Day Three: The Hold Steady

My friends and I arrived an hour early to the Crystal Ballroom. We stood by the door, and pondered going to the record store across the street, but I convinced them to wait. Why exactly? Consider the following (in retrospect terrible, absolutely terrible) photograph:

Schmuck on left: yours truly (looking AWFUL). Schmuck on right: Craig Finn (frontman; The Hold Steady

I’ve never been so interactive with the bands involved in a show before, excluding local bands at coffee shops. The first band on stage was a fun little punk band called The Loved Ones, who I had not heard before the show, but liked immensely by the end of the set. The highlight here was frontman Dave Hause deciding it was a superb idea to start the show by crouching above me onstage and messing up my hair! For added fun, Tad Kubler and Franz Nicolay (and his badass harmonica skills) of The Hold Steady joined them for one last song, which was a great treat. They only played 30 minutes, but they made the most of every minute, embodying the kind of music that your mother warned you about. They show a special sort of passion for their music, the kind you aren’t going to understand unless you see them play live. A fine choice for a band to play with a band like The Hold Steady: passionate and happy just to be there.

(This man mussed my hair!)

Fellow on right: Tad Kubler (guitarist; The Hold Steady)

Then… The Hold Steady. What can I say that I haven’t already said about this band? They are my inspiration for writing and playing music, and it’s an honor to have seen them live at all, let alone twice. Seeing this band play, if you like them at all, is almost like going to church: with everyone screaming and smiling and cheering, it’s hard not to feel like you’ve seen something really special in having been present for what they do.

Reverend Finn

While frontman (and personal idol) Craig Finn jumps around riles up the crowd, singing his gospels, guitarist Tad Kubler unfurls his intense and often absurd guitar work, the likes of which aren’t often seen by the bar band scene of the US. This is all backed by the wonderful bass work of Galen Polivka (who also started their show by messing up my hair [twice!] for some reason), the keyboard skill of Franz Nicolay (who looks like someone who should have been in Gogol Bordello), and the equally excellent drum skill of Bobby Drake (easily one of the most normal looking of the bunch). All of the tiny moving parts make up the rousing, almost otherworldly whole, and it’s hard not to be awe inspired by their shows.

Galen Polivka, who also mussed my hair

It’s hard not to babble incessantly about what a show with The Hold Steady is like. A year ago, when I saw them the first time, I realized that you could love or hate them, but looking at Craig Finn, there are a lot of things he should be doing, but there’s only one thing he wants to be doing. Finn is by no means the type to hide the fact that he’s pleased as punch to be doing what he’s doing, and he’s humbled by the fact that there are four people who are willing to play with him, and the fact that there are so many kids who know every last word he’s committed to record. For a man like Finn, there is no greater gift than having his lyrics screamed back at him while he wails on his guitar, and it’s clear when he dances around stage, smiling more than any human being should be able to. Say what you will about their music, but you can’t hate them, if only for the fact that they are the embodiment of American rock: it’s done from the heart and soul, and to hell with how anyone feels about how you sound.

Franz Nicolay, who I've watched uncork a bottle of wine by mouth

I left the Crystal Ballroom with a noise in my ears. After three nights of ear-splitting racket, it was a wonder that I was able to hear properly. I also left with a smile on my face, because even though I’ve seen it before, I got to see something truly special: a band that is really, truly happy to be doing what they’re doing, and who couldn’t be more happy with what they’ve created: real live American rock n’ roll. I doubt I will ever tire of The Hold Steady’s brand of sing along song, because the message transcends Craig Finn’s half-singing: “Music is still alive, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let it die on my watch.”

MORE PHOTOS:

Another terrible picture (fellow on right: Franz Nicolay; keyboardist, wine enthusiast)


The Loved Ones






The Hold Steady

Day Two: Girl Talk

“Lindsey, I’m probably going to die tonight at this show. I’m giving you my DVDs.”
“Oh, c’mon. It’s only Girl Talk!”
It's only Girl Talk, she tells me. What she doesn't know is, Girl Talk is aware of the fact that you don’t have 26 orifices to be raped in. Do you really think it’s going to let a thing like that stop it?

Lindsey telling me that it was “only Girl Talk” was the harbinger of doom for the both of us, an hour or so before we arrived at the sold out Girl Talk show. I should have known when she told me not to worry because it was “only Girl Talk” that I would end up much, much more messed up than I could possibly imagine.

The first band up was called Money Trick. They are… get this: a Jesus Lizard cover band. Now, if you are familiar with Girl Talk, you know that the only band weirder for this show is maybe Iron & Wine. The frontman clearly diluted the heroin he shot up before the show with Pabst Blue Ribbon, and then drank a 12 pack in five minutes for good measure. He seemed acutely aware of the fact that 99.9% of the crowd was literally telling him to get off the stage, and he didn’t care, going as far as to get into the crowd, mic and all, start a mosh pit, and get back on stage, corralling people with the mic cord. “I can really feel the love here tonight!” the frontman quipped during the set.

Next up was Panther. Playing like an edgier, more lo-fi version of YACHT, their frontman danced around the stage singing loudly while his drummer played on. A couple songs in, he picked up his Fender Telecaster, which, I noticed, had a broken e-string, and was dreadfully out of tune. That’s the point, mind you. They seemed to be a bridge between the Pissed Jeans-esque howl of Money Trick, and the beat of Girl Talk.

