Clubland: The World Ain't a Ghetto
By Ron Garmon
My Grinchy Heart Grows Three Sizes: Whatever pulls me out of L.A. these days is likely to be female, and my trip to Portland a couple of weekends back was no exception. The lady’s Burning Man-issued name is “Sublimity,” after the tiny mountain village outside Salem where she lives. We met at this year’s event and, while I can’t tell you what she sees in me, I was struck instantly by a breathtaking arrangement of blue eyes, thick red hair, curvaceous athleticism, and serene disposition, so little would do but to fly for my first-ever visit to Oregon. We renewed our on-playa romance in-between jaunts to Powell’s Books, Silver Falls Park, and, on my way back to PDX and home, a Saturday night party at Pendarvis Farm.
Eighty acres of hillside pasture and forest crowned by a sprawling house and backyard amphitheatre, the Farm is a cop-free Arcadia about 20 minutes outside Portland. There was an amplified bluesy thud throbbing from the house as my ladyfriend and I padded up the hill, deep in a long psycho-spiritual colloquy, which was serendipitously repeated nearly word-for-word from the stage by Scott Pendarvis, as the white-whiskered governor of the place rapped in Beatified ecstasy of a world-spirit throbbing beneath our heedless shoesouls. It was “Church of the Get Down” night and my girl was proud of the hippie jamboree the Portland underground was putting on for us.
Questions of distance aside, when a nature-loving mystic with the heart of a Charles Dickens heroine meets a merry cynic whose life resembles a Burt Reynolds movie, there can only be, at best, the kind of intense feeling that precedes a tender goodbye; a whole eon of romance compressed into mere hours. In parting, we spoke the name of our love and I found, amazingly, my heart overflowed with it as the plane touched down in LAX mid-morning Sunday. Even the shuttle driver regarded me with loving kindness while charging double the quoted amount to cart my fabulous hillbilly ass to Boyle Heights. I smilingly informed this child of God he was a God-damned crook before sending him away with bright blessings. And my money.
“Which One’s Noah?” These good vibes have followed me since, yea, even unto the flash-frozen cool of Spaceland on a Monday night. By the time I arrived, Noah and the Whale were holding forth prettily from the stage to a packed house of tyro hipsters and over-medicated lokes. From London, this band plays casual and accomplished folk-pop, rather like The Free Design with a shot of corn squeezins cranking into a formidable Raspberries-for-hillbillies thang on more vigorous numbers. If there’s one thing Angelenos cherish dearer than Anglophilia, it’s pop sweetness, so the response to N & the W was vociferous and, for the attitudinal deep-freeze that is Silver Lake, astounding. Cheers greeted the end of every number, the hippie-love vibe reached Portland levels, and one hammersmashed-drunk kid bellowed “Which one’s Noah?” as his fishmouth gaped in startled delight. His question was swallowed in a general uproar that continued on after the seven-piece act finished and clambered offstage, gaining in volume until the band came back on. Non-headliners rarely do encores at Spaceland, but love so suffused the room that even the PA held its peace until N & the W romped back on for a clipped cover of the Smiths’ “Girlfriend in a Coma,” with singer Charlie Fink having a heroic go at Moz’s yodel. With such an undercard, why bother with headliners, I thought while leaving, grinning like a cheetah at this massive crack in the carapace of Silver Lake anomie.
Eagles of Dead Mettle: Huddled with my lady Josie on the floor of Pehrspace last Friday night, we were pleasantly surprised to find One Trick Pony better than its dreary moniker would indicate. The cozy artspace on the downtown fringe of Echo Park was packed with a date-night crowd rather more subdued than the usual raffish hipsters. OTP was a three-piece highlighted by wiseass byplay and the catgut ecstasies of Charlene on the violin. Chamber rockers outta Durham, NC, The Physics of Meaning sported a fiddle as well, along with the obligatory synth and the usual rockist impedimenta. Violinist Daniel Hart contributes his mite to The Polyphonic Spree on occasion and the band retains a bit of the same boholy-roller vibe, which killed in the tiny room. Fierce, fragmented and, ultimately fugue-like, it was like a small absinthe taste of Portishead or a teeny Halloween of the soul. Impressive.
Published: 10/15/2008
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