Comal and MLK 11/19 ATX- this party was on the verge of not happening. Around 9 I showed up for a few pre-beers and everyone was bummed and talking about going somewhere else to get thier jollies, even the folks who lived there. Apparently the complications had gotten too much for them and they were ready to scrap the entire thing until somone pointed out the root of thier problems; hippiedom. They had relied on a man who chronically does not have shoes nor a phone to deliver two kegs at 8 pm and now there was no way for them to get in touch with this man who was roaming around, away from all payphones and responsibility, probably cutting his feet on our fair city's surplus of broken glass, his dreads thrashing, backlit by a firepit as his danced his free spirited jigs. Luckily, a hippy dead set on partying that night had the forethough to call another hippy about the situation, soon that hippy called another, and the word spread like peanut butter through the hippy community. By howls, smoke signal or rythmic hitting of rock upon rock, that hippy finally reached back through the network to say that the party was still on, he was right down the street..... Hours had elapsed and a formidably sized drumset had been erected on the half pipe with all manner of douchebags milling about, the air was thick with tension, these people knew they were about to get rocked. The keg showed up during a soundcheck that already had lesser baddasses wearing all manner of thier own asses for hats. I quickly filled my belly with beer which i would see later and ran to the stage. "The High Cost of Living" were smoking a pre-set bowl as police search lights paced back and forth across our faces. With little formality and no concern for the law they broke into a brooding set that ultimately left everyone drunk as snakes and as equally covered in beer. then someone started passing out brownies, and everyone got down. my then my buddies played, i forget the name of thier band for obvious reasons, everyhting st this point was a fuzzy feeling encouraging a lot of swaying back and forth and the need to act "groovy". the second keg rapidly floated and the partiers realized they were awash in a sea of suburban gangsters, hish schoolers and downright hicks, dispensing thier toothless wisdom to thier only friends the fire barrel and the earthen jug. we parted ways after i poured beer on someones sneakers in retaliation for a jostle whose agressive nature simply would not stand...

