So why did I come back?  There is a long, complicated answer to that question, and there is also a really short, ridiculous answer.

I’ll give you the short, ridiculous answer:

I want to, nay, need to write a blog about my t-shirts.

For the past month or two months or perhaps from the onset of my birth in this blue-green world, I have had this nagging urge to write about my t-shirts.  Specifically, the retiring of certain t-shirts as I buy new t-shirts.  I don’t know why this is.  I cannot tell you why.  I have resisted, I have resisted so hard to write this blog, because it sounds boring, trite, ridiculous, stupid, and yet, here I am, crawling back to you, dear blog, so that I may construct a discourse on fabric that covers my torso.  That sometimes has funny pictures and/or sayings on it.

Specifically, I am writing about a Changing of the Guard.  My life is one built on laziness and resistance to change.  Thus, I have some shirts that I’ve worn for, oh, like six years.  When I moved to Portland I made this Decision that I would only buy band shirts, and wear band shirts around, and when pretty girls came up to me² they would say, “Are you wearing a band shirt?” and I would say, “Why, yes, I am,” and they would say, “What band?” and I would say, “Operation Ass Explosion,” and they would say “Cool,” in that way that hipsters smoking cigarettes in cigarette holders would say, and then we’d make out underneath a bridge but she would somehow be reading Tolstoy behind me at the same time.  I would know but I wouldn’t care, because I’m cool like that³.

One of these shirts that I’ve had for a long time is my Dragon Punch shirt.  Here is a photo for reference:

Actually that one doesn’t really show it at all.  Let’s try this one:

That is my friend Erin, she is pointing at me and probably saying “Hey, it’s That Guy!”

So there’s the shirt.  Very simple, I bought it online at some geek t-shirt website, and this photo was uploaded to Erin’s facebook on May 15th, 2006.  I still own this shirt.  It’s sitting in my closet right now, hanging there, looking at me like a dog that somehow gained the intelligence to know that it was about to be put down.  I’m sorry, Dragon Punch Shirt, this is the way it must be.

A story about this shirt: I once was part of an art installation.  The piece was called “What Does A Human Being Do When There is Nothing to be Done?”  There was a couch and some balloons with cartoon characters on it (no I don’t know why).  The piece needed a person to sit and do nothing, and so guess who they called?  That’s right, the Theatre Majors.  The people said “Act like you’re doing nothing,” and we said “Okay,” and then we all went there and slept because we were so tired from doing shit all day.  See, the art piece was a little misleading, mainly because if there is nothing to do, humans generally do one of two things: sleep, or go find something to do.  And since we were in an art piece and we couldn’t leave the art piece, we all slept.  Except for the weird theatre majors, they just did weird things like stare at the wall or do the splits of whatever.

Anyway, I arrived at the Boise Art Museum ready to sleep in my day clothes and the lady in the gift shop noticed my shirt and she said, “Why does your shirt say ‘dragon punch’ on it?”  She was a really beautiful Asian lady and so of course I stammered and said, “It’s from a video game,” and she was like, ohhhhkay and that was it, but the important thing is that she knew what the shirt said without knowing what the shirt meant!  I thought that was pretty neat.

The point of this story really is that I’ve had this shirt for four years and I need to get rid of it.  I mean, it still fits, it still looks decent, it’s one of the few shirts that I have not spilled food on, but it must go.  And so I’ve made this decision that whenever I buy a new shirt, I will get rid of an old shirt, until I’ve rotated out all of my old shirts⁴.

Then I found shirt.woot.com.  And it was like a baby was born without us even having sex.  And that baby was made out of shirts.

Shirt.woot is like what Threadless was five years ago: relatively unknown, but still pretty cool.  Now everyone and their got damn mother wears Threadless shirts, you know?  If I see one more dude wearing that Refridgerator Haiku t-shirt at a party I am going to haikick them right in the balls.

This is the part of the blog where I start to rethink my idea of writing a blog about my t-shirts.  I mean, what now?  Do I show you what t-shirts I’ve bought?  Do I launch into a diatribe about the philosophical nature of t-shirts?  Do I piss my pants?!

