My Morning Jacket @ The Greek 9/19/08

The Jacket at the Greek last night. With mist, light rain, and breezes flowing through the venue, the band put on a beautiful performance full of thunder, showmanship (from Olliges of course), patience, and sun drenched soul. If you haven't caught an Evil Urges tour stop yet please get with the program. This is the best rock n' roll band out there today. Clocking at approximately 2 hours and 40 minutes this show was slightly shorter than the Red Rocks show I caught in August but for my money was simply louder and possibly, dare i say, better! Of course, my position in the amphitheater was significantly improved over Red Rocks, standing Jim-side just five rows back, rising at stage level on the concrete slabs that create the "greekness" of this theater.

It was a uniquely arranged and often a uniquely performed Jacket show. Although the band rocks out hard they often are not throwing down mind-bending improvisational segments. However, the Dondante from last night deserves a second and third listen. Slowly building to the "jam" section this Dante began to take shape in the form of a groove centric monster. Usually focused on winding and interlocking psychedelic guitar lines, this version stormed through with powerful swing. Being so near the sub woofer and speaker column I was able to appreciate the rhythm section so much more then Red Rocks when the sound seemed to drift toward me. Last night, my head was throbbing from the sonic overload.

A mid set War Begun, Dancefloors combo highlighted slight setlist changes that continued to make this show feel unique. Throw in a Rollin' Back, Lay Low segment in the encore coupled with a Cobra that included a speed metal section in its rocking middle and the Jacket once again provided the Bay Area with musical candy. This band is packed with emotion, joy, and power. If you can't get behind that its rough in the jungle for you.

Here's to hoping my hometown show in Portland and the opera house show in Seattle can live up to this night. Be well ya'll.

The Phish

owwww...been a long time.

so much happening in the world. if you haven't checked out the one link i possess over on the right side of the page, do yourself a favor a take a look at www.phishthoughts.com. With the Phish world revving up in the name of the Trey's return with his classic band and all the reunion rumors that are essentially confirmed by anyone that matters (i.e., band members) it is time to reminice about crystaline memories from days gone by. There truly is no better read that a daily post by Mr.Miner. Trust me on this one. Best Phish reference on the internet for people who love the band. Its all Phish crack all the time, including a staggering amount of downloads that will keep you happy until Trey announces his full slate of dates and pretty much until Phish does.

Back to the Rocking Horse

What happens when you are misunderstood? Yeah, I'll start a post like Carrie Bradshaw.

In a few weeks, after I travel to one of America's finest outdoor amphitheaters (Red Rocks) for the first time and get beheaded by the walking, talking minotaur that is My Morning Jacket, I have a decision to make. Truthfully, the decision is already made. Up here in the Northwest the last weekend of August is usually reserved for Seattle's Bumbershoot Festival. This year's lineup includes many bands I like including Band of Horses (whom I love), Lucinda Williams, Beck, M Ward, and others. Sounds like a rollicking good time with a host of friends from Portland who are making the trip. Even our friends' one and half year old will be making her first festival appearance! (Rage it Sloane!) I haven't even heard live versions of Band of Horses' brilliantly melodic second album, Cease to Begin.

However, "Detlef Schrempf" has competition on Saturday August 30th and its not from just any 1980's Western Conference foe. I've got spandex, glam rock, and infectious glee on the brain. At the Oregon State Fair, in the land of giant corn dogs, above average mullets, teenage rat tails, and thick mustaches, the glam, slam, kings of noize will be in full effect! Look no further than what the mother fucking cat dragged in! Poison. The name often conjures visceral reactions in anyone who came of age in the bloated excess of L.A.'s glam rock dominance. Poison's name has been dragged through the mud a million times, often being called the least talented of all 80s glam bands and "undeserving" of their unprecedented success. Nonetheless, three kids from Harrisburg, PA and one from Brooklyn have together sold over 25 million copies of their albums worldwide and provided countless nights of pop rocking joy to millions more through over 20 years of touring. Depending on what circles you roll in, those same visceral reactions may be overwhelmingly positive.

Poison's brand of unabashedly simple pop metal, with huge hooks you could use to land a Florida marlin, seems to appeal to a misunderstood portion of the American population. To put it somewhat simply, most diehard Poision fans aren't writing blog posts this long about why they love the band. Poison's music is not for analysis, except maybe by that brand of hipster who is "ironically" sporting the fantastical cover of Look What the Cat Dragged In on his t shirt. While your average Poision fans' choice of personal style and attire may be stuck in the era of Crockett, Tubbs, and Axel F, their contagious joy at participating in a Poison concert could teach those hipsters a thing or two.

