Again, it wouldn’t be a Musicfest post unless we had Byron Beck’s photos from the V.I.P. party. Here they are!

5:30 pm, Wonder Ballroom
No Age is starting on time. This is my ninth time seeing them in nine months in three different countries. Oh the multiplication and division fun that can be had with that statment. Drummer Dean Spunt announces “If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands.” People clap. (NMC)

6:01 pm, Thursday, Sept. 4. Wonder Ballroom: Maybe it’s just me, but No Age playing the free Nike show just seems super awkward. Most of the crowd is totally nonplussed, and the band’s stage presence—including guitarist Randy Randall’s anticlimactic climb-the-amp-and-then-jump-30-seconds-later move—seem a bit contrived, especially in such a large, cavernous space like the Wonder. I haven’t seen this band since I relocated from LA last year, and it’s strange to see two dudes play for a few hundred people instead of a few dozen. (MM)

6:30 pm Thursday, Sept. 4., The Crystal Ballroom.
TV on the Radio is rehearsing in Lola’s Room, with the volume cranked high enough that a particularly fervent fan might just notice from the street. This guy, with tiny glasses and a brown golf cap over thinning hair, is that fan. And he wants to know what up. “Is TV on the Radio playing upstairs?” he asks. “No,” says a Crystal employee. “It’s a…stereo.” “Really?” He asks. “But it sounds live.” The Crystal guy is adamant. “TV on the Radio is absolutely not rehearsing in Lola’s Room,” he says. “So I can’t get in?” “No.” The guy leaves. (BW)

7 pm, Wonder Ballroom.
Battles begins by guitarist and bassist Dave Konopka stepping out onto to the stage solo. He always comes out with the assurance of a Tarantino character. This time he’s playing sensei, with his hands placed together while he repeatedly bows. Kill Bill anyone? (NMC)

7:01 pm Thursday, Sept. 4. Fantasy for Adults Only on Burnside.
Holy shit! There are live lingerie models in the windows of Oregon’s biggest wretched hive of scum and villainy. Performance art or crass commerce? Meh—it’s hot. (BW)

7:18 pm, Wonder Ballroom.
Sweat sprays from Battles drummer John Stanier as he pounds his drum-kit intensely. It’s the first spray of many that soon becomes an endless cascade. (NMC)

7:31 pm, Thursday, Sept. 4. Wonder Ballroom: It’s all very blue collar, building layered and distorted electro-rock form the bottom up. Battles could have simply pressed the play button and let their many samples run on their own but that would be cheap. The many pools of sweat sitting on stage just a couple of tracks in proved their tirelessness. At times, digital chameleon Tyondai Braxton was manning the vox, guitar and keys at the same time and doing do nonchalantly. Hence, a crowd that was torn between rousing applause and shear shock. (MS)

7:40 pm, Thursday, Sept. 4, MFNW VIP Party, Wonder Ballroom Parking Lot: Shit. It’s going to be one of those “nights.” As I approach the attendees at the kickoff VIP party (including some I consider friends) to take their photo as the partake in the free booze, grub and the cool swag being handed out, I’m given the “talk to the hand” gesture and whole lotta of “No Pictures, Please.” Even the nice folks outside of the soiree, on the other side of the red velvet rope waiting to get inside the Wonder Ballroom to see the Battles, are throwing me ‘tude. “What the fu…,” I thought to myself. “When did Portland become soooo L.A?” Of course, the “real rock stars”—the cuties from the Thermals, the hot guys of the Battles, some hot chick from Loch Lomond and some guys I think were in TV on the Radio—were absolutely cool about me taking their photo. Oh, well. How much more rock star can Portland get? (BB)

Byron’s video of Julianne Shepherd, ex-Mercury Music Editor and current FADER editor, cutting a rug:

7:45 pm, Wonder Ballroom.
Frontman Ty Braxton uncharacteristically takes to the mic for a few words before telling Stanier to begin in oder to “save me from having to make a joke.”