Here’s the deal: I bought a t-shirt that had a hieroglyphic-looking image of Mario, Mario Bros style, on the front.  And then I bought another shirt more recently of a turtle that shot down a rabbit with some sweet guns on its shell.  It’s a … reference to that … fable.  Yeah.

Oh my god this blog post is over.

Anyway, is there really any difference between imagination and reality? How do you know?

This is a really fun question to think about. I have a couple theories. There’s this idea in quantum physics that there are an infinite number of parallel universes that mirror our own. If that’s the case, then there is no difference between imagination and reality, because infinity implies everything; that is, if it can be imagined, then there is a universe in which it exists (think rule 34 but for the universe). So there is a universe where unicorns exist, a universe where Rush Limbaugh is a decent fellow, and a universe where you are the opposite gender that you are currently.

Moreso, my belief is that if you can imagine these things, then you are not really imagining, but tapping into those alternate realities. So when you imagine a unicorn, you’re actually linked with a parallel universe in which unicorns exist.

Of course, this really nerfs the idea of imagination, but I don’t mind. I like the concept of all things existing at all times, but us being only fixed into one thing at one time, probably because that’s all our consciousness will allow. I suppose when we die we ascend to a new level of consciousness where we can perceive all realities at once. This also relates to the theory of our “soul” being energy, and our energy transferring into all things when we die. It’s just that we transcend the third dimension at that point — we become space AND time, and perhaps much more.

So, in theory, death could be the merging of ALL consciousness, of those who died at least. As much as I enjoy having my own identity, the idea of being a part of Everything seems incredibly cool, too.

This also relates to the idea of “Heaven/Hell,” or reward or punishment for our earthly deeds — that is, when we are alive, we are striving for this higher consciousness that potentially awaits us in death. HOW we strive to achieve that is what religion becomes: a system of dogma and guidelines for preparing your soul for the afterlife, for the acceptance of higher consciousness. If we do not prepare our souls, then we do not achieve this higher consciousness (Heaven) and we become … nothing? (Purgatory) or something worse (Hell).

Ahhhh, I fuckin love this stuff!

Also if you want to ask questions, do not hesitate!  I answer every single one of them.  http://www.formspring.me/zornog

Oh yeah I have that little widget to the left too I forgot about that.  Anyway!

how do you deal with loss?

I tend to get very stoic. This is a trait, I think, that I inherited from my mother. I’ve been very lucky in that not very many people close to me have died, save for my grandpa and grandma. My grandpa Jack had a very unexpected stroke when I was young. Jack was a busy guy, he owned horses and a small ranch, and was always working. He had served in WWII as an engineer in Australia, building bridges. He severed the tip of one of his fingers and I remember he had what looked to me to be a bit of bone that stuck out of his finger. I always thought that was awesome.

One day he had the stroke and fell off a ladder he was on at the time. We went to the hospital and learned that his entire left side (I think it was left, I’m not too sure) was paralyzed. It devastated him, a man who would get up early to feed the horses, to be bedridden, and I remember the days soon after were spent with his surliness and anger. It scared the shit out of me, the whole thing: to be struck down, to be bedridden. I couldn’t understand when he spoke, and that frustrated him even more. I wouldn’t say I was particularly close to my grandpa, but we were still family, and it was hard to deal with it. So I think I entered Defense Mode and just shut those emotions off for a while.

After a year or so Jack’s viewpoint changed, he mellowed out and did physical therapy and regained a bit of his left side and became relatively happy again. He was still mostly bedridden, though he did sometimes walk with a walker. He seemed to find a new happiness in this different world, and we were happy for him.

A few years later, he died, and we had a memorial, and I remember being very stoic about the whole thing, probably because I was too young.

And then some odd years later (ten? twelve?) my grandma died, after a lot of complications with diabetes which eventually took both her legs. The truth is that she likes candy and sugary things and kept eating them even after everyone said You Must Stop, You Have Diabetes. I can’t say I blame her — she was old and did what she damn well pleased. You get that luxury when you’re old.

Anyway she died and I was stoic then too. Went to the funeral and was sad but kept it down.

Then a few days later, maybe a week, maybe a month, we had a big party at my house in Boise. I had a girlfriend at the time (the same one who gave me the Loser Cat), and it was a fun shindig, and I drank a lot and made an ass out of myself, as I usually do.