Living here in Portland, indie musics proverbial womb, I get a chance to witness first hand how serious modern music makers and fans seem to take themselves. Though I think the local music scene is fabulous I do get tired at the dour expressions, pale white skin, and lack of full on dance moves that are not intended to show how "badly" you can dance. I will admit that I have sat through a Do Make Say Think concert with a pained expression on my face as they crescendo yet again and I take it pretty damn seriously when Phish drops into a thick Tweezer jam. So call me a hypocrite but pick up Poison's new DVD or better yet catch them on their huge tour this summer all across this country and tell me that the joy you see on their faces is not contagious, rousing, and fun. Poison doesn't have a violin or hand claps, they don't choose political sides and their fans don't stand still at a concert. They are singing about sex...sex...breaking up...and more sex. The girls in the crowd look a little sketchy, the guys maybe more so. But everyone is their to forget about the real world and enjoy the moment, relishing their eight dollar Bud Light proper. Moreover, if you dig a little deeper, you may uncover a bit more to convince you that Poison is a bunch of real life troubadours no different than me and you.

In their heyday, Poison always teetered on the edge of implosion. Bret Michaels and C.C. DeVille struggled to share the limelight. During the mid 90s, when they became musical pariahs, the band cycled through two guitarists while C.C. ballooned to 300 pounds, snorting cocaine as if he was manning Malibu for Pablo Escobar.* Newcomer Ritchie Kotzen ran off with drummer Rikki Rockett's fiance and was promptly dumped on the side of the road in the middle of a tour. After C.C. committed to sobriety he was literally taken in by his Brooklyn family to recover himself and his old band mates. Bret Michaels, of reality show fame**, is no stranger to harrowing realities. He was nearly killed in a car accident, had his solo tour bus shot at, and has lived with diabetes for more than thirty years. Bassist Bobby Dall underwent emergency back surgery a few years ago in the middle of a tour. These guys are not fools. They know they are lucky to be out on that stage in 2008 in front of thousands of fans. The smiles you see are real. In theory, these guys should have been washed up alongside other L.A. glam bands a long time ago but somehow they are out there killing it. Hamming it up for the crowd. Singing about working all week to have a few brews and a screw on Saturday. Poison has literally stayed true to their roots as a good time party band. They bring the joy of being alive in a fucked up world. Make an escape this summer. It's alright if you forget how many "Bops" come after "Unskinny" each time around. Don't worry if you don't remember "Let it Play" (it was track 6 on Flesh and Blood and a late arriving single). You'll flip when you remember how much you loved that forgotten first ballad, "I Won't Forget You". And right before the guitar solo in "Every Rose Has its Thorn" tell me you aren't flooded with nostalgia for that middle school fling that hurt so good when Bret sings, "Though its been a while now I can still feel so much pain. Like the knife that cuts you the wound heals, but that scar, that scar remains". Play it C.C.

People look at me funny when I say I am off to see Poison and they do a double take when I tell them (half-jokingly but totally seriously) that they are my favorite band of all time. When they first reunited the classic lineup in 1999 I saw them at the same venue I had seen Phish the night before. It was an off day on tour and while the other heads rested up I was bringing it home with the boys. My friends then didn't get it and they still don't now. But misunderstanding is a funny thing. Hopefully, what we believe sets us apart. In living out our beliefs and revisiting our sources of inspiration from twenty years ago, is it possible to remember just how it is you started this process of becoming? And when the Bud Light is warm and the stage lights are up this process can return us to our relationships revived, stronger, and ready to rock n' roll.


Check out video of "Nothin' But a Good Time" from Kansas City July 2008.



*Poison's dirty little secret is that Native Tongue and Crack a Smile the two albums they made with Ritchie Kotzen and Blues Saraceno, respectively, were musically more adventurous then any of the albums made with the classic lineup. Both Kotzen and Saraceno are supremely gifted guitarists and seemed to push the other band members out of their comfort zone. These albums retain Poison's hook filled style while really seeking. Pick them up!)

**Try and count how many times Bret says "awesome" in one episode of Rock of Love. Its amazing. My favorite, "You have an awesome soul".

This post sponsored by Carrie Bradshaw.

