Molly is an accomplished jazz and blues singer who has sung aboard the Royal Yacht Britannia before the Prince and late Princess of Wales, and performed for Nelson Mandela and Quincy Jones. Sheesh, no small potatoes.

And she's also a real character -- and I mean that in the most positive of ways. She'll bring that character (not to mention her considerable knowledge about music) to the weekend edition of Radio 2 Morning, which airs from 6-10 Saturdays, and 6-8 Sundays.

(If you'd like to know a bit more about Molly and her new role -- she was the focus of a recent article in the Toronto Star, Molly Johnson Takes Detour Through Radio 2.)

Today also marks the launch of another opera season, and over the next several weeks SAATO will present some Canadian productions and a major operatic event from Quebec City to usher in autumn. In addition to performances from Vancouver, Victoria, Toronto and Montreal, Bill Richardson will team up with his Espace musique colleague Sylvia L'Ecuyer to present Operalia, an international operatic competition led by Placido Domingo. As far as today's opera goes, it's a Vancouver Opera production of Beethoven's Fidelio -- more on that later this morning.

And here are the show highlights du jour:

The Vinyl Café ( 10:00 a.m. 10:30 NT) Host Stuart McLean is back for his first new show of the season, from Georgetown, PEI, featuring two young PEI singer songwriters -- Jenn Grant and Tanya Davis. Plus a new Dave and Morley story, all about what happens when there's too much sugar and water in one backyard...

Radio 2 Morning, Weekend Edition (Saturday 6 a.m. to 10 a.m. 6:30 NT; Sunday 6 a.m. to 8 a.m. 6:30 NT) Molly is in The Chair! And from that chair she'll chat about music including something from "inside the spirit" of Africville with Joe Sealy, plus brand new music from the great R&B singer, Solomon Burke.

Deep Roots (Saturday 11:00 a.m., 12:00 AT, 12:30 NT) Tom will showcase the French Canadian "supergroup," (as much as a trad Quebec music group can be one), Genticorum. Other highlights include an ode to Halifax from Lunenberg’s favourite son (guesses, his initials are J.P.) and from further east -- an indie collective made up of a mix of musicians from Tom's home town of St. John’s.

Inside The Music Saturday Edition (12:00 p.m., 1:00 AT, 1:30 NT) presents a new series called The Nerve: Music And The Human Experience. (See Wired For Sound for more info on the first episode.)

Saturday Afternoon At The Opera ( Saturday 1:00 p.m., 1:30 NT) Beethoven's Fidelio, performed by the Vancouver Opera Orchestra, starring Carole Wilson and Richard Margison. [More on the opera later this morning.]

In Tune (Saturday 5:00 p.m., 5:30 NT) Katherine looks at how classical music is finding its way into the world of high fashion -- and the the world of business management.

Tonic (6 p.m.) Tim Tam goes back to school today, not literally, but musically, with Jimmy Bowskill's Schoolhouse and James Hunter's Class Act. You'll hear both students and teachers on the show (and also some music from a 12 year old saxophone player -- they sure start 'em young these days).

Canada Live (8 p.m.) Corb Lund and the Hurtin' Albertans start the show, from the stage of Edmonton's Rexall Place, and Ann Vriend finishes it, from the legendary Yardbird Suite.

The Signal (10 p.m.) Pat presents a concert of improv and new music performed by bassist John Geggie, but featuring the cello. (Actually not just one cello - two -- and a piano, a double bass and a number of reed instruments.)

For July’s update, click here.

So, while this post comes early September, make no mistake, this is the breakdown of the August playlists. It was a fine update, featuring 13 artists (not including Indiefeed Hip-Hop artists, thanks to Dirty Dutch, good look on the playing) from several continents and a slightly ridiculous 249 songs. That being said, a lot of the music was looking backwards, a hip-hop retrospective spurred by the stellar line-up unleashed at Rock the Bells at Shoreline. So I’m not going to break down old favorites like De La Soul, Nas and Rakim other than to say if the names sound new to you or you haven’t heard the old albums, it’s time to do some crate digging. This update did some traveling in both time and distance, but also had some brand new things from right here at home. That being said, enjoy.