As it got later my GF and I opted to go to bed (bed bed, not sex bed). And as we laid in my bed at around two in the morning, a very strange, very unexpected thing happened.

I bawled my eyes out. I laid there, drunk and sloppy, while my teenaged girlfriend probably thought I was a big old loser, and I bawled and bawled and said in hiccuping sobs how much I missed my grandmother. I must’ve done this for at least a half an hour. God bless you, teenaged girlfriend (at the time), for putting up with me.

When I woke up the next day, I felt like a weight had been lifted from me. It wasn’t closure, but it was close.

… That’s not really an answer. Everyone handles loss differently. But there must be catharsis. There must be release. Anger, sadness, whatever. Time of course heals all wounds, but not if you keep picking at the scab.

Anyway, I hope that was … something. Sorry for being so long-winded!

jello puddin pops

Here is a picture of me from New Years Eve.  The caption is there because sometimes, in the right light, I look like I’m doing a Bill Cosby impression.

Here are a few updates from my life:

1. I have started running.  By “started” I mean I literally started today; I ran/walked for about 20 minutes.  I have started a blog about this, and you can read it here: Josh Goes A’Running.  I won’t write about it here, though.  This blog is for self-deprecation and my strange mental patterns.

2. February Album Writing Month is next month (obviously), and I am participating.  I suggest that if you want to listen to the songs I create, you head to my profile there, as I am not going to update my blog about it, because that just seems redundant.  Also, if you are a songwriter or have ever wanted to be a songwriter, I suggest you sign up!  It’s an amazing community full of professionals and amateurs (and people like me, somewhere in the middle), who are all extremely helpful and kind.  It’s almost annoying how nice they are!  If you do sign up, say hello on my soundboard thingy and I will certainly listen or read your stuff!

3. I’m thinking about dumping the joshuabelville.com website.  This will be done because it seems awkward to run two completely separate websites, when all of the good stuff is here on this site.  My new plan is to merge the webspace together (as I had separated it earlier) and just forward joshbelville.com to zornog.net, or perhaps to a subdomain on zornog.net.  What do you think?  Do you even give a shit?¹

4. There is no four.

I said that I would update this blog more and I have been lax about even that, and I apologize.  Truth is, not much is going on in my life right now besides working and watching every episode of 30 Rock on Netflix.  C’est la vie!

So let’s talk about resolutions.  What I resolve to do in this year.  I looked at my resolutions for 2009 and I’ve failed every single one of them.  It’s never been that bad before.  I don’t know what happened, but by becoming less rooted in Boise, I have become more introverted in Portland.

I really only have two resolutions: work out and rock out.  The work out part is self-explanatory: I, like every other unhealthy person in America, am going to attempt to get back into shape.  Right now this is difficult because I have no desire to do this whatsoever.  Quite the opposite — I want to drink soda and eat burgers all day.  Some say people battle depression by drinking alcohol, but for me it’s soda.  In a way it’s good because it means I don’t get to become an alcoholic, but it’s also dangerous because I’ll get diabetes.  So, yeah.

The rock out part is just a funny way of saying I’m going to try and play more music, whether it be live or not.  I really haven’t been feeling creative lately, and it sucks.

I also resolve to update this blog more often, which could be dangerous because I don’t do anything blog-worthy.  Unless you want entries about how good Bioshock is², then maybe a few blogs a month is good enough.

I’m not going to go into detail about why I feel shitty.  That’s the stuff of LiveJournals and other locked away journals.  This blog is about the good stuff going on in my life, stuff that people want to read about.  So I should probably just delete this entry and move along.

But I won’t.  Cause I promised I’d update.

Happy New Year, everybody.

Maybe that sounds pretentious.  I don’t care.  It was my experience, not yours, and I don’t expect you to understand how I felt at the time.  After being in the Rose City for a year and trying desperately to call it home, I finally felt home that night, and it felt good.

With that said, I promise I will blog more.

I am doing the Most Nerdiest Thing right now: DMing a D&D game.  It’s a lot of fun so far.  If you want to read more about it (and the custom campaign setting I’m developing), I suggest you head to our Obsidian Portal site.  If you’re into that sort of thing.