7:45 pm, Thursday, Sept. 4. Streets of Portland: Trying to find parking on First Thursday… major fuck. There’s already a line stretching around the corner for the Crystal Ballroom. (WH)

7:50 pm, Thursday, September 4th. Holocene:
Since when did “What’s up, fucker?” become an appropriate way to greet an old friend? (RH)

8:00 pm, Thursday, Sept. 4. The #14 heading downtown: I’ve been out of town for a month. My plane gets in at 6:30 and by 8:00 I’m already MusicFest-bound. Tall guy sits down next to me on the bus with a MFNW wristband. I ask how it’s been so far. He talks about Mogwai’s set—too long for his taste, but the last two songs were totally worth staying for. We talk about beer gardens and massive, untenable crowds and get off the bus, headed for the Ash Street and Berbati’s together. (BS)

8:05 pm, Thursday, September 4th. Holocene: Just as I’m finished thinking to myself, “You know, despite the fact that they are playing this amazingly complex psych folk, Silver Summit looks like cocaine casualties from the No Wave-era New York,” I see two gents step out of the bathroom, looking nervous and rubbing their noses a little too violently. (RH)

8:20 pm, Thursday, Sept. 4. Crystal: Eskimo & Sons took the stage early Thursday night, dressed in formal attire—fitting dress for the group’s second-to-last show, and the final all-ages one. It’s somehow fitting that the now 10-piece act would conclude this chapter of their story at such a large all-ages venue, as they came up through the house-show circuit on the backs of the eager youth of our fair city. Saturday’s final hurrah with Chicharones (MCs Josh Martinez and Sleep) at the Towne Lounge will be a shout-out to last year’s MFNW, where friend brought on stage as a chorus of shaker-shakers and hand clappers, circumventing that institution of killjoy—the OLCC—exploiting the rule that performers can be underage onstage in the club. As far as final shows go, they couldn’t have done better, filling the Crystal to half-capacity by 8:30 and nailing their set under the watchful eye of bandleader Dhani Rosa, who faced the band like a conductor until, halfway through the set, Rosa shouted, “take ‘em to church!” and the Sons broke down into handclaps before exploding back into full sound with brilliant horn stabs, and the conductor became a preacher. He continued to direct the posse into—what he declared as—the final performance of “No Shit,” which they freaked into a funky rendition of Saint Kanye West’s “Flashing Lights.” It was a swan song like no other. (JS)

8:25 pm, Thursday, Sept. 4. Crystal Ballroom: Eskimo and Sons have taken the stage for their first ever (and probably last) performance at the Crystal and the 10-piece band (they were joined by the Old Believers’ Keeley Boyle and Nelson Kempf!) all look quite dapper. Danielle Sullivan is sporting an adorable blue strapless number and pearl necklace, while the boys have spiffed up their couture with ties, vests and suspenders. Fancy clothes for a fancy venue. This is the band’s last all-ages show, and second-to-last show before going on indefinite hiatus. (WH)

8:35 pm, Thursday, Sept. 4. Crystal Ballroom: Eskimo front-man Dhani Rosa prefaces their performance of “No Shit” (the song that made them a wee-bit famous) by announcing they will never play the song ever again after tonight. R.I.P. “No Shit,” we will never forget. (WH)

8:35 pm, Thursday, September 4th. Holocene: Apparently Silver Summit are a downright menace as singer Sondra Ow Sun-Odeon just informed the crowd that they were pulled over twice yesterday—once for speeding, and another time for endangering the lives of children in a school zone. (RH)

8:43 pm, Wonder Ballroom.
Sitting outside the venue waiting for my friend to arrive so we can hit up venues downtown, I find myself next to No Age and the duo’s instruments while they wait for their pick-up. I ask Dean how he feels about having played a free show sponsored by Nike and he talks about having weighed the pros of it being free as opposed to a sponsored show where it still costs money. It being all-ages and Nike flying the band out were also big factors. (NMC)

9:10 pm, Thursday, Sept. 4. Doug Fir: Hungry Ghost, a White Stripian male-female drum-and-axe duo, has fallen victim to Portland’s inability to dance to anything that isn’t Girl Talk. That didn’t stop the cheeky group from firing out pop tarts, distorted blues, sing-songy melodies, and rapid-fire changeups of an undeniably danceable nature. Cute-as-a-button drummer Sara Lund continuously referred to herself as a monkey, while guitarist Andrew Price gleefully dropped Sarah Palin jokes between bursts of song. It was a great set, so we’ll chalk the audience’s immobility up to respect and awe. (APK)