Amadou Balaké, Señor Ecléctico: This 2008 re-issue of this African born singer’s earlier work is a raw and beautiful collection of 70’s recordings displaying a wide range of musical styles and explorations. The album moves along at a very pleasant pace and features an undiluted exuberance and musical and vocal harmony fusing summery world music that can at times sound too pre-packaged in today’s world releases. Lilting guitars, solid horns, funky bass and solid drumming all share the stage. Some tribal, some soul, some funk and some reggae all permeate here in equal parts to make for a fantastic mixmatch of sounds that is often enhanced by the lo-fi quality. Don’t Sleep On: “Djeli Fama,” “Mousso Be Torola,” and “Kambele Ba.”

Black Kids, Partie Traumatic: If you haven’t heard of this group yet, you’ve missed this summer’s indie media darling. This Florida spun band featuring a brother and sister revels in the punk pop and retro synth movement with solid walls of guitar and a mixture of male and female leads. While they originated right here, they recorded and broke out across the pond and opened for another artist we dig over here, Cut Copy. While some of their pop tricks fit perfectly in songs that go great on repeat, others stretch to points of annoyance including a chant straight out of Wizard of Oz. All in all though, the album brings the mesh together and produces several dance and bursting with excitement tracks that have trouble staying contained in the speaker. Don’t Sleep On: “Hit the Heartbrakes,” “Hurricane Jane,” and the vibrant and danceable “I’m Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance With You (The Twelves Remix).”

Buika, Niña de Fuego: The raspy voice of this Latin Jazz chantreuse takes on 13 tracks of various tempo and emotion, all to incredible results. Soft spoken bass parts, muted drums, delicate guitars and understated piano provide beautiful backdrops over which Buika’s voice soars, painting a variety of musically engaging pieces. Even though I can’t understand a word she’s saying, and therefore probably lose much of the poetry offered on this album, the range from smoky romantic tunes to unrestrained and energetic tracks aid a variety of places and moods. Don’t Sleep On: “Culpa Mia,” “Arboles de Agua,” and “Mentirosa.”

Cao Fang: While I only went for some singles from this Chinese pixie popster that made the leap into US consciousness on the back of a GE commercial, many people will go in for the full albums, of which she has two. Sharing our friend Scott’s enjoyment of the Melodica, Fang brings an airy and light voice to pleasant and soothing melodies. Don’t Sleep On: “Scarecrow in the City,” “Icy is a Gentlewoman,” and “Orange Juice.”

Hanggai, Introducing Hanggai: I first heard about this group reviving parts of Mongolian folk music and mixing it with rock and pop influences from Pitchfork. But while I got to read about them in July, for some reason iTunes didn’t have them for me until August….they were worth the wait. The use of throat singers, lute player and fiddle (horse-hair mind you!) creates an album that is at times a bit unaccessible for some, but at others an extremely enjoyable ride. Don’t Sleep On: “My Banjo and I,” “Flowers,” and the next big bar “Drinking Song.”

Murs and 9th Wonder, Sweet Lord: Little Brother alum and star in his own right 9th Wonder uses his signature soulful and retro hip-hop beats to collaborate once more with Murs of Living Legends. What’s more intriguing about this one is the tie to other Internet freebie releases from Radiohead and Nine Inch Nails, what was termed a gift to their fans. The album rips, Murs spitting incessantly over beats that never fail to engage. But don’t take my word for it. Go download it for free!

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:

Meanwhile, after the showcase be sure to head over to Berbati’s Pan where that other Bladen Co. PDX cornerstone and 2008 BNB champion the Builders and the Butchers plays its own MFNW show tonight, going onstage at 1 am.

And in other Bladen Co. news, the label has announced plans to launch an inhouse media wing under the moniker Bladen County Media, while the next year will see distribution expand with both the coming inauguration of Bladen County Distro and arrangements made recently to work with indie online distributors IODA—known ’round here as the dudes who scored Blind Pilot the iTunes “free download of the week” spotlight.