I love you all, thank you for reading and listening and being my friend.  It means a lot to me!

Friday night started late again; Paul and I were determined to get some sleep before we headed out to a very long night of music.  I ended up taking a two hour nap, but Paul wasn’t as fortunate (this totally makes us sound gay, like we were sleeping in the same bed or something.  We weren’t, but if it makes you feel better to imagine that we were, that’s fine.), so I was nice and refreshed and he was still a little bleh.  We found ourselves getting food instead of seeing the 8pm bands (we hadn’t heard of any of them).  Food was sushi.  A quick tangent¹ about sushi: I love it.  I grew up hating seafood.  I still do, really.  In landlocked states, fish is smelly and disgusting, having been frozen for some time.  Once you get over the cascades, it generally tastes better.  I can eat salmon, because there is fresh salmon in Idaho, but other than that, get it away from me.  Lobsters, shrimp, etc?  No way, dudes.  I don’t want to eat ocean bugs.

cucumber rolls: the training wheels of the sushi world

My first experience with sushi was with an ex girlfriend and a platter from Fred Meyer².  It tasted awful, but since I didn’t know what sushi tasted like, nor did I want to look stupid, I said it tasted good.  After that, I didn’t eat sushi again until I moved to Portland, and it was with another ex girlfriend, and it was at Dragonfish, and it was a lot better.  I hate, hate, HATE tuna fish in the can; I think it smells awful, tastes awful, and I pitied my cat when he got some, but the tuna sashimi I had at Dragonfish was great.  Probably because it didn’t taste like fish, which is the number one comment about good fish, something that strikes me odd — let’s eat something that doesn’t taste like what it is!

Oh well.

After sushi we traveled to a place I’d never been before — Jimmy Mak’s.  We went to listen to M64, a band I’d never heard of.  At first I figured it was an older build of M83, but then I got wind that it was a jazz club, so I figured it was jazz.

We got in and the place was packed enough to force us to stand.  The lady in M64 (it’s a lady and a guy who is a DJ, I think?  I wasn’t paying attention) was singing and doing that jazzy shit that jazz singers do, and to be honest I wasn’t that impressed.  Where’s the muted trumpet?  Where’s the oboe?  All jazz bands require an oboe, I think it’s in the Jazz Constitution³.  The venue was great — small and dimly lit, bright sexy red everywhere.  It truly was one of the few places where hazy cigarette smoke would’ve really just made it perfect.  We ended up going upstairs into a narrow balcony overlooking the stage.  There were a few seats and tables, and the seats were all taken.  We might’ve stayed anyway, but there was only one problem — our feet.  As in, they were hurting from the previous two nights.  So we decided to leave.

Off, off, off we went to Holocene!  Another place I hadn’t visited yet.  My hipster cred is low; right now I’m at Level Two: Unironic Eyeglasses, well past Level One: Still Shops at Walmart.  Only a few more XP before I level up to Level Three: Heard of Sonic Youth, But Don’t Like Them⁴.

Holocene is a bar (obviously).  I find that I’m not describing these locations as much as I should be, but I don’t really know how to describe Holocene.  It’s a bar, there’s a hallway and an offshoot room where the bands play.  That’s about it.  Really, when you’ve seen one bar, you’ve seen them all, even the trendy ones.  Bars are broken down into three easy categories: dive, sports, and trendy.  Sometimes the trendy ones are called “clubs.”  Remember this when you turn 21, young readers.  The mystery of bars is solved.

Really, turning 21 is fun for about a weekend.  Then you drink too much, then you realize that the best reason for being 21 is having a beer with your buddies, not going nuts every weekend.

the prids

Anyway, the band that was up when we got there was the Prids.  The picture here isn’t quite accurate — there was a girl playing keyboards, but I can’t find a picture of her.  The Prids have actually been quite a mainstay in the Portland scene.  They formed in Missouri in 1995 but moved here soon after and have been kicking ass since 1998.  They play bass-driven “dark-pop” music, and it’s very good.  They were also involved in a pretty heavy car accident in 2008, where everyone was injured to some degree and their equipment was destroyed.  Pretty nasty stuff.  Fortunately they looked good and rocked at Holocene.  This weekend was a lot of new bands being awesome, and the Prids were no exception.

