The Portland Mercury might be the dopest alt-weekly Oregon has to offer, but inaccuracies in 94/7 FM’s recent ads may have caused some confusion. Beach House and Vampire Weekend will indeed showcase their immense talents in the great state of Oregon at Eugene’s McDonald Theater on September 1st; one night after their ‘Only Oregon Show’ at the Edgefield Amphitheater in Portland.

Contra, Vampire Weekend’s most recent album, peaked at number one on the pop charts and the NYC quartet is celebrating with a world tour which kicked off on August 27th in Vancouver, B.C. and runs through December 6, when they play the second of back-to-back shows in Dublin.

Their Sept. 1 show will be V.W.’s second in Eugene, the first being in 2007, at a venue drummer Chris Tomson described as ‘tiny.’ Tomson couldn’t divulge what the Eugene audience can expect to hear. Just to be prepared to hear a schmorgasboard of tracks from the bands four year history.

Fresh off their third album, Teen Dream, the Dream Pop duo Beach House, which we featured on the OV Blog here,  opens for V.W on their entire 6-week American tour. They’re tight. (maybe even more worthy of the $35 price tag than the band they’re opening for.)

The calendar — and the clouds, goddamn it — might read September, but show them both what’s up and enjoy another summer night in Eugene courtesy of Beach House and Vampire Weekend: Wednesday, September 1st at the McDonald Theater. Doors: 7; Show: 8.Tickets: $35 advance, $40 door.

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Two of my favorite links so far:


PO PO – Bummer Summer




Free Energy – Bang Pop (Fool’s Gold Remix)

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Now that the hippie gawking at the Oregon Country Fair has concluded, its time to turn our attention back to festivals that actually carry some musical merit.  With Portland’s Pickathon not until next month and Music Fest Northwest nearly two months away, we need a booze filled event to take up our lax summer weekends.  Seattle’s most notoriously trendy neighborhood, Capitol Hill, is throwing a block party just for you, July 23rd-25th.  This justly named festival, Capitol Hill Block Party is thirteen years in the making, but has just stretched its celebration to three days.  It’s only a five-hour drive north and 60 bucks for a full weekend of independent music in the Emerald City (the real one, sorry Eugene).  This year its headlining huge names like MGMT, Yeasayer, Atmosphere and the Dead Weather, along with indie greats like the Bear in Heaven, Fruit Bats, Holy Fuck, Dutchess and the Duke and the legendary dance phenomena !!!.    The Block Party’s long held tradition of local, independent music holds fast with local bands like infamous hipster favorites Mad Rad and Truckasaurus, along with hip-hop Fresh Espresso, and a plethora of upcoming musical collectives that bolster a variety of sounds.  Don’t spend another weekned in your rundown, air conditioning free Eugene apartment and caravan up to Seattle.  Why not.

Capitol Hill Block Party: July 23rd, 24th, 25th in Seattle

23$/Day, 60$/weekend

http://www.capitolhillblockparty.com/schedule.html

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Six weeks later, the Oregon Voice Plant Issue has arrived. Check it.

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The Oregon Voice staff, we’re no strangers to the flashing red and blue lights. Tonight, it was my turn to face the siren.

There I was, mindin’ my own business, atop my Schwinn Continental (thanks, Cara), taking in the brisk summer sunset when out-of-motherfucking-nowhere a DPS officer flicks on his lights and siren behind me. The siren seemed excessive to me too.

But, it was a Tuesday night, what else to do other than pull over light-less cyclists?

Fuckin’ with me cause I’m a teenager
With a little bit of gold and a pager.

It’s a bizarre feeling, getting pulled over on your bike, almost surreal. Once to the curb I put my kickstand down, unbuckled my helmet and awaited my fate. A second officer soon rolled up, this one of the bicycle variety.

Questions poured in. Even with much of my short-term memory seriously compromised, I answered ‘em like a champ. Your god damn right I know my address and phone number.

Then shit got serious. My following responses took required more than regurgitation of information.

‘Alcohol?

‘No, no drinking for me.’

‘I smell like smoke?’

‘Well, I just left my buddies house, he was smoking a cigarette…’

All in all, it was about fifteen minutes of some Grade A Hasslage.

Two tangents helped lighten the mood.

