I told Stephen I’d follow up on last night’s Jens Lekman show at WOW Hall, but falling in love makes me semi-illiterate. Forgive me if I fan-rant.
After two years of touring worldwide on the same album, I don’t know how Jens manages to take such good care of his audience. We did take his Oregon virginity, and I’d like to think it was special for him too. At first I was disappointed that he had such a small touring band. If I was a semi-famous Swedish pop star, I thought, I would buy myself a goddamn gospel choir and a brass band and take them with me everywhere, even Eugene, Oregon.
But the sparse arrangements turned out to be a blessing. He performed most of Night Falls and a few favorites from Maple Leaves and When I said I wanted to be your dog. The audience knew most of the songs by heart, and we worked together to make the songs whole. On “Kanske Ar Jag Kar I Dig” (which means “Maybe I’m in love with you, but I’m crossing out the maybe”), the band cut out and the audience took over the back-up vocals. The whole show was a camp sing-along with the coolest camp counselor in the world.
In the aftermath Jens and his band stuck around and everyone pretended to be his best friend, especially me. Since last night I have thought of a million intelligent questions for him, but when I met him all I did was gush. I basically told him that his music was the only remedy for a broken heart, but not in such graceful terms. Then I got really nervous and blurted out: “CAN I JUST GIVE YOU A HUG?” And he was all, in that quiet, Jenzy way, “Of course; I was going to give you one anyway.” So I put my arms around him, like that girl in that song (“Your arms around me), and it was totally satisfying. Later I felt a little embarrassed, like I had vomited on his shoes or something.
By the way, I should settle this argument right now:
It’s “Yentz,” not “Jenz.” The violin player told me so.
The Avett Brothers, dukes of the 21st century bluegrass revival, play McDonald Theatre this Wednesday. Come watch them burn down our most historic barn. Also, if it turns out that the Avett Brothers were the only band-dudes you wanted to see at Sasquatch, see them for $19 (advance) instead of $80. What a steal! Accordionist Jason Webley opens at 8, and there is a good chance he will play that cute song about his coffee percolator.
Nobody here blogged about the Dark Dark Dark show last week. I could pull something out of my grab-bag of missed deadline excuses (you know how hard it is to find the internet these days…?) but there was no good reason to neglect proper reverence for Nona Marie Invie and her sweet band of gypsies. A whole week has passed since I walked away from Stonehenge, and I still have that naggy feeling I get when I actually have something nice to say.
While curled up against the band’s ancient, monolithic amp at the front of the crowd, I developed two valuable quandaries.
First: you can pay more than Oregon’s generous min. wage at a fancy-pants Portland venue to hear music better suited for a dive bar with a 3-dollar cover (Dear Builders and the Butchers: I am bitter). The heeled patrons crowding your view will add to your irritability. Or you can be a stingy, wallet-forgetting college student and get all soppy and mesmerized for free. Your proximity to the artist, and your hands on the rug, will remind you of those lovely, pre-jaded days when you discovered Simon and Garfunkel while sitting in front of the speakers on your parent’s living room floor– but, this time, the music is live and your friends have whiskey!
Second: If you always love to folk, you will always be forced to endure the standing vs. sitting debate at seatless venues. I’ll never forget Joanna Newsom’s meek attempt to dissipate concert rage over this very topic during her ‘06-’07 tour. It might have been the first time a harp inspired riotous behavior. Invie gave a similarly timid reminder that her music wasn’t for dancers, and I was happy with my decision to sit. Her melancholy accordion and thoughtful lyrics expressed nostalgia that made my limbs useless. I’m never the wallflower with pocketed hands; I love to bust a move–but last Wednesday I was totally puddled. The isolated soul gyrating in the back of the crowd seemed rather out of place, especially when he waved his arms around and demanded that people join him (incidentally, I saw this same, enthusiastic fellow at a beer-hookah sort of party the next night, and he was still out of place, this time with a rogue bottle of raw goat-milk.)
Dark Dark Dark: You made the best of a rainy night. I’m sorry I forgot my wallet.
Blogosphere: Dark Dark Dark is in Salt Lake City right now. You probably missed them…
Changing the subject.