n kerby AND beech

As I neared the supposed location of this party the searing cold had begun to eat away at the tip of my nose and my free-box girl hat did nothing to protect my ears. Riding down Vancouver I noted that there seemed to be more cops than usual out on prowl and so I kept my brown head down for the irrational(?) fear of being stopped and hassled by these loyal public servants. I figured they were probably looking for somebody and I know from experience that I fit several routine descriptions. You know: Darker skin, of average height, dubious alibi, fat sack of rock, hoodie...just your usual suspect all in all. Then I realized what the haps was with all the Smokeys; the lights had gone out for miles and miles there. Road flares instead of traffic lights lit the way and the night smelled of sulfur. This party was to be akin to a USO on the front lines- a dim break in the battle of me versus the rains. I know all you natives are saying: "Oh ho! Hardy har har and the such...You sissy. Just buy some rain gear and make bike fenders out of water bottles! We gang bang like this everyday! P-O-R-T-L-A-N-D sucka chump! Don't step ain't no front son!" But I'm a Texas kid. I dig the Texas digs, and it's fucking depressing here! But I'm working on my chops, you see. So out I go into this dreary black and I ponder on how the party is to go sans power.
Walt and Brianna are chilling out on the porch and I ask them for the 568 minus 157, and they tell me that it's mostly going to be a folk punk acoustic sort of deal. So electricity was a negligible deterrent Now I'll be honest with ya'll I've never been a huge fan of the sound. Like when I was a kid and listened to rap for the first time or punk for that matter: it all just sounds the same to me. Then again I suppose that's what a genre is for right? To label all the kids with the same sort of sound and give them an ethereal place to chill together. Sonically speaking that is. I've never, however, been the sort of person to just say no...to anything unfortunately especially that unforgettable high that is good music, and you can score that anywhere if you just keep your ears and mind open.
It's a quaint house inside. On the walls are a few well placed posters including one of John Travolta and another of the shins. They had a poster of Deep Throat off to the right(The films slogan: How far will a girl go to untangle her tingle?). How far indeed. That's appropriate here. These folk punk groups are always talking about travelling around through the hustle and grind of various cities just trying to find what they're looking for; be it a lost love/new love, cheap rent, or just a pleasant sun soaked wash of grass and flowers in which to strum their acoustic ballads...I can relate to that as I believe can anybody who's ever felt the urge to just up and leave one day. Regardless of the end results the search is the best part of finding that brief moment of cool respite. Or in the case of Deep Throat: that great feeling when a throbbing cock with feathered pubes hits the clit buried deep within your esophagus.
So on I search and the first band is about to play. It smells like paraffin in the house due to the myriad votive candles that some thoughtful party goer purchased and placed sanctimonious around the playing area and then: Brian Whitson and the Night Wolves, awesome name for a band and they do it justice. There I go again, being a hype machine and all, but geez! Give me a break. I like good music! I want to write about good music! I think the Portland scene is coming out with....GOOD MUSIC! So fuck it. These guys rocked. You can listen for yourself on the space: myspace.com/brianwhitson but be forewarned that these recordings aren't at all up to par with the live performance. The lead singer is into it guys, he's holl'rin and gee'tar bangin' and all in all knockin' one in her jar for us and these kids here they sit down for shows. So they're all swaying back and forth and clapping and tapping a foot or two and the candle light is dancing around on dude's flannel shirt and the harmonies float effortlessly back and forth between the singer and his back up. It's a nice peaceful feel. Do I sound like a hippie? Fuck. Oh well. That's how it was and everybody dug it. Rainbows.
After that I got high. It left me self-conscious and wondering whether I really wanted to smoke at a party ever again. I probably will, though with less haste next time as for the next two sets I just sat there glancing around nervously and not really enjoying myself despite the good tunes. Hey Tiger started playing just as the lights came back on but due to crowd disapproval they turned them back off, go figure. Walt and Brianna are good at what they do, though I want to just say this right now. Brianna, I like your voice but when I watch you I feel as if you don't. Push it out there lady! You gotta SING if you're gonna sing. There are moments when the voices of these two melt together and make a great sort of androgynous amalgam, but I didn't think it was as on tonight. You guys are good! But you gotta think so too or the thoughtful lyrics and clever strumming is just lost under the lack of confidence.
The room filled up for Paul Baribeau a one man piece from the fine land of Michigan. Your music's...alright...I might've been more impressed if you had played it for the crowd! Instead I felt like I and the rest of the people who actually came to see this guy where a large and bulky third wheel to Mr. Baribeau and his friend from Michigan's reminisce sesh. Before every song he'd have a little conversational interlude with these two people that nobody could get in on or even relate to seeing as it was all about Lansing Michigan. Why do I even know about Lansing Michigan? It's cause you seemed more interested in that then you did in the show you were performing, 'dude'! I mean whatever; it's your deal. Maybe these kids didn't mind but I personally think it was rude and distasteful. Uncouth even. Then the donation bucket was passed around and I thought to myself: "Oh man! What a genius idea. Next time I go back to Austin I'll take my guitar to a party and "smash" on it for a few seconds while visiting with my homies and then I'll charge all the random kids there for my fucking vacation! That's fucking brilliant and not at all wrong cause hey guys! I'm on tour!" Well maybe I'm just getting a little heated for no reason but honestly man. If you want to play music for your friends do it. But if you want to play a show, buddy, best recognize that there's an effing audience in front of you and by golly treat them as if not only should they be there but in fact you want them there. Or else why should they care?
Back on solid ground(the weed wore off, but left me with a gruesome headache) I watched as local favorite Captain Chaos divulged his musical thoughts and confessions through the power of acoustic force. This guy made me think about the late nineties and early 'llenium years when every single kid on the block had a guitar and they all played the same songs: Blackbird, Wish You Were Here, The Sweater Song. Then they started writing their own songs. It was as if god parted the clouds of emulation and screamed: "Let there be originality once more!" And so as it was said in heaven so was it to be done on earth. Everybody has a song just waiting to jump out; even if it's just one, and then a bunch of decent if not good poems set to the exact same melody and strum pattern as that first great one. This being, in my opinion, the case with Captain Chaos.
I'm tired. My head is pounding. I want to leave. So I did. I didn't get to see Popitilopitilous but that's just how it goes. How'd you do guys? Let me know. The overall feeling I got from this party was one of immediate contempt for That Guy Winter and one of serene belonging for people who have found a scene that wants to have them, and wants to let them shine.
This has been Uptown Wild dribbling his unabridged and officially unofficial opinions about that party you probably enjoyed a lot more before I broke it down just now, signing out once again for This Aint No Picnic. Stay hyphy ya'll and keep on keepin it crunk.