The first was about the giant felt rubik’s cube mounted on my bike fender — which the bike cop was totally digging on.

The second was about bike auctions. Turns out, most of the stolen bikes that recovered at UofO, (there’s a lot) that aren’t registered to students are auctioned off for crazy low prices. The bike cop once got two bikes for eight dollars! Who knows, though, maybe he just made that up. Cops are good at that.

To the police I’m saying fuck you punk
Reading my rights and shit, it’s all junk

Before I was let go, I was reminded one last time how lucky I was to be getting off with just a warning. He could have sighted me for $300 in fines.

‘Yes sir, thank you officer, I do realize I’m fortunate not to be written up for failure to signal on my bicycle … in the middle of campus,’ as five helmet and light-free riders speed past.

Yeah, I’m a gangsta, but still I got flavor
Without a gun and a badge, what do ya got?

An occupation void of purpose?

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photo by Ali Moran

If one assumes that true art begins in unhappiness, than the Brian Jonestown Massacre is the tragic sovereign of revisionist rock.

Though the award-winning 2004 documentary DiG!, candidly detailing the escalating beef between BJM and the Portland-based Dandy Warhols that effectively put BJM on the map as notoriously troubled shoegazers, the band has come to represent something greater than mere  junkies-cum- struggling rock stars.

Championed by Alan McGee, toured with Oasis, BJM’s tumultuous 20 plus year revolving door of 40 or so band mates—including Black Rebel Motorcycle Club’s Peter Hayes and Sune Rose Wagner, the founding member of The Raveonettes—has led to a romanticized self-destruction, solidifying the band’s place as a cult favorite within the “keep music evil” category. Only when I hear BJM do I believe that this is the Last Great Rock Band alive. Clearly, I am not alone.

It’s the eve of June 17th and the crowd at Portland’s Crystal Ballroom is holding a collective breath as if undertaking the dangerous voyage to the underworld.

“Expect the unexpected,” is the hushed mantra BJM concertgoers must remember as the band has a famed (if not probable) proclivity for hijacking the unpredictable in the name of Chaos, Anarchy and, well, fuck… who knows. (Throwing lit cigarettes into crowds and kicking irritating audience members in the face? Its happened before.)

Like a bat out of hell, Anton Newcombe, the prodigal mastermind, only consistent member and infamous instigator of such shenanigans, is the first to appear.

As the remaining octet—including comic-relief Joel Gion and beloved Matt Hollywood—follow suite and tune their instruments, the loudest, most unswerving sound comes from offstage: “ANTON, ANTON!” adoring fans scream.

A bashful smirk peeks behind his stringy black hair, but after the lights go down and the music comes up, the smile vanishes—a cold reminder perhaps suggesting, “This is our music and music must be taken seriously.” Ladies and gentleman, the man and the monster are in the building.

This chemically imbalanced stage behavior alludes to the cross-pollinated loopy fuzz and raw jamboree that distinguishes BJM’s sound as both melodic retro-pop and ethereal space-rock. Any BJM refusenik would have to admit that at tonight’s show, the band’s synchronicity and adrenaline are as fresh and infectious as ever.

Surprisingly, however, the band overlooks its latest studio album “Who Killed Sgt. Pepper?” and instead opts to play its greatest hits—particularly those songs compiled on  “Tepid Peppermint Wonderland: A Retrospective.”

There are words on love (“Anenome”); words on political strife (“Ballad of Jim Jones”); words on self-proclaimed greatness (“Going to Hell”) and words on the unrelenting insecurities that can drive one mad (“Cabin Fever”). The crowd—notably young and riotous—goes bonkers when the Dandy’s Zia McCabe takes stage for a tongue-and-cheek rendition of “Not If You Were The Last Dandy Warhol On Earth.” Who would’ve thought that songs written a decade ago could still generate such fanfare amongst this youthful cohort—a generation generally more inspired by drum machines and digital samplers and than 8-string guitar riffs and effect pedals?

But If I had any significant revelations while the isolated strains of neo-pyschedliac compositions I have come to know so well penetrated my chakras and filled my lungs, it is this: Anton Newcombe doesn’t give two shits who’s listening or what people are saying or why people are listening or why they are not saying anything. Because of this, nothing will ever sound as good as BJM’s apathetic prowess. In short, BJM (cue the music) reminds us to “keep it cool” and “break the rules.” Not bad for a bunch of gifted deadbeats.