I should mention at this point that some girls were handing out Red Bulls, and I took one, and I hadn’t drank a Red Bull (or similar energy drink) in about two years.  So I was pretty intense for the rest of the night.

explode into colors

Next up was Explode into Colors, three hot girls playing hot rhythmic dance rock music stuff.  I don’t know how to explain them (use the photo for reference): the girl on the far right was short, played a simple bass line on a regular guitar (and sometimes some scales), made a lot of “OOOHHH” noises into a microphone, and seemed upset because her sample pedal wasn’t working.  The girl on the far left was probably one of the most proficient drummers I’ve ever seen, playing beats that looked impossible with flawless precision.  The girl in the middle was playing some toms and cowbells and whatnot, and sometimes a keyboard, and sometimes a melodica, and was also whooping rhythmically whenever possible.  It had a raw energy to it that I haven’t heard replicated on any tracks of theirs I heard (a similar issue I had with Finn Riggins — I’ll write about this in general tomorrow).  I tried to explain them to my coworkers that Monday.  One of them took a listen to their stuff and didn’t get it, and the other said, “Oh yeah, I made out with 2/3rds of that band.”  Go figure.

Anyway, I really enjoyed them, and their grand syncopation.  It takes a lot to sound that good, rhythmically.  I think they could’ve benefited with some extra instrumentation — it was kind of weird to just listen to a bass line and a lot of drums — but overall, really cool stuff, and, in a way, my introduction into this kind of dance/rhythm indie rock (live, at least).

We quickly ditched the Holocene after Explode into Colors, because part one of my whole reason to go to MFNW was about to happen at Berbati’s — THE LONG WINTERS!  I can’t say how much I love John Roderick and his cryptically-honest lyrics and pop sensibilities.

the long winters

The last time I got to see the Long Winters was when they opened for the Decemberists back in … 2005?  06?  Something like that.  I remember them rocking my face off⁵, and then buying their albums and saying, “Hmm, these don’t rock as much on CD.”  But they quickly grew on me regardless, Mr. Roderick’s lyrics being heart-wrenchingly honest at times, yet still behind a haze of obscurity — like listening in on someone telling stories of past loves: names you don’t understand, places you’ve never been, jokes beyond inside.

So you can imagine my glee at seeing them play again, after three (or four) years.  I had been watching the 13 Songs With John videos on YouTube, so I was aware of A) his long classic rock hair, B) his broken front tooth, and C) his love of Air Supply.  I won’t get into it, but the set was awesome — and the crowd was not nearly as packed as it should’ve been.  I mean, I understand.  John hasn’t released an album since 2006’s “Putting the Days to Bed” (a wonderful album), and he hasn’t really toured that much since then, so I can see why his popularity would wane.  Fortunately, those in the crowd were pretty hardcore fans and knew all the lyrics (even me, having them be sucked from my brain and popped into my mouth without even realizing it), and John and crew seemed to be having a great time.

They played their last song, got a raucous round of applause, and then came back on for their encore.  For some reason Paul and I weren’t expecting it so we started to leave.  The encore was “Nora,” which was really cool, except that it started becoming a jam session.  Now, I love you Long Winters, but I do not like jam sessions, and also we had a VIP party to go to, so we left before you were finished.  My apologies, but it was worth it because we got to the party just in time to see…

THE THERMAAAAALLLLS

Arguably the best band in Portland (who doesn’t play Portland a lot because they’re constantly touring) was the band playing at the VIP after party, which started long before the Long Winters start, but didn’t have the Thermals until we arrived.  We walked in, they started playing, and we rocked out for about an hour or so.  When I say “rocked out” I mean I haven’t danced that much since I graduated college, where I was taking dance classes all day.  The after party was held at BodyVox dance studio, which is definitely the largest dance studio I’ve been in, so that helped.  The Thermals played in front of the giant rehearsal mirrors that lined the far wall of the studio.  We were very close and just to the right of the speakers (saving our ears).  Close enough to see the sweat fleck off of Hutch’s hair.  The Thermals are such a good band because they have fun, but are tight and play each song just the way we want to hear it.  They’re loud, simple, and fucking awesome.  I danced like a maniac, that’s all I’m saying.