11/23 MLK and Leona ATX This is what i had been looking for all night, something nice and chill with a fire, no bullshit, no drama, just a bunch of old friends having a good time. The only thing about it was that we were the absolute last people there and got 86ed. Which is okay. Sometimes you gotta get 86ed with your bros. Sometimes you gotta run through the woods with a keg with your bros, sometimes you gotta drive drunk with your bros. Not all the time, but sometimes. It's a bro building experience.

11/23 12th and Rio Grande ATX: We showed up to this and it was like, a little hip college studenty thing. I feel like i probably could've gotten in a really boring conversation if i didn't get involved in psycho,hosebeast one with a drunken, jilted ex-lover. This is right where her house used to be and it must have brought back some memories. Ahhh..... memories. Like when i wasn't at this lame party getting bitched at by a drunk chick, but was instead far away at a frat party overhearing white guys make casual references to lynching. Austin, there's a reason why i left, but i want you to know, i meant it when i said "i love you".

11/23 26th and Salina ATX: For too long parties like this have suffered under the harsh rule of the keg line, and the despotism of the kegmaster. This loathsome distribution plan ruled by this facistic, TnA obsessed tyrant is a model for corruption, if not an inherently corrupt device, harkening back to days of yore when decadent kings decided who was metered ale based purely on a chicks and bros grading system. And we, the longsuffering "dudes", neither chick nor bro, our cries unheard, our empty cups unseen, cast out entirely from the process, our hopes for beer like a ship on the ocean, at the mercy of a greasy fingered oaf, what recourse do we have? Methinks the system could be replaced by popular revolt, but the landed gentry has the upper hand, the "bros" who actually purchased the keg are in control of where she stands, our only chance is to be rowdy ne-erdo-wells and encourage fighting, oftentimes provoking it. Then our numbers can be felt! Alas not for tonight, a three fights erupted all the aforementioned bros against se v eral ruffians of dubious ethnicity. The comments lobbed against a certain quadroon come to mind, but it does not bear repeating as some of the fairer sex have been known to peruse these pages with a keen eye towards the musings of CHIPS DOWN.