Step Brothers

Full Metal Jacket

Its was more than five years ago when my buddy Zach handed me a cdr disc that his friend Matt had burned him. Across the top someone had scrawled the letters "MMJ" in a blue sharpie and on the bottom, the word, "sampler". Apparently the musicians on this disc were in town opening for someone or other at the Crystal Ballroom and I should listen to this disc because it contained highlights from their recorded career. Because Zach and I trade music often and we are both overly dramatic about things we like and hate, I didn't quite make a beeline to a cd player immediately. I never even made it to that show but throughout the hazy, whiskey fueled summer (shouldn't they all be?) as Zach developed plans to open his now famous hot dog shack on Portland's shakedown street, Hawthorne Ave, haunting sounds emanated from that "sampler" disc and they seeped into my pores. I can remember staring at fuzzed out porch lights at six in the morning as the sun began to peak through power lines. I watched Zach and his girlfriend slow dance to these songs that sounded timeless after a week and are now ingrained in my dna. Jim James' eerie, reverb soaked voice wove a warm blanket over us, similar to how my father would wrap me up, protected like a cocoon, when he tucked me in at night.

The first time I saw My Morning Jacket was in November of 2005 at the Fillmore in San Francisco. The band decked out the legendary stage as a mystical, wooded forest and tore through a diverse array of epic, soulful rock n' roll leaving me sweaty and pulsing with energy. Although I already new the Jacket was my favorite new band, I was floored by the majesty and power of their renowned live show. I found myself singing along to songs I had never heard before.

Truthfully, this must all sound familiar. At this point, CNN and The New York Times are reporting on these affable and witty fellas (mostly) from Louisville, KY. No need for extended hyperbole from me when you can pick up the latest copy of Rolling Stone to see the band get their jimmie waxed by mass media. However, I believe it makes a profound statement when a band makes a move from playing New Years at the 1100 seat Fillmore in 2006 and two years later is set to headline Madison Square Garden on the same night.

The Jacket is making the new classic rock. Truly classic rock is classic because it resonates with thousands if not millions of people. Its more than difficult to make creative and accessible rock n' roll that weakens the knees in arenas. My Morning Jacket songs sound as if they have existed in the rock n' roll canon for thirty years. The melodies are instantly familiar, emotional, and soothing. This is music that is beginning to speak to the heart of a generation that yearns to be comforted.

The band is simply on fire like Lebron's celebrated 50 point explosion in the same building where New Years will go down. Fundamentaly sound, smooth in transition, powerfully graceful, passionate, complimantary and in the public eye, humble. Only the highly suspicious argue their greatness as the Jacket are uniting a otherwise polarized music community. From Spin magazine to the New York Times. From Johnny hipster posting on Stereogum to dreadlocked Jamie at High Sierra, christ, even your dad probably knows the Jacket is in the house.

From a musical standpoint, the title track of their widely praised new album, Evil Urges, shows how this band does not rest on its laurels. Barnstorming out of the gate with a thunderous drum beat and a filtered synth line the song sounds as fresh and energetic as a back talking eight year old. A pretty guitar line settles the emotion and we are suddenly in the middle of MMJ style downtempo. (DJ Sec Walkin?) Its always been difficult to discern Jimmy James' lyrics without the help of liner notes and Evil Urges is no exception. "Its not the words that he says," anyway, "its the way that he sings". Upon further investigation Evil Urges is a song about yearning and craving, that faith in the human race to find a better way. Ain't no doubt "evil urges - they be part of the human way" but "it ain't evil if it ain't hurtin' nobody". The new way has "no racial boundary lines", "no social subdivisions". "Love dawg", (to quote another song), "If you want it - you can!" Lets make a run for this together.

Check out the bridge. "I'm not saying I'm not saying that I want it 'someday'. I'm not saying I'm not saying that I want it 'somehow'...I'm ready for it now!". Listen to the way James hits emotionally gorgeous falsetto territory during the song's peak. If your heart is not stirred I can't help you. It feels as if the collection of recorded and performed My Morning Jacket music has built to this one moment as the group demands your attention to their power and beauty. Then, in a flash, the band switches gears and drops into an anthemic, Who-style, guitar breakdown that sounds utterly out of and in place. The hinges are off, the bandwagon is burgeoning and the party is in full swing. Get down on it this summer.

Yanks

Within three games of the Sox and the Rays, the Yanks are coming around a bit. Are they built to last? Hmmm...They have some convincing to do thats for sure. The last few years have been rough for us Yankee fans. A long season of smacking the ball around the yard only to appear offensively anemic in the post season. Kenny Rogers dancing sliders past a helpless A Rod a few years back was noteworthy in its mind boggling frustration. Hasn't mattered if it was the Angels, Cleveland, Boston, Detroit - my beloved Yanks have taken a post season whuppin.

Was back at the stadium for a final go round for the early July series against the Sox. Ended up having the greatest seats of my life behind home plate for the extra inning victory on 7/6. After a valiant at bat thats Brett Gardner poking a single up to the middle in the tenth for a game winning hit, sending me and my companions into delirium. Nothing like a dirty water dog before the game, a bunch of big Bud Lights, hootin', hollerin' and bidding farewell to the House that Ruth Built.