It’s really hard to encompass the sheer sense of … home that I felt at MFNW that night.  I finally felt like I was in Portland, and not just a really far borough of Boise.

Tomorrow I promise promise promise that I will write about our final day of Musicfest (yes, final — we didn’t see Modest Mouse on Sunday.  I’ll write about that, too).

Also, mix CD!  Yes.  I have to find good tracks for you.  All in good time.

Paul also had a softball game on Thursday, and I had no way to get to the Wonder to see the Helio Sequence (damn it), so we didn’t end up going out until ten o’clock.  The first band we saw was Cymbals Eat Guitars at the Doug Fir. Cymbals Eat Guitars is a band name that, unfortunately, can be somewhat true depending on how the sound it set up at a venue.

cymbals eat guitars

This show was good for what it was: a pseudo-stoner rock out.  The lead singer (the guy in the middle of that pic) kept either checking the tuning on his guitar or just completely retuning it during breakdowns in the songs.  It was somewhat annoying to me, and I can’t quite place why — something about not being able to play an entire song in one tuning, or, alternately, being so anal about making sure your guitar is in tune that it detracts from the songs.  Either way, they weren’t my cup of tea.  They were good musicians, but not my cup of tea¹.

Also, before the show started I was recognized by a girl, who had seen me at Berbati’s the night previous.  I responded by having a coughing fit and seemingly ignoring her.  I don’t think I’ve ever been that bad with a woman before.  I mean, yeah, I can be shy and standoffish sometimes, but I don’t usually drop conversations like that.  It went something like:

HER. Hey, I saw you at Berbati’s last night!
ME. Yeah!  Man it was Hot. In. There!
HER. Yeah, it was so hot.
ME. [SUDDENLY COUGHS HIS LUNGS OUT]

Awkward pause.  She leaves.

I feel bad.  It was downright disrespectful.  She could’ve become a new friend, a new lover, even!  Plus she was holding TWO beers!  Double fisting, for Chrissakes!

Lady at the Doug Fir, if you ever read this: I’m sorry. I will use you as a reminder to not be a douchebag to people, especially people holding two beers who are also women.

When CEG (ugh, what an awful band acronym) was finished, we proceeded to Dante’s to see Scottish bands the Twilight Sad and Frightened Rabbit.

As if by some karmic sense of balance, Paul met some girl within minutes of us being there, and got her number a few minutes later.  Even he was shocked by this strange turn of events, but I like to think of it as an act of cruel fate, teaching me, again, to not be a douchebag around women with beer.

the twilight sad

I don’t have much to say about the two bands that played.  They were both really good, both similar in music structures (the Scots must have something against resolving chord progressions until the last possible second), and they both faced the same problem with Dante’s sound system.  The Twilight Sad is one of a few bands these days to feature a lead singer who doesn’t play an instrument.  That takes some balls, I think.  I’m in the camp where everyone on stage should play an instrument unless they’re a REALLY GOOD singer, and he wasn’t, but he was Scottish, and his accent dripped through the lyrics, and it was very cool.  So I forgave him for that.  Oh, and their drummer looks  like a little babyfaced cherub.  He’s adorable.  I just wanted to feed him applesauce all night long.

At the very end of their set, though, the left half of their stage, soundwise, went dead, effectively ending their last song.  It cut out, the band couldn’t hear, so they just got up and left.  It, again, was kind of cool and Scottish of them, the lead singer saying “Thanks” and then leaving.  You could tell that they were pissed at it but they also had that air about them that was like, “We’re so much better than that stupid sound system,” which, in the right moment, is really cool and actually pumps up the audience more.

frightened rabbit

Frightened Rabbit was like Twilight Sad, except poppier and generally more pleasant.  They also had Scottish accents but they weren’t as pronounced.  They seemed happy to play in the States and everyone loved them, including me, who had never heard them before.  I’m glad I did!

Unfortunately they also suffered from the sound system problem, except they were halfway through their set.  Unlike Twilight Sad, though, they fixed the problem!  I forget who left to fix it, but one of their band members got a new cable or something while the lead singer played a song on the keyboard, bypassing the faulty monitor as it was being repaired.  By the end of the song it was fixed and everyone was happier than ever!

