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.