Then… Girl Talk. The brainchild of Gregg Gillis, the titan of mash-up artists, who famously caused a stage to collapse when his fans got too rowdy when they were partying with him ON STAGE. I knew this story beforehand, but I didn’t remember it until after I was on stage with him, and I wondered: could it happen again? After we were sent off stage, I was poured back into the crowd, where I was smashed around, thrown around, molested, and attacked by a young woman who was clearly on drugs (picture below, story upon request).

There is no accurate way to describe just what Girl Talk does to you, so I will impart what Lindsey said, when I shared with a friend that the only thing worse would be maybe Slayer: “I’ve seen Slayer. This was way worse.” After spending an hour-and-some-change being ruined by the crowd and the music, I have to say the following: I went to Ozzfest. Compared to this, Ozzfest is for children. Tread lightly when contemplating a Girl Talk show, friends. This is not a show for the faint of heart. This is a show for those who want something more from their shows, at any cost. But hey, if you want to ignore my warning, that’s okay. After all, it’s only Girl Talk.

A few decent photos (there weren't many):

Money Trick








Panther

Girl Talk








The Whore Wound:

Day One: Melvins

I’ll start by outlining my original plan for the weekend, Friday to Sunday: Friday, I was to see Dark Knight with bandmates Kai and Jordan, and then we were going to a birthday dinner. Following that, we would go to his house and crash, then I would leave Saturday to meet up with other friend Lindsey to see Girl Talk. Sunday, I would sleep at my own leisure, and go to The Hold Steady with Kai and Cara. Two shows in a row? I must be crazy.

But, it gets much, much more crazy. I mentioned the fact that grunge rock elder gods The Melvins were coming to town. She asked why I wasn’t going.
“Logically, I could, because I do have the money for it…” I stated.
“Then go with logic!” she told me.

And go with logic I did. The next day I made my way over to the nearest Ticketmaster location, paid a goodly salesperson $22 for my ticket, and was on my merry way, safe in the knowledge that I am going to die this weekend.

And thus marks a personal music festival of sorts: three shows in three days, and three acts that I have wanted to see for a good, long while. It is to be a celebration of life, happiness, and damn good music. And, to go with these shows, I have decided to review each show, and create a real-time account of what three shows in three days does to a person. But, enough banter. What about them Melvins?

I arrived at Portland’s own Wonder Ballroom 15 minutes before the show was scheduled to begin. Just in time! I took my place at the front, played with my camera, and waited anxiously for this group called Big Business to start shit off.

But, Big Business was, of course, not the first act up, as is usual. Instead, a man with a guitar came to a soundboard, and started playing it. Then came a drummer, who started playing as well. Finally, a man with a strange soundboard (manipulated by laser pointer more than knobs themselves) knelt on the floor near the drum kit. And for 25 minutes, give or take, these three men played an endless experiment in shoegaze-esque noise music, involving a great deal of sludge, and a lot of distortion.

At the end of their set, I turned to three boys behind me (who I talked to before this set) and said, predictably, “What the fuck was that?!” “I don’t know, but I liked it,” said one of the boys. After marveling over their sign for a few moments, another turned to me and said the words to shut me up. “It’s just noise. That’s what it is.” And so it was. (Note: the band in question, I discovered, is called Porn.)

Next up was Big Business, who wailed through another 30 minutes of set time, complete with a Tim Harrington-esque bassist/frontman Jarred Warren. I had not heard this band before seeing them live, so I had no idea what to expect. Two songs into the set, the mosh pit built itself, and I, naturally, got the heck into it. It was, to say the least, fairly brutal.

And then… Melvins. There’s not a lot that can be said about a Melvins show that hasn’t been said by the people who have been lucky enough to experience them in the last 20 years. Frontman Buzz Osborne is 44 now, and even if he isn’t the oldest dog in the game, he’s old enough that he should logically be past his prime. Don’t tell that to King Buzzo, though. Dressed in a toga and with his hair as insanely frizzy as it is gray, the band took the stage and let flow a torrent of noise of the highest order. Admittedly I am not quite “with it” when it comes to Melvins, but I couldn’t help but be awestruck by the bile-filled noise that came from the dual screaming of Osborne and bassist Jarred Warren (back, and dressed in a toga as well), and twin drums of Coady Willis and Dale Crover, who lock together and pound everything out in double time. When everything fuses together, the spew that swells from the band is the kind of noise that will make you beg for the end, even though it becomes a plea for more. I can’t say that I was able to fully experience the performance of the band, as I found it impossible to escape the ever-growing mosh pit (and really what grunge show is complete without a mosh pit?), which pulled me deeper and deeper, no matter how many times I tried to escape.

I was forced to leave the venue early, but I was compelled to halt my retreat when I heard the band stop the caterwaul to unleash one of the more bizarre things of the evening: the national anthem. I couldn’t help but feel inspired by Osborne and Warren’s grunge cover of the nation’s anthem, and it just goes to show that, even if you’ve been in a game that encourages nihilism and dissent, it’s still possible to show some love for your country. I really couldn’t tell you if they did it for laughs or because they truly love America, but either way, it was a nice way to close out an evening, as I left the club, smiling, as the harbingers of doom on stage flung themselves into another song.