9:10 pm, Thursday, September 4th. Holocene: Something about the way Oxford Collapse bassist Adam Rizer just screamed, “Where the fuck are your animal rights?” in the face of some dreadlocked dipshit in the audience made me fall in love with them even harder. (RH)

9:30 pm, Thursday, September 4th. Holocene: OC singer/guitarist Michael Pace comments that drummer Dan Fetherston looks like a giant drinking his keg can of Heineken, prompting some random woman to yell: “Alcohol!!!! Woooooooooooo!!!!!” (RH)

9:40 pm, Thursday, September 4th. Holocene: Pace: “I’m going to do the most unpunk thing ever and drink some Vitamin Water onstage. I’m not saying it’s bad. I’m just saying it’s not punk.” (RH)

9:45 pm, Thursday, Sept. 4. The streets of SE Portland between Doug Fir and Holocene:

“Hey! Stop! Fuck you, motherfucker, what, are 14?”

I come to a stop from a healthy trot en route to Holocene following Hungry Ghost’s set. A friend, who had a slightly evil glint in his eye following a double-fisting session with old man Heineken, had knocked an empty trash can. A few minutes later, a sinewy dude with a shaved head is up in my face. This man is not happy. He’s power-walking. His fists look like fleshy hammers.

“You knocked over my fuckin’ trash can.”

“I most certainly did not,” I reply. It’s the truth. Technically, I didn’t even see it go down. My friend starts giggling like a Satanic schoolgirl.

“Well, your friend did,” he snarls. “You think this is fuckin’ funny? This is my neighborhood, bitch. Don’t fuck with my neighborhood.”

He starts to charge me. I don’t budge, physically or with my game of playing dumb.

“So,” I say as he get within striking distance, “you want to kick my ass for not knocking over your garbage.”

“I’m gonna call my neighbor down here. He’s got a gun, and he’s gonna pop a cap in your ass.”

I laugh.

“I’m calling the cops,” he says, pulling out his phone and pretending to dial.

“Cool,” I say, lighting a cigarette and leaning on a wall. “I’ll wait with you. Be sure to tell them that I didn’t knock anything over, and that you offered to kill me too.”

He pockets his phone. We begin to walk away.

“Cocksucking faggot bitch,” he screams.

“I love penis,” I reply.

“Going to Holocene? I saw that pass on your wrist. See you there! You hear me?”

“I’ll buy you a drink,” I say, not looking back.

We get to Holocene, and it’s completely at capacity. We walk up to the Slammer and have a beer, still laughing at our near murder as the angry trashcan man skates past the window—in the opposite direction of Holocene. (APK)

Photo break! Mark Stock’s shots (Battles, M. Ward and Deerhunter):

9:55 pm, the streets.
Tyler from White Fang tells me he’s just witness the aftermath of a stabbing at Satyricon on his way to the Roseland for the Cool Kids. A bloodied bouncer and an angry mob factor into the ghastly story. (NMC)

9:56 pm, Thursday, September 4th. Berbati’s: Girl in audience re: Port O’Brien: “I checked them out on MySpace and can confirm to you that they are really good.” (RH)

10:02 pm, Holocene: The willowy organist for the Bodies of Water is sporting a full length black unitard with a pair of white Keds, a look that, when paired with the group’s strident, deconstructed prog church hymns, makes her look/sound like Joan Baez and Jane Fonda struggling for control over the same body. I have trouble concentrating on the epic songs. I mean, is she wearing underwear? Underwear would really show through a uni like that…(KC)

10:07 pm, Thursday, September 4. Between Kells and the Ash St. Saloon: Just finished mooching another delightful meal and drinks with the parents and now setting out toward Ash. St. to catch Pure Country Gold. Still time before we part ways for me to hear my Dad be accosted by some kid just as he’s lighting up his ever-present tobacco pipe, though:

Kid: “Dude, that’s a siiick pipe. Where’s it from?”
My dad: “England. I’m, er, glad you like it.”
Kid: “Yeh it’s beautiful, man. I collect pipes.”
My dad (suddenly realizing he’s got the youth of America all worked out): “Ah, but what do you smoke in them? That wacky-baccy, I bet!”
Kid (gravely serious): “No. I’d never do that. If I want to smoke week, I use a piece, dude. If I catch anyone putting weed in my pipes I get very, very angry.”
My dad (as their taxi pulls up alongside): “Oh, I see. Well, we must be off. Have a good night.”
Kid (sadly): “I would, but I forgot to bring my ID, and my friends are all in the bar. It sucks.”
My dad (ignoring the kid and turning to my mother): “Didn’t I bring a jacket with me tonight?”
My mother: “Yes, you’re holding it, dear.”