You know, in music reviews the reviewer is supposed to supplement the band’s sound with words — as in, adjectives replace notes, creating a textual compromise in lieu of being able to see the show itself.  I’m really bad at this.  I tend to give up and just say, “They was good.”  I can’t think of anyone who Frightened Rabbit sounds like.  They sound like a band.  A good, tight poppy² Scottish band.  There will be a song of theirs on the mix CD (which will be available on Friday).  It probably will be that song where he sings “I am working on my backwards walk,” because, come on, that’s a cool lyric to start a song with.

Anyway, I just say that because I’m not sure if words can replace music, and if they can, I don’t think my words can replace the music I’ve listened to.  So I don’t try.  But believe me, this was a Good Night of music, that lasted very long and made me very sleepy at work that Friday.

Tomorrow: THE LONG WINTEERRRRS.  And the VIP after party!  You know you love it.

But this is Musicfest, not the fucking Beatles, and this is a blog, not some goddamn Rolling Stones feature. So let’s get into it.

Wednesday had only one lineup of bands, all playing at Berbati’s Pan.  Berbati’s can be kind of a clusterfuck sometimes: basically, it’s a bar that needs rock bands, or bands that exude a lot of energy; not quiet acts.  I am reminded of last year, when we entered Berbati’s to watch I dunno who, Langhorne Slim, I bet, and Alela Diane was playing something quiet and probably beautiful but you couldn’t tell because everyone was so loud. I remember some guy shouting “SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP,” which, while I agree with that sentiment, sure didn’t do anything to sweeten Alela’s music tea, if you get my drift.

(Quick cast of characters:

Me: Me
Paul: Paul

We know each other primarily from the Decemberists message boards and have quickly become concert buddies, and he teaches me about cool Portland bands and gives me rides in his car and in return, I say funny things. I think that’s how it works.)

While Fences was playing we got some food (Berbati’s also serves some good Greek food).  We hadn’t heard of Fences before so we weren’t thinking about them one way or another, but Paul heard a bit of their set and said they weren’t bad.  But by the time we got to the stage Portland Cello Project was setting up.

Portland Cello Project

PCP is a collection of cellists from Portland, obviously, somewhat spearheaded by Douglas Jenkins. At least, he seems like a bit of a figurehead, or spokesperson, for the group. It doesn’t really matter, though; the project is a collective, embracing the amoebic osmosis of Portland’s communal music scene².  PCP loves the theatre, too, which gains them a few notches in my book: when I was in “Perfection” earlier this year, PCP graciously allowed us to use their music for our preshow, and we sold CDs for every run.  I won’t go into a rant about how awesome this is for art in general, and how all art forms should be collaborating like this (especially since theatre could desperately take a few notes from the raw, exuberant energy of band shows), but it was still very cool, especially because PCP has worked with the Oregon Shakespeare Festival as well.

Unfortunately, Berbati’s is a crapshoot when it comes to the crowd.  The venue is always sweltering, and Wednesday night was no exception.  It was pretty packed for PCP, and when people drink they start talking louder, and when a band starts playing people have to talk louder than the band, because obviously their conversation about the style of shoes they’re wearing is more important than the blood, sweat and tears, the hours of rehearsal, and the intricate musical arrangements and setup these musicians have painstakingly put together for you tonight.

In other words, Portland Cello Project probably did a great job, but it was nearly impossible to hear.  I’m sure if we were closer to the stage it wouldn’t have been as much of a problem, but to be closer to the stage would mean being drenched in sweat, and it was only Wednesday.  Regardless, Paul and I stayed for the whole set, and I enjoyed it, and I was glad that they played their awesome cover of “Toxic,” though it wasn’t as awesome as it is on the CD. I don’t blame PCP for this.

Paul has a friend, Matt, who is in a band whose name I won’t mention because, well, I’m not sure why, really: they’re a great band and deserve recognition.  I guess it’s because I value privacy?  Maybe it’s because I don’t want to name drop.  Yeah, that must be it.  Anyway, he was playing with PCP (on drums) and so afterward we met up with him and he asked if we wanted to go see Laura Veirs at the Woods.  Now, the next act at Berbati’s was Damian Jurado.  I had heard a couple of his songs via Pandora, but the place was so damn hot at this point that we wanted to get into the cool air.  Damian was actually starting his set when we left, and I felt sorry for the guy: the crowd was obnoxiously loud, and it was just him and his guitar.  You couldn’t hear anything from where we stood.

