Show Reviews

The marquee attractions at the Portland Jazz Festival this year were avant-garde legends Ornette Coleman and Cecil Taylor, but I instead gravitated to the appearance made by Norwegian pianist Tord Gustavsen and his impeccable trio.

Gustavsen is as marked a contrast to Taylor as would have been possible to find. While the latter has made his living banging the keys atonally and abrasively, Gustavsen's touch is as delicate and melodic as an antique music box. With bassist Harald Johnson and drummer Jarle Vespestad complimenting Gustavsen's style no less than brilliantly, his first three albums - each of them absolute gems consisting of all original material - exemplify the ECM label standard of muted, meditative, improvised music.

Vespestad's nuanced, percussive interaction with Gustavsen was something to behold throughout the performance. During the intensely soft interlude between the first two songs, "Tears Transforming" and "Sani", Vespestad took this sympatico - and the ambient dynamics at hand - to another level entirely by touching the tip of one of his sticks vertically to his cymbal and drawing it across or circularly, thus managing to 'trap' the reverberations of the pianist's notes and create a kind of acoustical feedback. Switching frequently between brushes, mallets, and sticks, Vespestad relied heavily on suggestive cymbal tappings to create nearly as much palpable color to the music as either of the tonal instruments; indeed, it was like listening to someone paint. Johnsen's bass was played with a similarly empathic understatement, yet perhaps in part due to the room's weak acoustics, it lacked resonance and seemed less essential a foil for the pianist.

The trio leader's stage presence, meanwhile, was interesting to regard. When he took the microphone to annouce the band and songs (referring to two of them as 'hymns without words'), his voice was virtually as hushed as his playing and one had to strain to hear him. At the piano, however, Gustavsen presented a striking visual contrast to the subdued quality of his sound - albeit much in congruence with its obvious soulfulness - putting the whole of his torso into every phrase and often writhing up off the bench like one of those floppy, inflatable props used to attract attention at car dealerships. Theatrical analysis aside, the sublimity of Gustavsen's style was amply displayed on every piece. His compositions and playing - for instance, "At a Glance", which came midway through the set - are at once ethereal and grounded, speaking to a feeling or feelings shaded well beyond any one specific delineation; in other words, of a nature which can lead a listener to hear and experience vast ranges of intangible emotion from one passage to the next, let alone within any given chord. The group was no less effective when it veered into somewhat more forceful terrain, as on the Mediterranean-flavored "Where We Went", with Vespestad continuing to fill in just the right amount of space left between Gustaven's chordal inferences. The level of insightful improvisation and sustained feeling at this point in particular was exceedingly high.

The one complaint I could issue with the group itself would be with the length of its performance, which clocked in at around 75 minutes, including a surprisingly brief encore (the as yet unrecorded "The Other Side of Tango"). There was no doubt the players gave all it had while on stage, but surely the set could have been extended to include at least two other pieces. Given the steep festival pricing and the amount of trouble I'd personally taken to view the concert, this truncation left me feeling a bit disappointed upon leaving.

The other disappointments to be dispensed with have nothing to do with Tord Gustavsen. The festival does a good job of attracting big names, but at least in the case of Gustavsen, it demonstrated a profound lack of foresight by placing the group in the Scottish Rite Theatre, a boxy, angular place with terrible acoustics. The forte and signature of Gustavsen's approach is his often extreme quietude, but this venue rendered the finer points of this muted subtlety far too inaudible. It would seem almost paradoxical to put it in those terms, but there surely is a way to get this sound across better than it was presented. It did not help, of course, that the fits of compulsive chain-coughing, which almost always accompany a live performance requiring a backdrop of silence, overruled any number of feathery notes emanating from the stage. And while most in the audience were appropriately appreciative of the depth and warmth Gustavsen's trio has projected, I was amazed at how many saw fit to get up and walk in and out between songs - and there was an appallingly large contingent of disaffected patrons which paraded unceremoniously out of the hall immediately as the group had left the stage for the first time. The members returned for the encore in less than thirty seconds, yet still the exodus ensued, with some even applauding feebly as they filed out, evidently hoping to beat the 6:00 Saturday traffic.