I found a scrawled note sitting on top of a stack of OVs in the j-school:
“You said love is a temple, love the higher law. you asked me to enter then you made me crawl + I just can’t keep holding on to what you got when all you got is hurt.”
Voice secret admirer? Anonymous creative issue submission? Butt-hurt Emerald staffer?
This is an apology:
From me (Grace), not from any organization.
To Hannah Hoffman and Lauren Fox, not to any organization.
The cakes are yours as soon as I can get them to you, whether you forgive me or not.
On a more positive note, I’m glad to hear that the OV blog is finally getting some traffic.
Journalists love to tell stories. I can’t remember the last time the Daily Emerald told one that was truly engaging, though this morning’s bold, red headline sucked me in: EMERALD NEWS STAFF STRIKES. ASUO sandbox politics were getting boring, I guess, so the reporters made their own scandal. They put off the strike until this morning so they could make news about it, as in, “I’m going to give you the silent treatment starting…right… NOW.”
Of course, the buzz started long before the headline. The photographers, who are total anarchists, let the cat out of the bag yesterday, and the cat slinked away into the night. Pretty soon people were talking about it in places where people should never talk about the Daily Emerald, ie the Lorax.
This morning I sat in Roma with then intention of telling an actual story. I had my notebook and latte all set up on the table, and I strategically threw my jacket on the opposing seat to ward off conversationalists. I was quickly distracted, however, when Emerald staff reporters Hannah Hoffman and Lauren Fox sat down two tables adjacent to mine. They had their firey headline on display, and they were all smiles, apparently not as desperate to return to work as their front page diatribe suggested: “We want desperately to return to work, but we cannot do so quietly and against our journalistic values.”
“Secretly,” said Hoffman, “I’m really glad that I have to write two less articles this week.”
Secretly? My friend, you are in a crowded coffee shop, in the presence of other semi-journalists.
Fox’s eyes bulged a little. “Is it wrong that I’m happy right now?”
I am, so why shouldn’t you be?
Fox was trying to do her homework, but she was too lathered up. And I was too busy eavesdropping… Not eavesdropping, exactly, since I moved over to the table next to them and bluntly asked Fox for her full name.
“We should have picketers!” she continued. “Every good strike has picketers.”
They started to discuss the possibility of the Register Guard covering the strike, or maybe even–gasp– the New York Times. I imagined the “Daily Emerald Staff Strike” headline underneath the one about suicide bombings in Pakistan.
“You know who wants to know about this?” said Fox. “Anne Curry.” She then proceeded to call another staffer (lets call him “Robert,” because that was his name) and rant about the possibility of notifying Anne Curry about the strike.
“You should call them! And if the Today Show needs someone to talk to, I’d be totally willing!”
Eventually, Fox and Hoffman expressed mild concern about the possibility of losing their jobs. They didn’t seem too worried, though. Even Fox’s somewhat conservative sorority sisters have assured her that no one would have the nerve to work for the Daily Emerald under the leadership of Steven Smith.
She’s right that no one wants to be a scab for the Daily Emerald. In fact, we were all secretly on strike already, and the current staff was all scabbed over until this morning. The ODE kids created the story, but they have no control over how the rest of us retell it.
In honor of this youtube gem, I am rewriting Asimov’s three laws of robotics.
First law: hit dat toaster
Second law: make em dance
Third law: shake it
Twilight is now showing at the $1.50 theater. The venue should be dark and deserted, kids. Perfect if you are looking to get it on with your vampire boyfriend.
I’m only twenty for three more days, and the terrible age still plagues me. I got a tip-off about this band playing at Indigo tonight, but I can’t legally attend. After listening to their album last night, I want to hear the Jacob Fred Jazz Odyssey spit fire. I want it so bad! I’m telling you this because I expect you, if legal and able, to attend this show tonight. I hope to live vicariously through you, because I know you will love the experimental, jazzy madness that will envelope your entire body when you hear it. The Oregonian blog even used the word “soundscape.” Woah. Not yet convinced? Look at this hot picture of the Jacob Fred Jazz Odyssey wrapped in caged lights. Jazz blazer, jazz hair, jazz light. You have to go.