My parents depart and I end up agreeing to go buy beer for said kid. Make it to Ash St. only in time for the last PCG song. Luckily it’s the one tune with the sweet riff I remember from the last time I saw them. Nice. (DR)

10:10 pm, Thursday, September 4th. Berbati’s: Hanging with Ryan from Builders and the Butchers, I see Isaac Brock making his way towards the bar. Somehow I’m not surprised considering that not only did Love as Laughter play tonight, but the band onstage, Port O’Brien, sounds a little too much like a countrified Modest Mouse for my taste.

10:16 pm, Thursday, Sept. 4. Berbati’s: I guess I wasn’t the only person brave enough to skip M. Ward for Port O’Brien—Britt Daniel, Isaac Brock, and a few members of the Builders and the Butchers are rocking out close to the stage. Port O’Brien put on one of the better shows I’ve seen this year in February when they played with Loch Lomond at the Funky Church, but tonight they are noticeably heavier with a new bass player and singer Van Pierszalowski switching to an electric guitar for the second half of the set. (MM)

10:20 pm, Thursday, Sept. 4. The Tiger Bar: It’s the Perfect Storm of amazing Portland tonight—to the point that I still haven’t made it to MusicFest. Instead, I’ve been enjoying the antics of the MFNW crowd spread all over downtown and generally having a great time; I’ve picked a fight with a convertible (cutting me off when I’ve got a walk light is
a $300 ticket, dickhead. $300); caught some First Thursday; ran into people from the Old Country and stumbled on a bunch of my closest friends outside the Someday; and given $1.50 in quarters to a street kid with the BIGGEST CARDBOARD SIGN EVER. Now we’re drinking in the Tiger Bar, with Karaoke From Hell as the backdrop. One of the karaoke musicians, a very Woodie Allen-looking fellow, strips down to his boxers singing a birthday song on the stage. I’m missing M. Ward and Port O’Brien, but I’ve made my peace with that. We leave looking for more drinks somewhere we can actually score a table, and are thwarted by MusicFest. (BS)

10:20 pm, Thursday, September 4th. Ash Street Saloon:Pure Country Gold is systematically tearing its songs and the eardrums of the audience to shreds. Jake Welliver has got to be the best drummer in Portland. (RH)

11:05 pm, Thursday, Sept. 4. Roseland: I walk in, and the Cool Kids’ bassline hits me like a punch in the ribcage. In the best way possible. (BS)

11:04 pm, Thursday, September 4th. Ash Street Saloon: In conversation with Lucas Jones, bassist for Mighty Ghosts of Heaven. Me: “How are you?” Lucas: “Ready to shake some ass! Duh!” (RH)

11:05 pm, Thursday, September 4th. Ash Street Saloon: Lucas is shaking some ass. As is most of the audience who came to see Coconut Coolouts. They have every reason to be doing so. (RH)

11:08 pm, Thursday, Sept. 4. Walking up West Burnside: On my trek up Burnside from Berbati’s to the Crystal we pass Aura and I nearly pass out from the combined toxins of cheap cologne and car exhaust. A drunk dude is trying to get in, pleading with the bouncer despite the fact that he probably couldn’t stand up straight. “You can’t get in with those shoes,” he says. I look down and notice a new pair of Nike’s so shiny they could be used as a bike reflector. I guess somebody got free shoes this weekend! (MM)

11:15 pm Thursday, September 4th. Berbati’s: The three backup singers for Pseudosix are gamely trying to do a synchronized dance routine, but failing charmingly. (RH)

11:20 pm Thursday, September 4th. Berbati’s: Tim Perry (Pseudosix front man): “How’s everything sound out there? Anything need to be turned up?” Random drunk in audience: “Everything! Whoooooo!!” (RH)