I could not help but feel totally confounded by this behavior. Part of it, I have to think, is due to lack of respect and name-recognition. If many of these people had been told that someone with the stature of Bill Evans or Ahmad Jamal was performing, they would have stayed nailed to their seats for the duration. This, on the other hand, not having been approved with the proper media fanfare, all seemed like so much casual wine-tasting for more than a few in attendance. The identification of jazz with this type of oblivious, country-club set is a large reason why the form suffers to attain credibility in the larger critical mass, a point highlighted by the bare-minimum mention the festival had received in both local newsweeklies (nearly all of it focused on Coleman and Taylor). The Mercury - though I should consider the source - led off its obligatory handful of paragraphs by stating that jazz has long struggled against its own irrelevance, but that we should go see Ornette because he's one of the last "innovators" who hasn't died. In this supremely narrowed though commonly held conception, jazz, by virtue of having long defined itself through a linear storyboard of evolution and metamorphosis, has apparently ruined its chance at surviving in a contemporaneous sense because it has simply run out of new leaders to take it in new directions. This view has no room for emergent individuals like Tord Gustavsen, who express a fresh and singularly unique musical voice without being overtly conscious of either adhering to or eschewing pre-existing forms - yet for the crime of failing to "breaking new ground", are lumped in with the rest of the guilty "irrelevant". That's a damn shame, because Gustavsen's music, much like the array of ineffable sentiment it evokes, does not actually correspond to such any such ready-made categorization. Being Norwegian also doesn't help his cause - and unlike with Evans or Jamal, there is no Miles Davis around to distinguish and stamp him with approval. And no real chance for him to get the artistic recognition he richly deserves in a culture which is given to either distrusting contemporary jazz or patronizing it for all the wrong reasons. Hopefully he gets his due in Europe.

This was a really interesting show. Jackpot tends to put on amazing performances and this was no different. I had never listened to The Black Lips; this was more something to do on a Tuesday night. An all acoustic performance, I felt like sitting around a campfire tapping my feet to whoever was singing on stage.
Rather short, this was a good way to break up the week and it was free too. I enjoyed seeing the packed house for a somewhat popular grunge band. I had heard before that they were notorious for crazy live performances, but apparently, an in-store does not call for that.

This is one of the best live shows i have ever been to. First is started Slow with the two opening bands, Kandi Coated and Totimoshi. Kandi Coated was a 4 man punk band who were very mediocre and Totimoshi was a hardcore punk band with 3 people. Totimoshi was very slow and draining with a screamo-esque simger and i was counting the seconds untill they finished. They finished and i was excited because i knew that thew next band has one of the best live performances i have seen in my short time on this earth. I saw them at the warped tour a few years back and the lead singer Spider man leaped off of the speakers onto the barrier am knocked it over on to a woman standing there watching the band. She got up and was fine but he felt so bad and dedicated the whole set to her and probably gave her a free t-shirt or something. When they started i was peeing in my pants with excitement. And sure enough the lead singer was all over the place and jumping on things and he full on jumped over the drum kit, it was awesome. After they got done the best metal band in existance right now came out, VALIENT THORR. They Rocked my socks off so hard they started to peel my shirt off as well. The lead singer, Valient Himself, Was all over the place too and would ramble on inbetween songs followed by the phrase "You Know What Im Talkin About?!" and the whole croud Screamed. It was all around awesome.

They were pretty good. They played all of the big Sabbath hits. Not to mention all of the sweet (cough, cough) Makeup they were wearing. The younglings (ages 7-9) opened up with an adorable cover of "I Love Rock n' Roll" and then it was SABBATH TIME!!!!!!! The musician's were very good with the the exception of some people. The "Ozzy"s were "interesting". To be honest most of them made my ears bleed. In a good way of course. And our friends Matt and Zane did an excellent job at playing things that I can't. I especially liked matts "Im playing bass" face. Afterwards there was a "Psychobilly" band. Even though they sounded more country than anything else. However everyone was in good spirits and we all had a good time.
THE END!!!!

by Andrew R. Tonry, KPSU Editorial Team

A friend of mine sold merch at a Jello Biafra speaking engagement a few days earlier in Eugene and I asked him how it went. “It’s good, but it’s nothing you haven’t heard before,” he said. “Oh, and it’s really long.” He couldn’t have put it much better.