The Gantenbein Party


We were informed of this party by an old friend of ours from Austin. He described it as a dance party for a lady who had recently achieved the comfortable age of 26. We heard music as we rode past a tall manor of a house and stopped to survey the digs. The terrain was rugged to say the least. Not a bike in sight and no discernible motion in the windows. "What do you think?" Chips Down said with a cautionary brow lift. "Into the trenches, old friend?" And yes we went. Peter, there's only one, came out to the porch at that point which pretty much sealed the deal. "My negroes! My boys!" He called out with typical effeminacy, he was dressed in what I can only assume was woven tinsel...and possibly a shirt(?) tied around his jock. Peter, as a rule, dresses in a style I like to refer to as Future-shock. He's one of the coolest party staples in Portland, A veteran of too many tours to remember, as far as I know he lives on the front lines. So in we go. It's a beautiful house with giant windows and rich wooden trim. Lot's of expensive looking antiques but on meeting the people I bet they were just really good finds. See, the problem with being able to immediately appreciate the house is that there were absolutely no people to distract my attention. Granted, it was only 10pm when we arrived and Monday night parties, as a rule, are not to be trusted; I expected though that this was to be the general atmosphere throughout the night. I was not wrong. Only two more people arrived which made the head count, including Chips and I, a full 2 under 10. Oh and 4 people lived there. The first thing I hear the birthday girl say/exclaim belligerently upon our introduction was:
"OH PETER! I'm so happy! I've always wanted to have a dance party!!! Thank you!" Now this is not to say anything on Peter's general skill at organizing a party because I've seen his merits at work and he's earned those metals time and time again, but this was just sad and I felt really bad for this girl cause, shit lady, this is not a dance party and honestly it was no way to spend your birthday. I might have cried and been perfectly justified if it had been my party. But there was beans and rice on the stove, tons of wine, and some sort of cake which I didn't partake in cause as we all know: Uptown doesn't dig sweets. There you have it. The, and I use this title tentatively, "party" was lame. Which brings me to my next item up for discussion tonight: My friend XUI(pronounced: Chouwheiy) claims that I can't just be a hype machine and that I should write some bad reviews. The problem being that mostly I only go to sweet parties and here basically good music. Except for those guys at Centaur Guitar who played before Big Black Cloud I've really liked all the bands I've heard. So here Portland, help me out: I you're a fucking shit sucking band. Hit me up. I'll come watch your show and then write about how horrible you were!

Cook st. party

At nine sharp the chili went out and the party started off a bit sluggish with a few kids milling around the kitchen while Captured by Porches set up and the rest sitting in front of a television set with the volume off. Here Comes a Big Black Cloud played the first set. They opened with a couple of new songs which I will just take the time to note as being very very good. Drunk guy double fisting Icehouse in front of me yelled at one point that they were the "best band in the world" and "you guys fucking rock too hard" so there you have it. They're hit song/dance bash Gamma Ray seemed a bit sped up and a little off and this was a malady that would plague them throughout the rest of their set, though the crowd didn't seem to mind and they had all the same rock and roll soul presence they always do.
For the next good portion of this party I was just kind of grazing through the party mingle while what I heard was some old 90's music was going off in the background. Mostly I was just trying to get high(mission accomplished) as due to a horrible infection in my throat last week I am currently on antibiotics and cannot drink. So I'm high. And here I go casually walking past the basement when I realize that the alt rock I'm hearing isn't a recording at all. There's actually a band downstairs that's playing this stuff. NOTE: alt rock is some of my favorite type of jam...SUB NOTE: But that's late 80's early 90's stuff...Before shit like Train and Hootie really spread their wings...which reminds me: Sugar Ray will really sum up exactly what I'm trying to say about the downfall of alt rock. Regardless ya'll, that shit went hard it was that point where kids were hesitantly still calling this stuff punk but Mars music was shelving under the lovely Alternative label and we were all rushing for the shit. The Pixies. The Pogues. They Might be Giants...I believe by this time R.H.C.P was already running alt water for their spa baths and yes friends, Sublime cause just remember good music never spoils it just gets played out. Well the point of all this is to say that Magnus Opus brought it back to the day in a spirit that held this party on a pedestal of the music right. Not to mention that since these kids are from Brooklyn we West Coasters can expect to hear much more of this sort of music in about five years when the trickle hits us(I'm sure that after last night there will be some new bands forming around here...you'll see). They had a strong vocal lead and lyrics that were heartfelt and true to this generation's sentiment: Broken, disillusioned, and dare I say...Beat. Shit they even had a rocking kazoo solo what more do I have to say.
Bankrupt and the Borrowers I hope that in a few years their name will suffice as a review but for now I'm happy to do them the honor. This band carries that same heavy step of alt that I was referring to earlier though I suppose we might have to come up with a new label just to keep it trendy...maybe we'll just start calling it rock again? Eh? Who knows. With elements of noise thrown in and a sometimes out of place but often altogether perfectly set harmonica the sound is reminiscent of jazzy old country blues and that city sweat that comes after a hard day at work and a long walk home. Throughout the set the bassist and the guitarist would switch instruments and switch out on vocal duties, both held spectacular. I'm not sure the crowd was even ready for this sort of low income rock and roll gang bang but here it was and these guys demanded attention. Admittedly they started off a bit strange in my opinion but by the third song I had settled into their strange time signatures, extended intros, and off harmony singing. All of them were very talented musicians but the drummer, Worthless, beat out a solo that jammed the shit out of more than a few innocent bystanders...or perhaps that smell was just a side affect of everybody drinking home brew and eating loads and loads of chili. Well whatever they deserve the credit for every stinky bottom in the place. Check them out: myspace.com/bankruptmusic.
Popitilopitilous I hope I spelled that right. Tonight they played the best set I have seen to date. Black lights and color strobes, costumes and kitsch...oh...and tight jams. I've yet to pick up on the lingo ya'll here in the Northwest use to describe your local bands(and down in Austin we don't have anything like this) so I'll just call it space-wave and rest assured, it's a good sign. I know that most of the bands out there are like fuck contracts, text is for pussies, and all this and that but I really hope we figure out a way to get the mainstream to be our stream once again. I know it has to happen and so it will. But I just can't wait. I see more and more of these great amazing awesome bands popping up all over the country and I wonder if this is what it was like back in the day(say waaay back) when rock was rock and the drugs were cheap(though we still have to work on that cheap drugs bit don't we?), and then I think to myself: Well fuck it kids. This is our good time we're coming into here, don't equate. Don't relate. Just sit back, chill out, max in the shade and get ready, cause the best is yet to come.