11:24 pm, Thursday, September 4. Roseland: Del’s just started playing and I catch myself standing up on tip-toes in a futile effort to reduce the impact of the booming bass on my full stomach. (DR)

11:25 pm, Holocene.
Starfucker is over rather abruptly. Half the crowd appears to be standing in disbelief, asking out loud if it really is over, since the trio seems to have stopped in the middle of a song with Josh exiting with his chair. He quickly returns and the band begins taking down its equipment while a record they sample in songs plays on. One girl in the doorway goes, “That’s it!?!” I wonder the same. I ask SF’s Shawn Glassford, who’s nearest me, if it was supposed to end like that and that early. He says yes. I’m still unconvinced. (NMC)

11:28 pm, Holocene.
People are getting their picture taken with No Age who have turned up at Holocene to catch Deerhunter as they said they’d do from the Wonder Ballroom stage. It’s odd that the group is doing the photos digital camera style when Holocene’s photobooth is mere feet away. (NMC)

11:45 pm Thursday, September 4th. Outside Berbati’s: Want to try to see the Whigs, Del, Deerhunter, Steel Pole Bath Tub. Remember that I’m only one man. Then I remember I’m completely exhausted and need to get home and catch some sleep for another busy day at the day job. Skulk home dejectedly. (RH)

11:46 pm, Roseland Theater: As Del the Funky Homosapien unfurls his last set of rhymes upstairs, the Roseland security staff gets down to the real business of the night, surveying the booty of items the club has confiscated from patrons. There’s a huge assortment of thick fat markers and a rainbow of Sharpies as well as a big plastic Safeway grocery bag bursting with packages of gum (mostly Orbit and Eclipse). What else? A travel size can of stiff hold hairspray, a couple of steel wrenches, an orange and two apples, a Leatherman, Clif bars and a full sized house tacker, the kind used to staple posters to telephone polls.”Sometimes they bring lube,” a young security guard with a blonde bob mentions. “Now that’s definitely weird.” (KC)

12:06 am, Friday, Sept. 5. Holocene: As Deerhunter begins its soundcheck one member is noticeably absent. It turns out the bass player is wickedly drunk, and then I remember seeing him stumble in maybe 10 minutes ago with a huge grin on his face and half-shut and the type of dark, unexpressive eyes that only come from a heady night of drinking. Maybe somebody had a little too much fun at Sassy’s? (MM)

12:09 am, Friday, Sept. 5. Holocene: Deerhunter frontman and internet celebrity Bradford Cox fills the time by taking questions from the crowd, requesting Lil Wayne’s “A Milli” to bring the “shape shifter” back to life, and telling us all how much he likes Mississippi Records and Rad Summer. Shit almost gets confrontation when someone asks Cox how much he weighs and he calls out the “Portland hipster” who says dumb shit and then won’t own up to it. The bass player comes out after puking behind the stage, takes swigs from a bottle of Maker’s, and somehow manages to lead them through a loud and cathartic set. How fucking rock ‘n’ roll is that? (MM)

12:10 am, Friday. Sept. 4. Roseland: I’ve always appreciated Del the Funky Homosapien for his music and his lyrics—but not for his flow. But live, tonight, he’s certainly not lacking for that. He’s even won me over to that godawful overplayed “sunshine in a bag” song the Gorillaz launched their radio career with. (BS)

12:15 am, Friday. Sept. 4. Outside the Roseland: A pair of amazing percussionists have set up outside the door, playing plastic buckets. One of them (who looks rather like Busta Rhymes) plays a bucket full of broken glass for a snare and a collection of bottles stuck in the holes of a milk crate balanced on a bucket; the other hits the concrete with his drum stick like a cymbal. A crowd justifiably gathers, eddying around the two of them. I give them MORE MONEY THAN I’VE EVER GIVEN TO STREET MUSICIANS IN MY LIFE before heading towards Berbati’s for Nada Surf, passing under the Paris Theatre sign advertising their weekly Sunday Hentai Night. That’s some journalism waiting to happen right there. I Twitter about it, and am immediately offered free tickets to one of my downtown gallery
owner friends. “You are a gentleman and a scholar,” I text him. “And possibly a pervert!” “I’m all three!” he texts back. (BS)