Biafra, former front man of the legendary Dead Kennedy’s, recently made his stop in Portland on a tour to promote his newest spoken world album, In the Grip of Official Treason. The album is a 3-CD package, and it’s Biafra’s eighth. Each CD boasts 70+ minutes. Let’s pause for a minute and consider this – we’re talking 3 ½ hours from the caustic, sarcastic, most obnoxiously nasally voices in history. His live show is much the same (Don’t get me wrong, I have a big soft spot in my heart for Jello. I still have my Dead Kennedys records from my teenage years of rebellion (though all the dubbed cassettes are long gone), a few torn up old patches, and I still crank up Plastic Surgery Disasters or Bedtime for Democracy every so often).

Some twenty years after DK’s demise, Jello’s voice remains much the same -- it’s all apocalyptical sarcasm at all times. And while Biafra is certainly over the top, his shots are mostly hit targets taped to the backs of the usual suspects. The rich, government, politicians (Republicans and Democrats), the bigoted, the dumb, the military, SUV owners and the like are all smacked around again and again.

Over the course of the long evening, Biafra lambasts just about everyone on the planet, including former Dead Kennedy’s guitarist East Bay Ray. The show is heavy on criticism and light on proactive ideas, though there are a few:

Biafra’s most lighthearted campaign, on the cessation of junk mail, is also his most entertaining. Here Jello produces his only props – promotional mail from the campaigns from Arnold Schwarzenegger, George W. Bush and the Representative from his own home district, Nancy Pelosi. That this mail is coming to Jello, addressed to him at Alternative Tentacles underscores the waste that’s going on here. And campaign rhetoric has never sounded more ridiculous than when it’s being rattled off the tongue of Biafra.

After last year’s hurricane Katrina, Jello traveled to New Orleans to see the devestation for himself, and it was much worse than he could’ve imagined. Here, Jello adds personal stories and a connected tenderness missing from much of the show.

However, most of Jello’s topics are more mundane, not so much in scope, but in presentation (hey, punks get pissed… it’s just what they do!). He rifles through cards and cards of facts, but none of them are particularly out of step with far left or green politics. And while ideas of wage ceiling, or SUV owners being the first line of offense in an oil war are intriguing, they are hardly comprise a full political platform.

Most of the crowd that filled up Disjecta that night were already familiar with Biafra’s angles, though, I couldn’t help but feel hopeful and nostalgic for the 14-year-old punk kids hoping to meet the punk icon. But then, when I was their age, and more concerned with punk rock’s ridiculous ethical code, I’d bet dimes to dollars that my friends and I would’ve called Biafra a “sellout” for charging $14 to see him speak. Very un-punk rock.

Perhaps Biafra was hip to this concern, and determined to give attendees their money’s worth, causing him to speak in excess of three hours. But, whatever the reason, it was simply too long. Nearly half the crowd had left by the time Biafra broke for his intermission 2+ hours in. As he ended the segment, the crowd collectively exhaled, thinking was finally over, only to be surprised when Jello said he’d be back shortly.

'What else could he have to say?' I wondered. 'If, after two some-odd hours nothing sounded especially fresh, why would things change now? ' It was enough. It was more than enough.

The good of inflammatory political speech is limited when it’s tucked behind an admission fee – especially since everyone holding tickets knows more-or-less what they’re going to hear. If Biafra is truly concerned about the state of affairs – which I believe he is – he ought to hold an afternoon rally in every town he visits. Put a megaphone in his hand and send him out to the Park Blocks or Pioneer Square. There Biafra would have a chance to truly spread his message.

And if he was good, he could probably fill a few more seats for the show that night.