halloween. 7th AND alberta?

I'm new to this city so I don't expect too much, and in my experience the party train in any town is often elusive at best, but there is NO excuse for this. Come on P-town! Only one party on Halloween night? Sure. I know what you're thinking with your giggles and smirks: Heh. This guy obviously didn't go to the party I was at. and granted. I probably didn't. Hit me up next time "Dude". Let's shake it loose. As was to be expected this party was...Drunk. But something about idiot underage shirtlss skaters in half-assed costumes beligerently howling about "this slut I totally did" or "that hottie in the" barely a bunny "bunny costume over there" really puts me out. The only saving graces I could find(and this is largely due to the enthusiasm generated by my BRAIN COSTUME I had eaten/donned earlier in the evening) were the hallway stobes which at one point so confused this one drunken lady that she walked, screaming to a friend, into a fucking wall four or five times in rapid succession before finding her way into the Juicy onslaught that was: the kitchen.
Perhaps it was the pop punk or the nigh-clothed teenage girls, or the boisterous tall assholes or the confusion lent of my brain garb...whatever. It felt like a low-income highschool future frat baby bash sans foam and free keystone light. I wasn't horribly impressed, even with the magic hippie trip I was experiencing. Kegs guys. Get some kegs.

saturday Before halloween. 7th AND jarrit?

Three dollars at the door and they are enforcing this toll. With the fence relatively free of bikes we lock up and go in, the walls are draped with black plastic and Metallica is blaring. It's early. A television set in the corner is playing Dead Alive with the mute on, a small crowd is standing around the set taking swigs from pre-party fifths the spirit is high. It's looking good. Captured by Porches was setting up and a band was about to play. Give it a minute or two. It's on. Save for my birthday the weekend before Halloween is typically one of my favorite party times and this is why: The kids start rolling in dressed in whatever their personal tastes have thought prudent, your shits out there for every one to see. Regardless of whether you've decided to grace us with your indie-genius like those clever enough to invent a walking pun, or your hipster-risque glam fashion bonanza's, or even just your last minute price tag. Best of all it's one of those special annual nights where everybody is dead set on getting THROWED.
The band starts, I don't remember their name, they have strobes of many colors pulsating at epileptic speeds. The metal is lead. As a disclaimer I'll admit that I don't like this particular style of deep manic monkey throat intimidating sequencer beat explosive public harassment jamboree, but I could tell that they were talented musicians who could probably land a text with Elektra or maybe Twizted's label. So keep up the good work guys.
I stepped up to the dance floor which was at this point bloated with the jumping flails of today's hot dance moves. Which I personally think is fun:
Uptown's guide to THE CROWD BURROW.

