/William Winant and

Dominique Leon!

Tuesday, April 3= San Luis Obispo- www.facebook.com/events/410446525648549/

Wednesday, April 4th, UC IRVINE- www.acrobaticseveryday.org (8pm)

Thursday, April 5th SAN DIEGO- the Tin Can Alehouse!

https://www.facebook.com/people/Tin-Can-Alehouse/1497946481

Friday, April 6th LOS ANGELES- The Smell w/Amps For Christ, Let’s

Paint TV, Skrill Meadow! www.facebook.com/events/370754869622703/

Saturday, April 7th SACRAMENTO- Bows and Arrows Collective- w/San

Kazagaskar, more!

Sunday, April 8th PORTLAND- at THE TUBE! w/Million Brazilians

FRIDAY, April 13th SEATTLE- In Arts NW- www.facebook.com/events/119867128138478/s

Threadbear, Sioux Falls, The Steven Lasombras @ Ella Street Social Club 2.1.12, Portland, Or.

Last night's show at the Ella Street Social Club was pretty much a perfect end to a perfect day: groceries, dinner, art, music, city streets. Friends and conversation; hazy sunset. A freshly mopped floor. A good, and rich, life.

Arrived slightly earlier than usual, which is to say about halfway through the first band. I never know if 9 pm is going to be 9 pm in the rock 'n roll wormhole galaxy, which actually means, 'somewhere between 8:45 and 10:30, depending on hang-overs, broken equipment, traffic, bail,' or if they are referencing to the clocks that are generally calibrated to Greenwhich Mean. It always kind of fucks me up when shows start right when they are supposed to.

Threadbear were in full swing, upon arrival: 4 blokes, 2 guitars, 1 drummer, and one funky ass skeletal six-string bass, an electric piano. They conjured, in mid-air, visions of Hoover Towns, the ghost of Tom Joad, a brief recollection of '90s-era Dave Matthews. Rent parties in Dhalgren, anachronistic and cut-loose, post-modern folk songs, unrestricted to time or place. What you are left with, then, without specific codifiers, is something wholly human, almost archetypal. They were seasoned performers, and clearly knew their shit. I noticed, watching the guitarists, that they were mirroring and pirouetting around one another, stacking up contrasting melodies on different parts of the neck, which made for a rich, dense sound that was interesting and fun to listen to. I relaxed, the analytical part of my mind, that loves to label and categorize, and come up with catchy journalistic nomenclature, went to sleep, and i was left in the no-mind void where i remembered, 'i love to listen to sounds!' I was watching the fat, round bass-end weaving around the spikier, treblier guitars, dancing like a guppy ballet, and all need, all fear, all worry, disintegrated.

Sioux Falls were up next, whom i previous wrote about over here. This young 3-piece is impressively dense, considering the stripped down instrumentation; the bass was thick and luxurious, the guitar warm but still abrasive at the right moments, the drums satisfactorily pummeling. I still couldn't understand the vocals worth a damn, although there is a song about the singer's dog, apparently, and that is the common plight of the small indie club. My friend didn't much care for the homogenous tone of their music, found it to be consistent, to predictable, and to close to her natural state for comfort or interest. I found them to be slightly nervous at first, and then loosened up, and sounded pretty legit up there. Came to the conclusion that i love the drama of young men with guitars, trying to EXIST, to make their way in the world, to express what they're feeling, even though they don't know what they're feeling. I feel like if they worry less about promoting their band, and focus on the purity, intent, and message of their band, they will loosen up, and their sound will really be able to take off. They play next at Valentine's, on 2.13.

The Steven Lasombras was the main draw for me. I had seen William Justin Landers' doing a solo version of the steven lasombras during EsoZone, earlier this year, and was impressed by his one-man visionary noise guitar assault, and this time he had another fella playing guitar up there with him, as well. The first thing i noticed, in proper audio geek fashion, is this band has BEAUTIFUL GEAR, one guitarist playing through a beefy marshall bass cab, with Landers playing through a gorgeous, creamy Orange Amp. They had a small army of pedals on their stage, and to their credit, i could not immediately identify a single one. That's the thing with the steven lasombras, they defy easy categorization. There's no 'loop station' experimental indie preset, or fuzzy, sludgy big muff cliche to hang yr cloak on. Its a familiar line-up, two dudes playing noisy as shit guitars, occasionally singing, and it is just entirely unique. Its OWN THING. I stopped looking for comfortable tags, to shield myself from the experience of this unique Wed night, and let the music wash over me, unfold in my brain like some beneficent Transformer, like Valis beaming hard-coded schematics into my amygdala, to be deciphered at a later time. I relented to the sound, and became alive to the moment, to my life: the light started to glow with a back-lit intensity, as if from something very hot. I could see the pastpresentfuture, and things that have never been. There is something wholly unique about The Steven Lasombras. They are making experimental music, but they are deadly serious about it, or i should say dedicated, cuz William Landers is a very, very funny man. Even their comedic timing was spot-on. Everything about their performance was considered and well thought out. Their instruments sounded amazing, their timing was perfect, the songs were arranged well, keeping you guessing, keeping you on their toes, and from what i heard, the lyrics were thought-provoking and vision producing, also.