June 1, 2006 at Doug Fir proved to be one of those "had to be there" moments in time. The Boy Least Likely To and The Bicycles gave a memorable and rainbow pop, fantastic display of music, performance, and stage presence.

Toronto based band The Bicycles opened up first to a speckled crowd of minimal amounts. Outfitted in black t-shirts highlighted by a large B, The Bicycles found their comfort in mixing their quick witted and overly sweet sounds and band interaction in between numbers. The five members recently released their album, The Good, the Bad and the Cuddly and were brand spanking new to the tour, with Vancouver B.C. and Seattle preceding Portland's visit. Singer and guitarist Matt, aka Meatball, sings like a wind up toy on helium, plays his guitar as if he's done this kind of thing for ages, and smiles like he means it anytime his lyrics reference cuddly or shiny. The band is solid in their freshmen attempt and performs onstage like veterans, but in the "we're not jaded, we actually care about our sound and audience" sense. And to a music purveyor, humbleness will win me over. They were all quite eager to chat, sign a poster, and even asked for directions to get back onto the interstate.

Touring with a band like Boy Least Likely To doesn't hurt their reputation one bit. Following a 40 minute break in between sets with appropriately themed Beach Boys, 60's doo-wop and Motown songs filling the time, the British boys (and girl) finally landed onstage. Opening with "Hugging My Grudge," Peter Hob’s strong harmonica and drummer Alastair's up tempo syncopated beat filled the half occupied venue. Jumping into “Fur As Soft As Fur,” the glockenspiel made its appearance, and during "Paper Cuts" the middle-aged mom, drunken bar fly, and swirling girl (all I'm assuming drugs) swarmed close to the stage. And as awful as it is to admit, this is when the show took on dual personas. The band did their thing, but oh my, the characters below did their thing, and everyone in the vicinity was torn as to whom to pay attention to. After a George Michael "Faith" cover unfinished due to audience improvisation and unexpected chuckles from everyone, the night was simply not just an audience watching a band, it was a united performance of us watching them watching us.

This is the part where those "had to be there" moments come into play. Anyone at the show could pinpoint the moment our drunken mistress fell face first while dancing, and how could we dismiss our soccer mom snapping pictures of the band like a tourist? The definitive moment of swirling girl swaying to the beats of "I'm Glad I Hitched My Applewagon to Your Star" touching, grinding, and singing proved more a spectacle, even to lead singer Jof Owens, who just looked on in awe while myself, complete strangers and The Bicycles, who were behind me, struggled to balance focusing on the song, maintaining our composure of witnessing such a display, and simply just not busting up with laughter. Of course we all did burst with the giggles when other audience members started mimicking her style, which in turn, spread like wild fire. But, Boy Least Likely To, that's what you get when you open for James Blunt and then try to headline your own tour. You are bound to get all these characters, most of whom don’t even know your style, just that you fell sucker to mainstream. And you're almost certain to have to prove yourself a worthy touring band, a noble and low key Indie inspiration in order to cleanse yourself of that Blunt mishap. And they did. You did!

Taking the unexpected elements in stride, the band modestly pulled off most tracks on their album with vigor and energetic pride, and even introduced two new songs. Their finale was their #1 European hit, that's now receiving minimal airplay (in part to those Blunt heads, no doubt) in the states, "Be Gentle With Me" from their newest album The Best Party Ever. As cuddly soft and gooey centered as it is, it was welcomed as an anthem to the evening that the half mainstream, half Indie folk could both bounce to. Topped off with an explosion of bubbles from the sides of the stage, the close of their set transformed into an episodic adventure fit for Spongebob Squarepants. Normally, this would be the line that defines fun and cheesy, but any show that involves a crowd who implores that the band take off their pants or sing more George Michael, I don't care what side of the line it falls on. And with soothing British accents, how can anyone really not enjoy glitter soaked, dream pop, bubblegum rock and roll? It’s better than anything James Blunt would do.

- Justin Saylor
KPSU Editorial Team

Edan and Prefuse 73? Cancelled. Moms and dads trying to be cool by bringing their kids to a hip hop concert? Present. My mood? A bit crappy. I had heard a lot of good things about the two opening acts and was really excited to see them, but after learning that they had cancelled I had a feeling that the show might lose some of its luster.

