Everyone has some sort of numeric equivalent that occasionally happen into their lives. It’s how we reasonably explain coincidences. Relate them to a common occurrence and they become less rare. The less rare something is, the more it is accepted as fact. Therefore, in an effort to explain our universe to ourselves, mankind has come up with some numerical correlations that see them through the day. Celebrities die in groups of three, right? Bad news, in general, comes in threes. In bowling, three strikes are known as a Turkey. In hockey, three goals by one individual is called a Hat Trick.
Three on a match is bad luck. Three’s company. Three’s a crowd. Third time’s a charm. I’m certain there are at least dozens more, but I do try to keep it readable, after all.
I am a firm believer in the vaguely scientific phenomenon known as “The Law Of Twos”. Similar in concept to the above cited rules of three, this one requires much less verification. Take for example what happened a couple of Fridays ago. In conversation over lunch, I mentioned to the wife that I hadn’t gotten a drunken, “I love you” phone call in a long time. You know the ones, from an ex or a long lost college buddy, where in a tequila haze they find your number and call you to remind you that they were there first, they loved you before and they still love you or they still can’t forget that pass you caught in a pickup football game in 1976.
READ ON for more from AJ on The Bridge at the Goodfoot Pub…
The Crystal Ballroom in downtown Portland is a wonderful place to spend an evening getting lost in good music. All the history the building holds aside (Little Richard firing Jimi Hendrix on stage in the ’60s for example) this is simply a great hall in which to see a show. There’s the balcony way upstairs. With comfortable seating and its own bar, high above the often moshing crowd, it allows for a more civilized concert experience.
Downstairs has the infamous “Floating Dance Floor”. Through some antique architectural procedure that is nothing short of amazing, dare I say challenging at times, the entire floor rocks under the gyrating weight of the hundreds of concert goers. But, for me, the place to be on the floating floor is the front row. Just high enough so that you don’t have to crane your neck to see the band and just low enough that the main speakers for you are the stage monitors. If you play your cards right, there’ll be a spot to stash your coat, bottle of water or whatever. Another added benefit to the front row, you meet the nicest people there.
Tonight’s front row soiree was a two barreled jam band attack of rock, soul, jazz and blues from the Bill Kreutzmann Trio and the Greyboy Allstars. Yes, tonight’s show was part of the two week long Portland Jazz Festival, and no, Joe Lovano didn’t come out and jam with either of the bands.
READ ON for AJ’s thoughts on GBA and the Kreutzmann band in Portland…
Music lovers are inherently prone to making lists. We do it all the time. Our mental instincts tell us to compare frequently. Learn which is better, rank whatever is on your mind in comparison to the last time you had a similar experience. Be the judge, it’s your opinion, after all, so it cannot be incorrect. Sports fans are of a similar ilk, albeit more obvious and statistic driven. List makers, the lot of them.
Ask a music lover to name three guitar players with real talent and you will get back as many answers as you think you will. Depending on the genre that happens to be their favorite, you may hear answers as diverse as Jimi Hendrix or Carlos Santana to B.B. King or Chuck Berry. Satriani, Clapton, Page. Trey, Muddy, Warren. First name, last name, it makes no difference. Everybody has their favorite player in each genre. So let’s narrow the playing field, shall we?
Ask the same music lover to name three jazz guitarists with the most talent still making music and you’re fishing in a much shallower pool. Pat Metheney belongs on the list, that’s a given. A very strong case could be made for Bill Frisell to be sure. Al Dimeola, Robben Ford, Les Paul, where do you start?
I’ll tell you where you start: John Scofield. Note for note, Scofield has been atop that list for decades. An imaginative composer and innovative improviser, his legacy has continued to build with each new release; 33 of them since 1977. And that’s just as the main artist. He has collaborated on more cuts than I care to count and made every one of them a better song in the process.
READ ON for AJ’s review of John Scofield at the Portland Jazz Fest…
There are few music venues in Portland as intimate as the KINK.FM Live Performance Lounge. Nestled in the center of a suburban looking office building, less than 200 yards from the I-405 and in the heart of downtown, it’s a dimly lit conference room turned music cave where wonderful things occur on a practically daily basis. The first half of February is no different. M. Ward, Fiction Family, Tyrone Wells, Lisa Hannigan, Ben Taylor and Todd Snider will spend the lunch hour with about 50 or 60 lucky listeners and staff members; playing a few songs, telling a few stories, signing autographs.
To long time listeners, and you know who you are, it is the ‘Golden Ticket’, a chance to share in the magic. You are THIS close to the performer, making a real connection and hearing a one of a kind performance. Acoustic, mostly, and delivered without the din of background noises that will no doubt compete for your aural attention later that night at whatever venue you’ll wind up going to see them at. Plus, the nice Performance Lounge sponsors throw in an energy drink to enjoy, which comes in handy to stave off the stomach rumblings of 50 to 60 people who have delayed lunch to see the show.