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Sharon Jones, the middle-aged ex-prison guard with incredible soul-singing chops, is commonly dubbed “a female James Brown.” Hailing from Brown’s hometown, expounding upon the funky, soulful sound that Brown helped pioneer, the two doubtless share much in common. On Tuesday night, with the support of her eight-piece band, the Dap Kings, Jones proved to a sold-out Crystal Ballroom just how accurate the comparison is. Her excited whoops, shrieks, and hollers; her sassy, salty jive talk; her vintage dance moves (e.g., the Augusta boogaloo); and her intense, unwavering energy all underscored her role as Godmother of Soul.

This year, Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings released their fourth record, I Learned the Hard Way, another masterpiece of classic soul songwriting, genius instrument arrangements, and stunning vocal performance. Swimming against the currents of the digital age, the Dap Kings record their real (that is, non-synthesized) instruments on analogue equipment only, producing the subtle sound quality of old soul vinyl. Who cares about musical innovation? If it ain’t broke don’t fix it. And there ain’t nothing broke about Motown-era soul and funk.

At their Portland appearance, Jones and her band—a trumpeter, two sax-wielders, two guitarists, a bass player, two percussionists, and two harmonizing backup divas—played a mix of new hits and old standbys. Sharon’s showwomanship was jaw-dropping; by the show’s close, she was sweat drenched and hoarse. As for the Dap Kings, a virtuoso chanteuse like Jones couldn’t ask for better accompaniment; unlike most bands of such scale, they played as one, no one member outshining another. They were an evenly stretched, well-primed canvas upon which Sharon Jones, soul’s badass godmother, applied her vibrant vocal color.

Rated: Eighty out of Degrees Fahrenheit

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photo by Carolina Riveria

Phantogram’s haunting, post-electronic dream pop oozes a certain amount of intoxication, and the epic performance by the New York duo at Eugene’s Willamette Valley Music Festival last Saturday was comparable to watching globules in a lava lamp. I pity any one who wasn’t in attendance. It really was a seductive—if not spellbinding—show.

I recently had the chance to interview Josh Carter of the group. Here is what he had to say on the West Coast, the music industry and the future of Phantogram.

Fond memories from your last visit to Eugene?

Indeed! We had a great time playing the Willamette Valley Fest. The crowd was awesome!

Any thoughts on the West Cost vs. your native East?

So far, we have enjoyed playing the West Coast very much. We’ve had awesome response to our music on both coasts – the Midwest is great too! We haven’t really gotten to play a lot of shows in the South yet. We are looking forward to getting down there soon. There are nice people and jerky people everywhere we go… We prefer meeting friendly, sincere people.
We definitely miss home on the East Coast right now, because we’ve been on tour for a month and will continue to tour for a while.

How would you describe your music to someone who hasn’t heard it?

Beat-heavy pop, with spacey synths, swirling guitars, chopped up samples, honest, emotional lyrics, and a lot of texture.

What are major influences to the band, musically and otherwise?

Musically- everything from Debussy to Talking Heads, Curtis Mayfield to Slowdive, The Beatles to J Dilla…. We like all kinds of music. We draw a lot of inspiration from film and movies, too. Some of our favorite directors are David Lynch, Terry Gilliam, Michel Gondry…

And what’s your favorite thing about music and the industry today?

My favorite thing about music is that it is as close as you can get to spirituality or the heart and soul of an individual. Music can touch people in ways that most other things can’t. It gets under your skin.

What’s the meaning behind the word ‘phantogram’?

A phantogram is a two-dimensional optical illusion that appears in three dimensions. We thought that ‘Phantogram’ would be a good name for our band as we are a two-piece that creates a stereophonic sound – a sound much larger than you would expect from two people.

Any acts you would like to collaborate with?

We would’ve liked to collaborate with Sparklehorse. RIP Mark Linkous. It would be cool to do scores for films too.

What are your three must have songs on a dance party mix?

EMF’s “Unbelievable”, Jay-Z’s “Empire State of Mind”, and “I Would Die For You” by Prince.