So here's how it goes. Step one: Attempt breach of swarming dance hull. To do this is simple, first you have to observe the mass and locate the most unskilled dancers, extend your arm to it's maximum reach and do a pop and lock wave maneuver deep into the guts of the beast(you will easily bypass aforementioned groove less ones). Now quickly. Rotate 360 degrees using your arm probe as leverage bringing the arm in as you turn. Extend opposite arm. Repeat these two steps with directional compensations in maneuver. That's it! Just keep your eye on the prize and you'll be there in no time! NOTE: If you don't mind being a pushy jerk you can also do what I call THE PUSHY JERK and just stick one arm out and slightly upward in a sort of heil move. Proceed to simply walk through without mercy. No regrets baby.

At one point I moved to the couch sitters section to talk with a guy I know from New Mexico all of a sudden my shoe disappears. Fucking disappears! I had to get down on my haunches and brave the 300 horsepower Italian leather clad meat tenderizer that was the bottom tiers of this dance jam trample fest. After rolling my way between kicks and drunken stumbles for like five I finally found my shoe on the opposite end of the room. It made a slurping sound when I slipped it over my sock which was soaked to the shin with party juice. It's these sorts of times when even half to halfway through a party I can just feel the greatness of the night. This is how I dig it. Outside there was a riots load of drunken citizens and no cops to stop them so let's just take a moment to thank God for beer, drugs, and great music to create a need for this sort of gathering lest the people should run wild with gang related warfare. I think it's lovely.
Next was LKN. She rocked with her hair on a whiplash spin cycle and everybody loved it. This dude in a crazy space robot cyber wendigo gwar monster costume had some awkwardly set shoulder spikes that slapped me in the face. It turns out however that the costume shot whiskey from a tube and so I quickly forgave the beast and grooved down a bit with it to the music; which I felt was sort of reminiscent to an early nineties grunge bit. I enjoyed it.

Show Me the Pink played and the basement was packed. I'll just say that I enjoy this band and the crowd burrow lent itself well(you don't even have to move yourself! It's like a tide, just relax and go with the flow), but I'm going to post a review by my friend XUI in New York after he heard them on myspace(I guess that drawing represents what he felt the jams would look like...I really don't know.)

Show Me The Pink
Current mood: cold

myspace.com/xui. He does comics.

I'm not sure if another band played that party but rumor has it that exactly that may be true. I went to another party. I don't remember where it was. But I do remember this: It smelled like actual poop. I suppose their was a poo shoe problem and the dance floor suffered for it. There was a large fire in the backyard. Every single guest was a woman that seemed aggressively unapproachable. I felt as if honestly I shouldn't even have been there. Listen. Ladies. When a dude at a party tries to talk to you don't automatically assume they are hitting on you or whatever it is you assume that makes you have those scrunchy little stink faces on when I walk by. That's dumb. That goes for you snobbish punkster bike hotties and Stalinist drab man haters alike. I don't care what your reasons are. A party is where people go to shake it off. Sure the majority of goers are going to get fucked up or get laid but that's beside the issue. Most of the people you meet will not remember you and vice versa. Everybody is interesting when you're drunk. Most people are actually friendly brain zombies that mean you no harm and might possibly grow on you in the future. Like old people always used to say: You only get one chance for a first impression. This has been Carrot's "Uptown" Wild reporting to you from a pee stank attic and I bid you adieu.