The Boom-Bap Project was tapped to hold the spot down until it was time for Lyrics Born, and I’ve got to say, they repped Seattle to the fullest, but no matter how hard they tried to get the crowd worked up it just seemed that the real heads were the only ones that were interested in hearing them do their thing. DJ Scene held it down first on the ones and twos. He was showing the crowd how to rock well with some seriously classic hip hop. I’m talking about Afrika Bambatta, Grandmaster Flash, EPMD, and Sugarhill Gang type $#!%. Then the rest of the crew came out. Karim and Destructo held their set down and repped the Northwest Hip Hop scene like it was going to die in a matter of hours. They had heads nodding and some of the bodies rocking. Not to down them, but they were trying to bring some life to a crowd that mostly was there to see Lyrics Born. I’ll give them props though, because they gave a lot of themselves to the crowd and dropped regular freestyles that showed their lyrical dexterity, humor, flow and wit. They managed to keep the crowd facing forward and gave them the warm up lap that they would need for the main event.

You know that feeling that you get right before you get a gift you’ve been waiting on waiting for a long time? Everyone that was at this concert had that feeling as soon as they knew that Lyrics Born was about to hit the stage. He wasted no time as soon as he hit the stage, going straight into “Hello” as his opener. LB never wasted a minute from his spot on stage bringing that serious Bay Area funk/hip hop to Portland. He seemed concerned that the crowd wouldn’t be able to keep up with his funked out party, but the Crystal Ballroom answered the call time and time again. Instead of having a DJ with him, Lyrics Born decided to keep it real by having a live backing band to play the songs. It worked out, giving the show a sense of musical legitimacy that I know some people don’t like to afford to rap music. He also brought Joyo Velarde (the vocalist that can be heard on many of his and other Quannum projects). As the only female on stage she held it down in the All Boys’ Club that was the crew on stage, because even when LB would be letting the band do their thing on jam breaks, she would make sure that the crowd was always in the mix. They were so in the mix that some of the aforementioned moms were trying to dance with cats that were twenty years their junior, and no matter how many times said cats would step away from them so that they could watch the show because they had to do a review for it, they just kept coming. Add awkward to the list of emotions that I was now feeling.

Now the show was tight and all, LB was doing his thing and kicking jams from Later That Day, Same !@#$, Different Day, and his Latryx records, but their were no moments of personal interaction with the crowd. He was all about partying and never really seemed to want to just take a moment out to chill and let the audience get to know him. Maybe he really is just that funky and all he does is do the damn thing on stage, but it would have been nice to just have him break it down for a minute and wax philosophical for a minute. He may have just been worried that the crowd would’ve just gone to sleep. It also would have been ill to see Lateef the Truthspeaker come out so that they could have done more Latyrx joints and their collaboration “The Last Trumpet”, but all in all the show displayed the passion and skill of real underground hip-hop that you won’t hear on the radio or see on MTV. The closer was “Calling Out.” If you don’t know what song that is, just watch the Diet Coke commercial with Adrian Brody. It was a funky ending to one of the funkiest shows that I have ever been to. I guess Lyrics Born heard that George Clinton and Parliament Funkadelic were coming to town.

- Abraham Anania
KPSU Editorial Team

It may be said that Leroy was a singular talent, and he put Portland on the jazz map when he began to call it home.
It may be said that Leroy was arguably more comfortable playing as part of a collective rather than performing as a band leader or soloist.
It may be said that Leroy originated the notion of walking the bass, and enjoyed being a part of the community that he played in.