In short, i think i have stumbled upon the perfect noisy music, an undiscovered gem, and deserve to be heard by ANYBODY who digs adventurous, left of the dial sounds. And if you happen to live to Portland, lucky you. Go see them every time that they play!

My friend and i took off to the streets, to find a quarter and shoot some pool for an hour, in our dedicated quest to become Pool Shark Hustlers.

The Ghost Ease, Fingers Moen, Spun Monkey Patrol @ Ella Street Social Club, 1.19.12

Arrived in time to hear the last of the Ghost Ease, always a pleasure, and sounded even better to this ears than the last time i saw her (more about that here). Earlier in the set, she apparently played with a sort of noisy, minimal guitarist, that sounded excellent, that had my friend enthusing at length. Sorry i missed it, have to see her again.

I also mostly missed Fingers Moen, whom i wrote about over here. My friend and i decided to duck out and get bagels with food stamps from Fred Mayer, while they were still open, and just barely missed a teargas incident. Everyone was standing out on the street, smoking cigarettes and talking. We thought the band had finished, but it cleared up and Fingers Moen went inside and finished. Sat outside on the steps and ate bagels and cream cheese and talked to my friends Jake and Matty about sarcastic crust punk while Matty tried vainly to chase down people entering the venue, in an attempt to get the $5 surcharge. (He wad working the door). I liked listening to Fingers Moen folksy Velvet Underground/Neil Young homage through the wall than actually watching them on stage. They had a bass player with them this time, as well, and i thought it helped fill out the songs a lot, although he was brand new and didn't know the tunes yet.

The last band, whom i surmised from Matty were to be an 'instrumental jam band'. Its funny, there's a part of me that groans internally when i hear those words in combination, although i tend to listen to a lot of hippy rock, at times, and even play that kind of music, sometimes. Its probably my inner music snob. That sound should be located and exterminated.

The Spun Monkey Patrol ended up being a talented instrumental funk/rock/electro three piece. All of the musicians were gifted on their instruments; the guitarist made love to his Les Paul, while the bassist kept it together with a solid thumpslapnpop, and the drummer bordered on Drum 'n Bass breakbeat exactitude. Everybody's tone was solid, they all had nice instruments that they knew how to play, and the sound in the venue was exactly right, levels in complete harmony, leaving no auditory afterburn afterwards. They encapsulated everything that is good and right about jam band music: its danceability, its optimism, its libido. They got a crowd of people moving on the dance floor, which was the first time i'd seen that go down at Ella St.

Seeing so much live music clearly illustrates the tug of war that goes on with my mind. Music is the air in which i live and breathe, i am pretty much surrounded by it all times, and it is interesting to see the different ways in which i relate to it. At times, i don't hear it at all. At times, it lifts me to the heavens. At times, in plunges me into the pit. The sound almost always wins me over, however, and i am elevated; my small self dissolves like a receipt in the rain. My eyes close. A small, sly smile will cross my face. My body will begin to move, of its own accord, and i am GONE, which is to say i am entirely present.

Just some random Thurs. night in the Pacific Northwest. Nothing special about it, except for that millions of years of evolution, and billions of cosmic dust, coalesced to form a cross-section of humanity and pick up the ritual that has been played through millions of times before, in a billion different ways, and is, inexplicably, brand new. The faithful gather, hoods up against the rain: in the sound, you can hear the echoes of all the saints, the children, angels and windstorms and holy whales. It amasses like a Mandelbrot set, deep and mysterious, and as you gaze, you reaize the term 'everyday consciousness' or 'waking thought' is such a fucking joke. There ain't no such thing.

Sioux Falls, Fingers Moen @ Ella St. Social Club 1.10.12

I am never disappointed by the Ella St. Social Club.