12:20 am, Friday, Sept. 5. Berbati’s Pan: I step into the Nada Surf show, and breathe in the volatilized sweat of hundreds of overheated hipsters. I’ve walked into an indie rock sweat lodge! “Pretend you’re in the ‘Radio Ga Ga’ video by Queen,” Nada Surf’s frontman Matthew Caws tells us, and yes, we all start to two-step for him. It takes me a while to notice that the drummer’s sticks aren’t just glowing, they’re changing colors as he applies them to his set. Trippy as hell. (BS)

12:43 am, Friday, Sept. 5. Holocene: After working through the murky sludge of a few of its slower tracks, Deerhunter play “Nothing Ever Happens” from the new record Microcastle, and it absolutely rips. The song spirals from two minutes of catchy, Breeders style guitar pop into a frenzy of ringing, noisy, cacophonous guitars. My jam of the night, no doubt. (MM)

12:45 am, Friday, Sept. 5. Ash Street Saloon: I ask the door guy who’s playing right now. He tells me “Sacred Chakra.” I manage not to laugh until I get inside. (BS)

1:05 am, Friday, Sept. 5. Someday Lounge: In search of a decent bathroom, I enter the Someday, one of downtown’s most tragically under-appreciated venues. But tonight it’s hopping, but not from the usual crowd—there are ball caps with ridiculously flat brims as far as the eye can see here. “Sometimes I Rhyme Slow” by Nice & Smooth bumps
from the DJ set, and in the bathroom I overhear someone say “Those moccasins are sick dude!” Oh, Portland. (BS)

2:21 am, Thursday, Sept. 4. Holocene: I’m not sure any member of Deerhunter could tell you where they just played. A bottle of Maker’s sat center stage, never ignored. Frontman Bradford Cox inserted the occasional Portland remark, quick to label the one about becoming a vegan after a bad batch of salmon chowder a complete and utter joke. Holocene’s tight quarters put a microscope over the atmospheric part-punk band, who managed a polished and extensive set. Cox’s warped mic was transfixing, emanating ethereal messages in a Poltergeist-like fashion. Best and perhaps most frightening band to get drunk with. (MS)

Bonus! Iconic photos from exclusive LocalCut photographer Jason Quigley:

Double Bonus: Check our Twitters! But don’t click the link at the bottom:

Music isn’t necessarily a pivotal part of any political convention, but speculation about McCain’s song selection was perhaps heightened after the Democratic National Convention where Barack Obama and Joe Biden waved to the crowd in a cloud of confetti while the sound system blared Brooks & Dunn’s “Only in America,” a song used by the Republicans during George W. Bush’s re-election bid four years ago. But if Rich is happy right now, Nancy Wilson called EW after “Barracuda” was played by the GOP and said, “I think it’s completely unfair to be so misrepresented. I feel completely f—ed over.”

StarStarStarStarStar

If music is a form of expression, Pawn Hearts is surely a masterpiece of music. The lyrical and musical content fit together seamlessly, oozing depressive and mournful moods into the listener's mind, and Hammill's vocal delivery only further improves the intentionally convoluted lyrical ideas of the stunning A Plague Of Lighthouse Keepers. Dissonant and furious tones, as well as tender, hopeful melodies, hammer in the maddening disorganisation of the world and light the all too distant beacons of the human mind. Everything about this album is expression, getting across moods and ideas. Clustered and claustrophobic production values add tension and give a slightly maddened and busy tinge even in sections where the music itself is sparse. The enormous studio experimentation and daring also tear their way in to the listener's consciousness, giving an element of unpredictability and anticipation to the three pieces included.

Of course, such an album will not appeal to everyone... it batters the human mind down rather than trying to entice it, and just as swiftly it withdraws into its shell, dark and nebulous... demanding real attention and involvement. However, if you are ready for the journey, if you are entrapped by this bleak and maddened atmosphere, there are few experiences quite as enjoyable and intense. Enjoyment might not be the obvious word for the result of so dark a piece, but it is the only word that really fits.