Being such an iconic figure, it comes as no surprise that PSU has the Leroy Vinnegar Jazz Institute and the annual Leroy Vinnegar Jazz Week that began last Thursday and ended on Sunday with the fiery finale featuring Ed Bennett, Dave Captein, Andre St. James, Dan Schulte, Tom Wakeling, and the PSU Jazz Ensemble. Another point of interest during the always entertaining week was the swinging trio of Marcus Shelby (upright bass), Darrell Grant (piano), and Devin Phillips (saxophone), who performed three consecutive sets on Friday at LV's Uptown. As I found out from the performers during a break between sets, Leroy was a pervasive figure in everyone's life. Phillips, who not too long ago moved to Portland from New Orleans, didn't know who Leroy was, but upon living in Portland for some time began to see the intensity with which Leroy has been woven into the fabric of Portland jazz. “I think that every city has a figurehead like Leroy,” Phillips mused. “In New Orleans we have Ellis Marsalis, who is this kind of central presence that everyone knows, and it seems like Leroy held that position in Portland.” Shelby, a very well respected bassist who makes his home in San Francisco, had more to say about Leroy as a personal influence:

“I think Leroy helped to define what it means to walk the bass. In the same way that you can forget about your heart beating, Leroy worked to create an idiom where any cat he was playing with could just forget about the bass line and just trust that it'll keep on pulsing. Leroy just took a lot of joy in walking the bass, and in supporting the rest of the cats on stage with him. So it's easy for me to see how Leroy's had an impact on me, because I take the same joy in walking the bass, and not worrying if I'm getting 'enough solo time' but just enjoying keeping the structure of a song in tact.”

Unlike the last time I visited LV's, the lounge was packed tight with approximately 60 people who helped the trio find their groove by patting their feet, popping their fingers, clapping their hands, or shaking their heads or shaking whatever else they wanted to shake. Interestingly, and I am not yet sure what this says about Portland jazz, but 58 of those 60 people were over the age of 40 with most of them landing closer to 60 than 50. To put it mildly, there were more bald heads and blue hair than a Mr. Clean convention dipped in blueberry syrup. It wasn't exactly your most diverse or youthful crowd, but they were the most receptive and appreciative audience I have seen in awhile. To be sure the crowd had its share of annoying problems: the man sitting next to me, for instance, would constantly say “Hmmm…” as if he were critiquing Shelby's bass playing, but it was always followed by a “Yup” as if he thought Shelby was veering off-track before, but that these monosyllabic utterances put him back on the line.

Nonetheless, the trio was a marvelous thing to behold, full of melody, as well as anarchic bursts of sound, which were in perfect keeping with the spirit of the sets' probing, searching theme. They sounded empathetic, as if they had played many times before, yet there were still enough sparks, particularly during the solo periods, to signal that they were unsure of what the other would play. The trio reached their zenith late into the second set when they took on a Thelonious Monk composition that was part bop, part blues, and a whole lot of love. Adding a bit of off-tempo improvisation, the trio propelled and emphasized the rhythmic swing of the song even harder. The audible maturity that guided Shelby through the familiar, albeit offbeat, chord progressions of the composition was striking; his nimble reflexes and split-second timing not only rendered the song superior to the others that night, but also had everyone in the lounge clapping, whistling, and watching with childlike awe. The results of all three sets were thoroughly compelling and unpredictable. However, just because the trio's song choices and playing weren't particularly risky didn't mean it was limp or complacent. It was straight-ahead hard bop in the best possible sense – accessible but stimulating, engaging and vibrant from beginning to end. That is why if you missed the Leroy Vinnegar Jazz Week this year you should first berate yourself incessantly for the next month due to your utter thoughtlessness, and then mark your mental calendar to attend at least two performances next year when Portland jazz will walk once again.

By: Patrick Beisell, KPSU Editorial Team

Vive la Islands! And Freebird, Too.
Islands
Loveland
May 8, 2006

Islands, brain child of former Unicorns Nick Diamonds and J’amie Tambeur, provided Portlanders with an intimate session at the Loveland International on Monday, May 8th, 2006, playing mostly tracks from their freshman album Return To The Sea along with two unreleased songs. The meager showing of fans was a bit discerning, and among those crowding below the stage were the teenage fan base who looked hip but knew hardly any of the lyrics. Not that the crowd behind me was any better. Older and not as eager to scream and sway back and forth, yes, but knowledge of Islands and their material, no.