It doesn't matter what's going on there, most of the time i don't even know what's going on over there, but i know that the music will at least be interesting, there's likely to be some cool, friendly people over there, and that i will experience something worthwhile. Its a straight shot down Burnside from where i live, and the walk is just long enough to clear the dust and fallout from between my ears, gives me a chance to get some brainstorming done. In short, a valuable community resource!

Fingers Moen were playing when i arrived, typically late. They are apparently a brand new act, one guy sporting a tie dye and a headband and long, stringy hair, playing guitar; another guy, also wearing a tie die but without a headband, played bongoes. Two men, two instruments (with occasional warbles of harmonica and kazoo), stripped down naivete rock. Total 60s throw-backs, the guitarist/singer seems to worship at the altar of St. Barrett, and their set reminded me of early Pink Floyd, Velvet Underground's more saccharine moments, perhaps a bit of Arthur Lee (ugh, i hate name checking Arthur Lee. Who the fuck actually listens to Love?), maybe a couple of the European cosmonauts like Gong or the Soft Machine, via a bohemian coffee shop. I appreciated what they were doing, they knew a bunch of songs and knew them well, played them well together, but it was a bit innocuous for my blood, and i thought they played too long. Its not really something i'd listen to on my own time.

Sioux Falls, from Portland but originally from Bozeman, Mt, totally brought it for the 20 people that persevered through the 55 minutes of songs about bears and children. One review i read called them Doug Martsch Apprentices, and they list Modest Mouse, Neil Young, The Replacements, Weezer, as influences, (and also for some reason Agalloch), so you know right away what yr getting here: a heap of country fried rock, extended guitar soloes, serrated vocals. No real surprises, except for that Sioux Falls sound incredibly good, while offering devotion to the Rock Gods. The bass was perfectly loud, smooth and round, filling my abdomen, my asophagus. The guitar player fucking RULEd, and the drummer wasn't half bad either. The vocals were surprisingly clear and understandable, and each song faded into a pyrochlastic fury of guitar freakout, while the rhythm section kept it all together. The guitarist must've been a little TOO flailing (is there such a thing?), he broke a string after nearly every song, and had to pause to change them out. They stayed cool as preliminary pickles up there, not even resorting to nervous banter like most do, just hanging out on stage, maybe talking to the crowd a little bit. I've had equipment go wrong on stage, and let me tell you, it is fucking nerve wracking! These guys just did what had to be done, picked up where they had left out, and furiously rocked out some more!!! I think these guys are seriously ones to watch.

Me and my buddy Nate missed the last bus, so we ended up walking 54 blocks, back to his place, occasionally pausing to purchase microwave burritos with food stamps, pausing to admire architecture. A chilly, damp wind, the lights were velveteen and hushed, the evening had the sense of promise, of a new day rising. All this music, all these comrades, all these days and long nights pounding pavement, stalking streets. The long walks, long talks; the long jams before going out to listen to yet even more music. Friends becoming friends, old friends reconnecting, everything rich and wide-eyed; beyond labels and heart poisoning cynicism, mutant children tearing up the night like confetti, throwing it towards tomorrow, watching the swirl.

Life is rich and rewarding. The great work is at hand. It is good, being a music freak, living in Portland, OR.

Indie Cred by Sioux Falls

Ella Street Social Club

Fever, Dead Ship Sailing; 12.14.11 Ella St. Social Club, Portland, Or.

Been getting into a good flow, making music and producing records during the day, hitting the streets at night, getting the chi moving, getting my head clear. Meeting other musicians, watching tons and tons of bands, a continual flow of new ideas, perspectives, approaches, and i return late in the night frothing at the mouth, ready to take on the next batch of challenges.

Arrived late at Ella St., (as usual), missed a set from Pale Tourist, which is unfortunate, as a few were raving, and it was apparently their last show, due to transpersonal conflict. The singer seemed assured that they would rise from the ashes.

Fever must've named themselves after the Nancy Sinatra song, they were a white hot blast of dripping southern heat in the spidery Northwestern chill. They sounded like Marc Ribot's solo on 'Jockey Full of Bourbon' dragged from the vinyl, and extended over 45 minutes. There was nothing mutant about their soul; they were just a tight, powerful five piece, festooned in black. Dare i say, classic? The Amy Winehouse comparisons are probably inevitable, with the shadowy tattoed presence of front-woman Natalie Valentine, but she seems less tattered; more Grace Slick than Janis Joplin. Her voice was clear, pure and strong, even if the lyrics were hard to understand, and it was perfectly ornamented by the impeccable mood and tone of the musicians; the barbed-wire surf twang of Timothy Valentine, the sexy bass-throb from Dhananjaya Zakheim, and even an organist in a pork-pie hat, as the icing on the fucking cake. Fever are straight up soul revival, not trying to re-invent the 45, and they had me swaying like Audrey Horn in the back of the room.