Two days ago, the Golden Ticket arrived via e-mail. “You’ve made the cut” it began. I was in. Tyrone Wells, who was appearing Thursday night at the Aladdin Theater, would be the special guest. I caught him the last time he came to town and remember being taken by his rapport with the audience. He interacted with the fans, told engaging stories, both as a set up to as well as the main thrust of his songs. I was really looking forward to it.
READ ON for more about A.J.’s experience at KINK-FM…
Every now and then, you get surprised. It doesn’t happen every day, getting really surprised, I mean. I raised two children (and their friends) through their teenage years so there have been times in my life I was surprised to find there was any cereal left in the cupboard in the morning. But finding a twenty dollar bill in the pocket of a two dollar shirt from the local thrift store kind of surprised isn’t as common as one might think.
Surprise is a totally perception based premise. Let’s face it. If you knock on the door and a naked, middle aged man or woman answered, your reaction would most likely be one of surprise, shock, perhaps even outrage. But if you were raised in a nudist colony (Naturalist preserve to be politically correct), your reaction to the birthday suit welcoming committee would be more along the lines of “Morning, Mom, Dad” as you brush past them to the cupboard to get more cereal. Everything’s relative.
So I had tickets to see James Morrison open for Adele Tuesday night at the Wonder Ballroom. Here was my perception of these artists prior to walking up the stairs and through the double doors into the hall. Musically, I was familiar with what I heard on the radio; Morrison’s soulful Nothing Ever Hurt Like You and Adele’s Chasing Pavements, Right As Rain and Cold Shoulder which she performed on Saturday Night Live (I had tuned in to see the Sarah Palin vs. Tina Fey stare down).
READ ON for more of A.J.’s review of Adele and James Morrison…
When you hear the word “acoustic” associated with a concert, it conjures up visions of acoustic guitars and bar stools on stage. The drummer becomes a percussionist; everyone sits on the stools and plays their music without all the decibels and hot dogging. It’s more about the music than the show.
MTV made sure we were all familiar with the concept with their “Unplugged” series. Everyone from Sting to Nirvana to 10,000 Maniacs has played that venue. When your favorite band adds and acoustic set to their show, the tunes are approached differently by the musicians. Sometimes the results are wonderful, ala Springsteen’s Born To Run on the Chimes Of Freedom EP. Other times, not so much, like Motley Crue trying to pull off Girls, Girls, Girls with Tommy Lee on congas. Just can’t get behind that one. Truth in advertising laws aside, inserting the word Semi- between the first two words appearing on the ticket would be closer to what we were treated to at the Aladdin Theater on Friday night.
Los Lobos put a slightly different spin on the acoustic label tonight. They started on time, all five members fanning out at the front of the stage with, true to their word, acoustic instruments. Like a mariachi on steroids, they strummed and harmonized their way through a first set that consisted of mostly Spanish vocals and joyous interplay. When Louie Perez stepped to the mike to sing Saint Behind The Glass four songs in, they were already sweating. From the front row, they looked like they were having the time of their lives. Even Cesar Rosas, the epitome of cool behind his ever present dark shades, was grinning ear to ear.
READ ON for more of A.J.’s review of Los Lobos @ The Aladdin…
Sunday is the end of the weekend no matter how you cut it. You work nine to five for five days running and between the commute and the assholes at work, by Friday you have had a butt full. So, Friday night you either get the party started, exposing the pent up angst from the work week to your personal party mantra, or you retreat to your home, relaxing in preparation for some time to yourself. The next 48 hours belong to you, not the job.
The weekend is made for chores, sports, family, socializing etc. Some weekends are busy enough you actually look forward to getting back to work so you can slow the pace. On those weekends, Sunday night is the cooling down period. An early dinner, check out 60 Minutes (“Rooney, trim those damn eyebrows”) and decompress. Center yourself and prepare for the next five days of nose to the grindstone. That is unless the “Here Comes The Law” tour has hit your town on Sunday night. If that’s the case, you may as well leave your boss a voicemail saying you won’t be able to make it Monday morning and then go to the show. There’s a better than 50% chance you won’t be crashing early enough to get to work anyway.