Islands did all they could to foster any sign of life from the audience. Walking out on stage in their trademark white outfits, adorning more casual t-shirts with splashes of color this time around, Nick geared up to whisper into his mic the opening words, but was interrupted by a shouter, whom Nick summoned towards the stage. After coaxing him close enough, Nick grabbed his white beanie, placed it on his head and began singing. He grabbed tote bags and sweatshirts from the teenage girls next to the stage and tossed them towards the drums. Next he grabbed a kid’s glasses, sporting them for the duration of the song until he threw them on the floor, nearly stepping on them. A casual, “Oops”, and he handed them back. My friend looked at me and said, “I think they’re trashed.” Probably, but they wanted to have a good time, and they did. It was obvious that they wanted the audience to go crazy, too.

Researching previous performances on their “Islands Are Forever” tour, I was pumped at the opportunity to see the seven piece band go crazy, perform a twenty minute encore, then unplug their instruments and lead the crowd into the streets to dance and play on cars, stopping traffic until the authorities arrive. It had been done in various locations in the previous month, and with an all ages crowd, surely the energy could flood the evening. However, the crowd reserved their screams and shouts and rather than connecting with my beloved Islands, we observed their precocious stage presence. How could their spectacle not catch one’s attention?

Exercising their gimmicks early on, Islands finally rolled forth with “Where There’s a Will, There’s a Whalebone,” a thickly rhythmed, fully encompassing tangent far from, but true to Islands sound. Similar in structure to Gorillaz’ “Feel Good Inc.” “Whalebone” hits with a steady, ready to explode beat and soon follows with a switch in gear to free formed, tongue twisting stylings from Cadence Weapon and Busdriver, the opening acts, along with an improv verse from the band’s merchandiser/roadie, in celebration of his 21st birthday. “How many roadies do ya' know that can do that?” asked Nick after the audience finally snapped out of their comatose state.

Now that the band and audience had connected, the show’s synergy blended into a fulfilling music experience. “Don’t Call me Whitney, Bobby” kept the bodies bouncing with it’s happy-pop infused melody, while “Tsuxiit,” a purely instrumental number, had us glowing in the reverent talents of all members, whether strumming guitars, plucking violins, fingering a bass clarinet, or delicately attacking the cymbals. “Jogging Gorgeous Summer” pulsated through the crowd with the Chow brothers (no relation, but both playing strings) jumping around and clapping to the ironic island inspired number while Nick stumbled around onstage donning sunglasses and a sweater he borrowed from the crowd.

“Swans,” a nine minute track on the album, wrapped itself up after a 14 minute “Freebird” inspired jam. Playing his violin above his head one second, plucking it like a feather the next, Alex Chow, danced and clapped, playing Casanova to his violin; a pure spectacle in his own right. Sebastian Chow, fellow string member, fiercely concentrated his efforts, alongside Patrick on the clarinet, Patrice on bass, and Jim on guitar. The Freebird reference afterward brought me back to reality when only a few laughs were scattered throughout the crowd. Oh yeah, I forgot; I’m surrounded by pimply faced, squeaky tweens.

Convenient but equally disappointing, they skipped their stage exit and simply announced that the next three songs were their encore. “Volcanoes” displayed the epitome of Islands, ebbing and flowing verse to verse with syncopated bass and fully loaded strings pounding along with J’aime’s drums. The ho-down beat matched with instrumental and lyrical profoundness similar to that of the Arcade Fire’s “Crown of Love” had me, along with the other handful of devotees, screaming the words, hoping to get a smile, or even a nod from the band. Thanks, Alex! The band wrapped up their encore with their single “Rough Gem.” Once again defining Islands style, the energy of the strings and keyboard rushing to the front, followed by the bass and drums provided an opportunity for uproar and rowdiness. The crowd got into it, but nothing more than heads bobbing up and down and one anxiety ridden kid up front head banging.