Lemmings, an apocalyptic psychological and philosophical piece, has the feel of the inevitable. Hammill's vocal creates uncertainty, fear and damning, sometimes mocking, condemnation equally without any restraint, and his 'what course is there left but to die... I really don't know' is indescribable in its emotional grip. A set of brilliantly written lyrics convey a life without real purpose, unable to simply happen, before giving the only answer, the only way to go about life, to live in the hope of 'saving the little ones', to seek the final meaning. Lyrically, it's basically the Still Life album in 10 minutes. The music is equally stunning, with jaunty acoustic parts creating a personal feel. Keyboards, both organ and more effects-based things, take a very prominent role in the more edgy schizophrenic sections, intertwining with savagely distorted saxophone gratings and licks. Guy Evans' percussion additions, leaving a lot of space for the leads, give a continual sense of interest and of the smaller spaces. The ending is derived from a drawn-out bit of negative atmosphere development, which is in itself quite unusual, and suggests a sense of futility and a lack of resolution. Masterful.

Man Erg is a contrast, in some ways, but so similar in others. It is more concerned with a philosophical question of free will, and Hammill's vocal, while no less personal and touching, is more grand and decisive. Lyrically, it is almost without equal ('I too live inside me/And very often don't know who I am/I know... that I'm no hero/Well I hope, that I'm not damned'. The compositional side has been a bit more fully approached, I think, with some very clever echoing of the aa-aa aa-aa aa-aa theme, a moving piano intro, and some of the overdubbing and sheer mass of contents that will characterise the second side. Organ and piano touches and melodies, sometimes attractive, other times utterly visceral, sustain a background, while Jaxon's saxes and flutes add dissonant disconnection and a soaring sense of positivity at separate times. Had I really been told before really listening this piece that a band could convey the uncertainty of free will, and a schizophrenic mind, I would probably have been of the 'pull the other one' persuasion, but Van Der Graaf Generator do manage it. And they manage it brilliantly.

A Plague Of Lighthouse Keepers is only lightly describable. This twenty minute suite, with an incredible density of material in some places, but at others stripped down and almost vacant, is daring in both instrumentation and sounds, using effects constantly and effortlessly to give a mystical gravity to the piece. It pulls in and drowns, and drags about the listener, demanding in the snarling voice of Jaxon's sax or Evans' insistent and crashing drumming, before leaving them to float in the ocean of reverent organ thoughts, almost feeling like an intruder in a sacred ceremony. Multi-part melodies and twists alternate with pure instrumental atmosphere, each fulfilling its role and creating alternately intimacy and distance.

Hammill's vocal in itself, lyrics included, deserves a full five-star review. His tones of uncertainty, aggression, demanding, bleakness, loss and demented hope are all so... expressed. Unusual vocal touches are here, choices of where to place the stress, developments in force, a willingness to sound different as the song requires it. The way he sings 'would you cry, if I died?' or 'alone, alone, the ghosts all call... pinpoint me in the light/The only life I feel at all... is the presence of the night' takes is loneliness embodied, the menace in 'no paraffin for the flame/no harbour left... to gain' is palpable. The resignation of 'now I am the stranger I stay in/ah, well' or the hope of 'Oceans drifting sideways/I am pulled into the spell/I feel you around me/I know you well'. The vocals are just so expressive and connective. It is incredible.

Just touching on the musical sections briefly, the opening Eyewitness is one of the finest introductions I've ever heard for a long piece, with bleak lyrics, distant, but distinct (as opposed to blanketing mellotron or organ) keyboard sounds give the isolated feel. SHM is menacing (and a play on HMS, coincidentally), with fierce vocal delivery and a compelling saxophone groove. Presence Of The Night/Kosmos Tours features some of starkest atmosphere, with the modulation of density at its high point and a particularly wowing performance from Hammill. (Custard's) Last Stand took a while to grow on me, but it has done so, with an attractive piano expressing a sort of hopeless dejection. The Clot Thickens likewise was a grower, with Hammill making particularly obvious use of vicious overdubs and a growling backing matching it. Land's End (Sineline)/We Go Now is the cathartic release of the piece, with an incredible solo that sounds like Fripp, but could be Banton, and an uplifting points of light in the ocean of being (to steal part of a phrase from Mr. Gabriel) image. All of the fear, all of the tension, that has been built up to that point, are let out inspirationally.

So... a masterpiece of progressive rock, however reused that phrase is.