After Damian was Will Sheff of Okkervil River.  Paul and I both love Okkervil River, but we decided that we didn’t want to hear Will Sheff solo.  Plus we love the Woods, and we love Laura Veirs.  So yes, on our first night of MFNW, we ditched MFNW.

You should read this review of the Horse Feathers/Thao Nguyen show for my very strongly worded opinion of the Woods.  In summary: it’s the best new venue in Portland, and possibly the best venue period.  In stark contrast to Berbati’s, the people there were quiet, considerate, and, in a word, lovely.  Just a lovely bunch of people sitting around candles listening to music that can be played a bit quieter than usual.

Laura Veirs

Laura Veirs has a new band, called the Hall of Flames, and that’s just a great band name.  They played a lovely set (again, everything at the Woods is just lovely), including “Saltbreakers,” which is a lovely song.  My only wish would’ve been to hear “To the Country,” but it didn’t matter, it was a good set.  She played a couple of new songs from her new album (which isn’t out yet, I think.  I really should just google it but I won’t) and at the end they brought up a violin player that was in the audience and who plays with Two Beers Veirs, which is Laura Veirs’s awesome happy hour cover band at Lauralthirst, and they played a song with a banjo and it was great.

Now, I refuse to make this blog into a blog about hot girls at these shows, but there was a girl at the Woods who was in a league all her own: as in, she was way out of my league, and arguably out of anyone’s league.  I only mention her because we saw her again on Saturday.

And that’s as good of a cliffhanger as I’ve got.  I mean, nothing interesting happened after Laura Veirs.  I went home and slept, cause I had work in the morning.

Musicfest day two coming tomorrow!  Stay tuned.

Viva Voce @ Doug Fir

I guess the big news is that Paul and I are not going to see Modest Mouse tonight. The reasons are twofold for me: 1, I am le tired. The past four nights have been a bit whirlwind, and for some reason spending four hours (or however long) in one location, the somewhat dismal Crystal Ballroom, is strangely anticlimactic. Friday and Saturday were great nights, and while I enjoy Mimicking Birds and Modest Mouse to a certain extent, I don’t enjoy them enough to go see them tonight. That’s just how it’s going to be.

(Tangent: I’ve found myself, since the huge upswing in Twitter recently, putting only one space after a period rather than two, which is how I’ve been taught since I was taught English. I … I’m not sure how to feel about this. It’s a vital necessity when writing tweets, but this is a blog, a safe haven for proper grammar and syntax¹. A place where the tried and true imprints of the hodge-podge English language are given their proper room to breathe, to exist, to push against the bones of a healthy and well-maintained ribcage. I would go back and edit an extra space in between all of these sentences but … eh, fuck it.)

So I’ll begin writing the MFNW reviews tomorrow. Hm, writing it like that sounds a bit pretentious, as if I’m expecting you all to glean some kind of hip Portland cool from me merely by my typing words on an electronic page. The truth is, I stand out like a sore thumb at these events: tall, awkward, long red hair, unironic eyeglasses², a childlike sense of awe when watching bands, taking utterly shitty photos with my cell phone camera … etc etc. When I walked into Berbati’s to see the Long Winters on Friday night it was like walking into a surprise birthday party, and John Roderick was, figuratively, the icing on the cake. I was rocking out in my own little world, found myself remembering lyrics to songs I hadn’t heard in quite a while, and generally just looking like a dork. Ah well, this is the weight of my silly little life, I guess.

Anyway, I will also be making a playlist of Musicfest bands, including songs that you definitely have never heard of, from bands you probably haven’t heard of, like Monarques, a band that we just missed play at Rontoms, but whose EP, which they gave away for free, is pretty fucking great.

Truth be told, there was only one band the entire weekend that I didn’t enjoy, and I will tell you who that is later.

So yeah, a mix that you can download and enjoy, hopefully as much as I do!

And now, sadly … back to the real world.  At least I have some new music for it.