Defined in their far driven distance from the “formerly Unicorns” disclaimer, Islands has found a fan base that implores and prefers the new and original stylings; those who recognize that Islands is a new band, not an old and departed band who changed their name and added members. The ‘side project’, as dubbed by many critics, has developed into less of a half asset project and more into a fully ripe ensemble. Listen to Return To The Sea and you’ll hear one band performing half a dozen different styles of music. See Islands perform live, and you'll witness underrated rockstars who are in their prime. No longer an opening act, they still maintain their vigor and excitement while performing, and draw energy from one another, the audience, and their music. Similar to the tweens heading the crowd, Islands are young and shiny and new. The catch phrase plastered on their website and t-shirts, holds to what I hope will be true for the future: Islands Are Forever.

- Justin Saylor
KPSU Editorial Team

Ladytron: Ladybomb
April 28, 2006

They’ve been to Portland three times, but have never performed. And after watching them, I understand why. Ladytron’s sold out, deflowering performance at Berbati’s Pan on Thursday, April 28, 2006 had the synthesized, electro-beat stylings that Helen and the gang meld so well. I’m satisfied with the music--nothing amazing; just cool to hear it on a loud sound system. Having sat through a less than impressive DJ set at Music Millennium earlier in the evening, and an even more unimpressive, very awkward meet and greet, I was expecting more. More emotion, more passion. More energy. More of a show. So were a lot of people. Just a twitch or nudge. Just pretend to have a good time, or just fake a smile or two. As icy as Helen’s voice, there they stood, Ladytron. They came on, played their set and left. As memorable as an enema, one will forever remember the experience, and hope to never encounter it again.

Maybe it’s what’s they do. They are Ladytron. They fidget with their synthesizers, tinker with the catchy beats set to indecipherable vocals, and have succeeded in creating the anti-pop music sound. Listen to any song on their latest album and your ear has ample amounts of layers to nibble on. Most impressively is lead singer Helen Marnie’s frosty voice. Singing “Soft Power” she wails her haunting empowerment over the audience like fog, while her fellow members punch away at their rightful machines. “Destroy Everything You Touch” contradicts her whispers by unabashedly punching us in the teeth with her sharp, tight, concise vocal presence. She may not smile, and she hardly moves, but damn! That Glasgow girl with the awful haircut can sing.

The band, accompanied by their touring bassist and drummer, garnered in black threads, opened the set with “High Rise.” Red and black images projected from an LCD projector above was visually attractive, but after the first song, became annoying, and was apparently a distraction to Helen and fellow vocalist Mira Aroyo’s eyes. Maybe that’s the purpose; to avoid eye contact with the audience. And if it weren’t for the out of place drummer’s energy and Mira’s pathetic vocal attempts, I would have left. Sadly, if I didn’t have to write this review and didn’t shell out 15 bucks, I would’ve left. The microphone held hostility towards Mira on “Fighting in Built Up Areas,” squealing any chance it had. Even during the monotonous “AMTV,” she was unable to complete the song without technical difficulties piercing our ears. Fortunately, Ladytron throws in multiple layers of synthesized noise, so the non-fans making up half the crowd didn’t even notice.

While the time crawled by during their hour plus set with lackluster energy, not all was a complete bore. I think I saw Helen smile, or at least grin during “He Took Her To a Movie,” which was the highlight of the show. The band honed in on their Korgs for a mini jam session of clashing sounds and electro buzzes that caught the audience’s ear, and produced the loudest applause of the evening, aside from the finale. Although, I’ll assume half the crowd was applauding their completion, as opposed to their efforts.

And while audience interaction and participation are what makes the show an experience, I found it disrespectful that not only did the band not take the time to even play around with the audience, but their lack of energy, and, dare I say, hostility, spilled onto the crowd. The Presets, who opened with loud, dancing, jumping, sweating vigor far surpassed Ladytron in performance, and can equally hold their own in terms of material. I’d pay to see The Presets, and I’d pay to get out of watching Ladytron. The music was acceptable. The songs were indescribably Ladytron. If it wasn’t for the sporadic screeched microphone and tired audience imitating the bored band members, I would’ve had the same effect as sitting on my couch, listening to Witching Hour and looking at pictures of them.

- Justin Saylor
KPSU Editorial Team