The Here Comes The Law tour features three energetic artists from Law Records: Georgia’s Passafire, the Supervillains from Orlando and the Big Island’s Pepper. To categorize these three bands, folks use words like reggae, ska, punk, and funk. Descriptive pigeon holes. These bands all rocked. READ ON for more of AJ’s Here Comes The Law tour review…
It is sometime in January, 2009. January is the season of lists. The best, worst, sexiest, scariest, highest grossing, lowest common denominator, fill in the blank type of lists that are generated, ad nauseum, between Thanksgiving and whenever the February issues of magazines first hit news stands. Who had a baby, affair, divorce, face lift, pilot picked up, sitcom cancelled or got left at the altar. There are a million of them out there. I really admire the spin most periodicals put on their “In memory of . . .” lists. They come in handy when the ‘Ghoul Pool” finals are tabulated.
[All photos via LedZeppelin.com]
On a grand scale, the lists are just to remind the public of what occurred over the last 12 months before the awards season starts. I mean, really, does the content of any given list matter to anyone other than those on the actual list? Other than the smug self satisfaction and validation one may feel by having a common thread in any of these lists, (“Marion and I saw six of Leonard Maltin’s top ten films this year, aren’t you thrilled?”) they merely serve as fodder for water cooler discussions. These discussions, more often than not, dissolve into pissing matches of one-upmanship, noteworthy only for the imaginative ways the debaters make their point (Gus Van Sant is on that list. He’s from Portland, you know!”)
In any case, this being January, I should be assembling some sort of itemized listing of things that may or may not be important enough to rank in order, from ten up to one, one being the best of these items, in my humble opinion. The most obvious column to select from would be concerts I have attended during 2008. Live music is my muse, if you will. Its power over me has been lifelong and vital and, from it, I derive much more than simple happiness. It could be two guys with guitars in a coffee house or yet another Kiss reunion tour, I would still do my best to get up close and enjoy the show. And I usually do enjoy the show. It is rare for me to pan a performer who, despite how high (or low) on the talent scale his chalk mark reaches, is still baring his or her soul on stage for others to hear. It takes guts and ought to at least be respected for what it is.
READ ON for AJ’s memories of catching Led Zeppelin at MSG in 1971…
For three nights, at the end of 2008, a six piece band from Stillwater, New Jersey held court at Portland’s Aladdin Theater. The imaginative music machine that is Railroad Earth descended on the Rose City for a sold out three night stand, bringing along hundreds of fans from around the country to dance and sing along, reconnecting with other, like minded RRE fans (they refer to themselves as ‘Hobos’) in a deadhead-like, brotherly manner.
For starters, I met up with John and his new camera, from Tacoma. The camera was a Christmas present (Duh, it’s December thirtieth). Anyway, while we chat away, up comes Howie, from Brooklyn. He exchanges hugs while changing his shirt. It may be cold and rainy outside, but Howie is going to get tank top warm in the front row tonight. There was Marv and L.T. from Ventura, California, Sam from Nevada City, Nevada, Kurt from Nampa, Idaho. Frank was from outside Denver, Arvada I think he said. Jack and her boyfriend Will came all the way from Butte, Montana.
I was surrounded by visitors. Tourists. Tourists with cameras and cell phones and changes of clothing. I asked myself, “When did the Aladdin become a vacation destination?”
Apparently, it becomes a destination spot when Railroad Earth put down three days worth of roots. Known for their wizard like mastery of their instruments as well as their ability to improvise and accentuate each others talents, RRE dedicated this particular run as a New Years Celebration of Land, Sea and Air. Three themed, multi-set nights of world class Americana, roots/rock/bluegrass/jazz delivered in the cozy confines and wonderful acoustics of the Aladdin Theater.
READ ON for more of A.J.’s thoughts on RRE @ the Aladdin…
Year after year, it is tough to top KINK.FM’s holiday benefit concert. Proving their station’s motto, “True To the Music”, the KINK staff outdid themselves once again. Christmas spirit, a kick ass silent auction and four headliners on the same bill, this yearly extravaganza is truly the show to see in Portland.
Start with the silent auction. Hundreds of items that run the gamut from a hand picked, 20 CD pack of KINK.FM artists to an electric guitar signed by John Mellencamp. Not your cup of tea? Spa treatments, autographed and framed concert posters, drum sticks, symphony tickets, hotel and resort stays. You get the picture. All done with great class and benefiting the Oregon Food Bank. This year’s take: over $23,000.00!!!
First up on the stage, the Bay Area’s Matt Nathanson. My first time seeing him, I was taken by his stage presence. Nathanson has an easy stage presence, relaxed and in control. Tossing one liners to the crowd while checking his tuning, he set up songs with phrases like, “This one is NOT about sex, it’s about ice cream”. He related a story about ‘Poop knocking at the Atlanta airport’ to introduce his wonderfully romantic song (up till I heard his explanation) song, Still.
READ ON for more from KINK-FM’s Holiday Benefit Concert…