Its Friday late afternoon on the west coast; beginning of a three game dust up with the bastard Sox. Busted a Deschutes brew and Joba has some nasty bite on his pitches. Welcome back Big Papi. We are hot on your tail!

People Get Ready

The feeling in Portland is downright giddy. Looking out across the Broadway Bridge onto the Rose Garden Arena perched above the Willamette River you sense that something special is happening at One Centre Court. The Portland Trail Blazers, the only major league franchise is the City of Roses, are simmering. After seven years of sporadic play, poor teamwork, and more appearances in the Portland police blotter then NBA playoffs, the Blazers and their fans, like Nebraska -era Boss, have found a reason to believe.

Although this rebuilding project has been happening since 2006 when the team landed Washington guard Brandon Roy and Texas forward LaMarcus Aldridge through wily draft deals by general manager Kevin Pritchard, it was not until the team jettisoned black hole but incredibly talented scorer, Zach Randolph, to the NBA wasteland that resides on 7th Avenue between 31st and 33rd streets in Manhattan that these efforts truly took shape. Although it was widely reported that Roy had taken emotional leadership of the team earlier in the previous campaign during a locker room confrontation with Randolph, the Michigan bred forward had remained the franchise cornerstone due to his impressive statistics, knack for scoring, and large contract. It became increasingly evident to all Blazer fans that Randolph was holding this team back. I didn’t necessarily want to believe it myself at the time because Z-Bo simply put up numbers game after game but his style of play (poor passer, lack of defense, me-first attitude) kept the Blazers in neutral. Once Randolph was gone, Roy, Coach Nate MacMillan, and an assortment of young and hungry Blazers could revamp their schemes and begin establishing the “new culture” that Pritchard had vowed when he first was named assistant General Manager in 2006 and ultimately General Manager in 2007.

The “new culture” received a swift kick in the ass from Lady Luck when the first pick in the 2007 NBA draft was miraculously bestowed upon Portland and Greg Oden, a man-child center from Ohio State landed in our laps. The moment The Big Silly was drafted an excitement shot through Portland as if Clyde Drexler had performed a pterodactyl like swoop to the basket. Fans began seeing visions of Bill Walton’s beard bopping down Broadway celebrating Portland’s only NBA championship in that glorious summer of 1977. Then, the record skipped.
It was year ago now when he learned that a knee injury would keep Oden off the court in 2007-08. Collectively, Portland experienced something like that first heady night you tried to unstrap your crush’s bra and realized, “I can’t do this! This is not going to happen tonight! This is harder than I expected!” So it was that we played last year without our big man as he went about rehabbing his knee, setting the newest trends in ironic haircuts and displaying humility, public poise and a legitimately witty sense of humor.

If case you studied abroad last winter or don’t care to follow the NBA, want to guess what happened? We banged it out. 13 game winning streak. .500 record. All Star Brandon Roy. LaMarcus Aldridge established himself as one of the most promising big men in the league; Young Travis Outlaw became a 4th quarter assassin, and an assortment of role players reminded Portland what it felt like to have a team that played hard instead of giving lip service to that concept in playoff post-game interviews. I have been living in Portland for the past 8 years, truly since the dawn of what native Oregonians like to call the “Jail Blazer” era. I have seen some pretty fun games in the Rose Garden during those eight years, of course more frustrating ones. I had never seen Portland fans or the Rose Garden light up like it did last year. Now, Portland fans are great, primarily due to their authenticity. I don’t necessarily consider us the “best in the NBA” like all other cities will say about themselves. Truthfully, I think we should be louder more consistently. However, just like those Coors Light fueled summers at the beach when you get back together with your ex, the love affair between the Blazers and the fans was rekindled in earnest last season. Passionate, team oriented play and fanatical fan response go together like Michelle Tafoya and excessive make up. Believe it. David Stern and the NBA offices had their eye on the noisy Rose City last winter.

Although modern professional sports, with their ungodly sums of money, bottom line business tactics, and pampered, me-first athletes often appear far removed from the passion, sacrifice, and teamwork that makes basketball and sports in general so alluring, it appears that the people of Portland take great pleasure and comfort in Blazer management showing signs that they understand the subtleties and challenges of constructing an NBA contender from scratch. It’s the summer of 2008 and with the addition of added scoring punch in Spanish star Rudy Fernandez, Vegas summer league MVP Jerryd Bayless, and the impending debut of Greg Oden, holler from the roof tops, Rip City is where its at!