Besides a wealth of tour dates, what does the future have in store for Phantogram?

Lots of more music and albums!

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After a twenty-hour drive in a cramped VW Golf, a three-hour nap (disrupted every five minutes by dubstep pulsing from our neighbor Joel’s minivan), and a full day of concert-going, the Oregon Voice Coachella Committee wandered as close as we could to the main stage where Friday’s headliner, Jay-Z, was scheduled to perform. Despite our aching ankles and heavy eyelids, we were determined to give the “greatest rapper alive” (but what rapper isn’t) our fullest attention. With the help of his hypeman and longtime friend Memphis Bleek, Jay-Z fired off hit after hit: “H.O.V.A.,” “Dirt Off Your Shoulder,” “Beware of the Boys,” “Big Pimpin’,” “Hard Knock Life.” It was the creme of his crop, a retelling of his prolific career.  As he bounced around the stage engaging his ocean of adorers, his energy never waned, although at the two-hour mark his voice took on a worn, hoarse texture. Behind him, towering three-dimensional JumboTron structures displayed hypnotizing imagery. When the time came for Jay-Z to play his recent hit, “Empire State of Mind,” the screens conveyed helicopter footage of New York’s glimmering skyline. At this point, Jigga had fulfilled all his requirements. He could have retired for the night, and everyone would have been satisfied. But he proceeded to ice Coachella’s cake. He invited out “somebody super duper special”: arguably the world’s flyest diva, his lover, Beyoncé Knowles. The two of them performed a rendition of “Young Forever” as fireworks erupted from the stage. I walked away with a reaffirmed conviction that Jay-Z is a gangster.

On day two my Coachella high intensified when I witnessed Major Lazer, a Dancehall crew comprised of two American DJs (Diplo and Switch) and a Jamaican psychopath with an affinity for partying (Skerrit Bwoy). They gained Youtube notoriety with their freaky deaky videos, creations of Adult Swim’s Tim and Eric. In the video for “Pon De Floor,” Skerrit Bwoy and the track’s two guest artists bump their pelvises against the booties of their female counterparts. This creative sort of dry-humping, known to Dancehall enthusiasts as ‘daggering,’ featured prominently in Major Lazer’s Coachella performance. Instead of playing the individual tracks from their lauded album, Guns Don’t Kill People…Lazers Do, Diplo and Switch kept bassy beats playing continuously, interwoven with samples from the album and punctuated by sound effects (blow horns, zapping laser guns, and the words “Major Lazer” pronounced in a Jamaican accent). But regardless of a DJ’s skill, watching DJs spin is never much of a spectacle. That’s where Skerrit Bwoy comes in. Throughout the party, he and a wedding-dressed dancer paraded around the stage vigorously daggering one another. Into his wireless microphone, Skerrit Bwoy yelled a few phrases repeatedly: “We party every day!” “Major Lazer in the club. We crazy in the club!” and “We are the solution!” The party culminated when Skerrit Bwoy set up a ladder in the middle of the stage, mounted it, dropped his jeans to his ankles, jumped onto the bride’s upturned butt, and daggered away.

After she repeated in kind, descending several feet onto Skerrit Bwoy crotch, she approached the table where Diplo and Switch were spinning, balanced firmly on her head, and shook her ass in ways that I, sadly, will never be able to. What was possibly the sweatiest, craziest, crackingest party I’ve ever attended, was just another night’s work for Major Lazer.

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It’s a matter of fact. The Oregon Voice reigns as the best body movin’ jerk jivin’ publication crew in town, after Friday night’s dance-off vs. Ethos Magazine.

In the multifaceted history of the dance-off, eccentricity of movement is not the only factor in clinching a title. The demeanor and visual presentation of a dancer are just as essential.

The meager uniform clad Ethos team couldn’t even begin to challenge the multi-colored, textile sensual, wild styles of the Voice wardrobe.

Uncharacteristic aggression came easy when attempting to establish dominance, with chest thrusting and ass backing up abound. The Campbell Club dance hall was nearly at capacity when DJ Foodstamp dropped his funky soul pressed beats on the battleground. A place where adrenaline induced early onset Alzheimer’s, making memories of one’s time on center stage a whirlwind blur.

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