Onto the bonus material: Theme One was a band instrumental cover of a piece written by George Martin and features some nice playing, especially from Banton, but doesn't really succeed the album's atmospheres, even if it does rather suitably prepare us for an overall decent set of bonus tracks. W is much more satisfactory, with strong vocals and tinges of psychedelia, even if it's cut off a bit short. The completely chaotic Angle Of Incidents is a delight to the ears every time, with rolling playing from Evans dominating the piece, supplemented by little growls or wisps of music from Jackson and Banton. Ponker's Theme is a more typical and melodic saxophone showcase, though it is enjoyable. Banton's Diminutions is another set of dark textures, this time very keyboard-centric. All in all, a very respectable set of bonuses, and the superb Angle of Incidents would probably justify a purchase of the remaster if you really enjoy the album.

Well, love it or hate it, I can't name an album as purely given to expression as this one, and that alone makes it worthy of the masterpiece title. Adding to that, it contains a lot of very interestingly and neatly incorporated studio-based experimentation, and the all too rare, even in the classic period, complete and unpredictable control of the music's density. A final point for my 'objective' judgment is that Hammill's lyrics and vocals on this particular album are even more superb than his other performances. I'd consider this the finest ever album in that aspect. Thus, I think its status as such a prog landmark is entirely deserved, and even someone who doesn't expect to personally enjoy this sort of album should own it and engage with it. Personally, the album is an incredible experience, with almost physical pull at times. I love every moment of it. Either way, it gets a masterpiece rating from me, even if Van Der Graaf Generator's superb discography offer a couple of albums that are even more enjoyable from a personal viewpoint

Rating: Five Stars Favourite Track: A Plague Of Lighthouse Keepers

by TGM: Orb


VAN DER GRAAF GENERATOR Music Online:
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The show began with Phil Collins’ “In the Air” blasting through the club’s PA while the stage was dark and absent of the man of the hour. As the song finished, Tricky and his crew took the stage and tore through a set that consisted of tracks from the new album. Curiously, he dove into one of KWB’s most somber songs, “Past Mistake,” early in his set, as he sang along with a female singer (who had decent singing chops but couldn’t dance to save her life). It seemed that uptempo numbers like "Puppy Toy" are indeed his newly found forte, and he appeared to be in a trance while spitting his lyrics. A Jamaican MC joined Tricky on stage to perform a cut from the new album, but it was far from the brilliant cameo his colleagues in Massive Attack typically muster up.

Tricky continued his back-and-forth with his female vocalist, though much of it seemed too dramatic after a while. The real stinker of the night was an awful cover of XTC’s “Dear God,” which appeared on 2003’s mostly dismal release, Vulnerable. Despite the night's flaws, Tricky's new material is some of his best work in a decade; perhaps more shows with his hired hands will help the music evolve in an organic manner. In terms of his performance, however, he's hardly selfish: Tricky might be a superstar in some circles, but he seems completely open to sharing his stage with anyone who's on his vibe.

image by Darren Ressler

Just in case you’re wondering, yes, now is the appropriate time for a lame “Bulls On Parade” joke. Undoubtedly, the decision to have a second RATM show was completely brilliant. We mean, who doesn’t love a riot? Here are five other riot videos to help get you through the day:

1.

Really, when a band actually has “Riot” in its name, some shit is probably going to pop off.

2.

Here’s an easy recipe for a riot: Tell some Exploited fans there's a show, wait till they’ve put on their wickedest outfits and slicked their hair all up, then cancel the show. Bam! Instant riot. The best part of this video is the dipshit at the :37 mark trying to break a windshield with the back of her shoe. We’re pretty sure we dated her.

3.

This one is probably our favorite riot. It happened in 1983 and it was insane - one might even say wild, wild, wild. Girls rocked the boys, some guy had a funny face or a dirty mind or something, and leather vests were really popular.

4.

Can someone please tell us who that lesbian is at the :30 mark? She looks really familiar, we just can’t place her. Thanks.

5.

Okay, okay, this one isn’t exactly a riot, but it really caught us off guard. It’s only :40 seconds, so watch it. Apparently, the gentleman on the left did not appreciate that the other gentleman was styling on ‘em. - Shea Serrano

• GEMM, Vinyl Records & CDs Rare Albums (Out of Print and Imports)
• AMAZON, find cheap, used and new stuff with the marketplace
• eBay, used or new | bid or buy now