Last, but not least, Dead Ship Sailing, from Seattle. This was apparently their first show, ever, and i see interesting things for this band. They sort of sounded like Jesus and Mary Chain jamming with Suicide, two of them on guitars with an invisible drum machine clanking out vintage beats. Backlit by scathing white light, the pair cut a striking duo of silhouettes on-stage, becoming androgynous angels of rock 'n roll. Stream-lined, stripped down, sleek and barbituated; urbanity in its most guttural.

During their set, i was kicked back in the corner, reading James Joyce's 'Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man'. There was an endless rampage of infernal imagery, as a young Joyce fears and trembles for his mortal soul, after discovering the filthy joys of sex. Images of blackless caverns of never-ending despair, heaps of the damned, writhing in filth and flatulence, as i squinted in the dim light of Ella Street's antiquated light fixtures. That's one of the things i love most about this venue, is they can rock out, but you can also just chill, have a conversation, read a book. They play sweet music during set-breaks. The people are nice there. It doesn't tend to be too crowded, and the jukebox does not overpower conversation. It is a perfect spot for me to get out of the house, get some thinking and some writing done, and hear consistently fucking awesome music.

The Ghost Ease @ Ella St. Social Club; 12.12.11

Another fine evening at the Ella St. Social Club, confirming my suspicion that this hole in the wall ex-mortuary is my new home in Portland. Both shows i have seen there have been mesmerizing, and both times i have had friendly, cooperative conversations, like real human being status. There was even eye contact!

I have my buddy Jake for getting me to this one. I was on the ropes, reeling from my non-stop ambition, fatigued and road-burned, ready to give up the ghost and listen to Lark and Termite by Jayne Anne Phillips on Audio Book and pass out instead. Jake kept me honest, true to my samurai path of musical willpower and unflagging reserves of energy. I felt better as soon as we hit the streets.

Missed the first band, got there in time to catch The Ghost Ease from right here in Multinomah County; a fair skinned young woman, dressed in black, perched atop a tom-tom drum.

Inwardly, i groaned a bit: here was yet another solo delay pedal troubadour. I feel like i've seen about fifty of them in the last two weeks. I talked myself out of a tizzy, however, calling upon my credo of journalistic integrity to realize that judging someone cuz they are using a looper pedal, is sort of like judging someone cuz they're playing the guitar: you can do a lot of different things with the instrument. It seems samples and loopers are here to stay, and it is our job to figure out how to use this new tool, and some people are doing some incredible things, truly melding with their technology to do some interesting shit.

The Ghost Ease are doing some interesting shit. She has a lovely voice, and interesting lyrics, from what i could hear. She could effortlessly harmonize with herself, and would flow into birdlike trills, to make gorgeous and harmonically interesting choral symphonies, out of thin air. She also had a pile of noisemakers around her: tambourine, maracas,bottles, even a hammer dulcimer, which she used to construct her pyramids of sound. Lastly, but not leastly, a totally unshakeable stage presence. At one point, she lost her entire arragement from her pedal. She calmly asked if we minded if she began again. Cool as a cactus, but pleasant-like also. Totally glad that my friend got me out into the Dec. evening, and he was totally stoked on it as well. Did i mention this show was free?

The piece-meal layering of live looping lends itself to a swelling, hypnotic reverie. A Samuel Taylor Coleridge Mon. night on the town. The various sonics and textures lock up and intersect, forming clockwork gears in the imagination. I began to sway and weave in my candle-lit seat, losing myself, leaving my body behind, my cares, my worries. The music eroded my workaday manic consciousness, putting me in a pleasant theta wave trance, and in this lull, this woman directly plugged her emotions, her experiences, her interior, directly into my gaping soul. This is music for whispering, music for hiding beneath the covers, in the hope that everything will be all better, upon emerging. It is psychedelic and totally, bewitchingly ethereal, but there is a human, beating heart, at the center of its maelstrom.

The Ghost Ease have three albums available, on BandCamp. I totally dig her shit.

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*edit: i originally got the band name wrong, confusing The Ghosties, also from Portland, with The Ghost Ease. Necessary information has been amended, my feelings and observations on the music remain the same.

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