Oh Captain, My Captain

Links:
Bladen County Records
Oh Captain, My Captain

Photos courtesy of Bladen County Records

Wild Beasts are possibly the hitherto missing link between The Associates and Orange Juice. For here’s a band who match up the operatic vocals of the late Billy Mackenzie with the white funk guitar work of Edwyn Collins’ erstwhile employers. You could call this a Postcard from Scotland then, but Wild Beasts actually originate from Kendal in the Lake Distict. No matter, ‘Limbo Panto’ is that rare thing; a record to get excited about.

Clearly much attention will be paid to the remarkable vocals of Hayden Thorpe which meander between low register crooning, high-pitched warbling and aggressive rasping in a suprisingly appealing manner. Yet just as endearing is the intricate work of the remaining band members who produce some quite unique songs.

The record begins with ‘Vigil For A Fuddy Duddy’; a strange yet gorgeous pop song, characterised by harmonies, jangly guitar and jungle beats and it ends with the haunting music hall of ‘Cheerio Chaps, Cheerio Goodbye’. In between, ‘Woebegone Wanderers’ and ‘The Old Dog’ are brilliant and weird enough to make them sound like lost treasures from Mackenzie/Rankine songbook.

Naturally, on a debut album of such brave diveristy we can expect not everything works quite as well. The likes of ‘The Club Of Fathomless Love’ and ‘Please, Sir’ err towards the overly-theatrical but even these relatively weaker tracks boast at least one great melodic twist.

Granted, Thorpe’s unconventional work in front of the mic is unlikely to appeal to everyone and they’re not the first band to rely on jangly guitars. However, Wild Beasts have fashioned a record which combines 1980s indie pop with amateur dramatics and produced frequently brilliant results. That fact alone is worthy of the highest praise.

Web Sites:
Wild Beasts Official Site
Wild Beasts MySpace

Further Listening:
The Associates, Orange Juice

Let’s Pretend is a rock-pop album bright with energy and sweet rhythms lead by a female voice that takes you prisoner for the length of the recording. Susannah has an articulate and sensual vocal style that fits the song selection well. Her tone is also very suitable for jazz as well so if for some reason she decided to take that path at some point I would not be surprised.

The first five tracks show Blinkoff in a good light, focusing on her compelling vocals backed by good music that is an effective blend of pop and rock for her style. “I Got Lucky” gets your motor running while “My Time Now” makes a personal statement. Both tracks should receive heavy airplay and I think be earmarked for singles. The following tracks maintain a similar level of consistency until she decides to cover Billy Joel’s “Vienna.” Unfortunately, I just covered the Legacy version of that album so I did not think this was a good choice for me to hear. I guess timing is everything. Her vocals have a distinct sedated feel to them, like everything changed to slow motion. That was the only stinker in the whole lot here as the next five tracks pick up where she left off with excellent vocals and music. “Be Alright” has a country-rock atmosphere with some smokin’ guitar licks as the singer takes flight and follows the music as if she was meant to sing a song like this all along, it is absolutely one of the highpoints of the album. “Live On” also has a country-folk-rock thing going on and a very serious overtone that carries on through the entire run of the song. “The Storm Is Passing Over” sounds like an old spiritual passed down through the ages - it is one of the few tracks that Blinkoff did not actually write but she does a great job with it and makes it her own.

All of this proves what a great and versatile talent Susannah Blinkoff is. She nearly covers the extent of genres all in one album and leaves you feeling there is yet so much more to discover with her. This is a good thing for the artist trying to make her mark and gain new fans. This process should be a natural thing for this woman. The sky is the limit for someone with so much crossover ability.

Artist: Susannah Blinkoff
Title: Let’s Pretend
Genre: Rock-Pop
Label: Bunnyhead Music
Myspace
Source Link

Tracks:
01. I Got Lucky
02. My Time Now
03. Good to Be Here
04. Turn to Me
05. Let’s Pretend
06. Vienna
07. Be All Right
08. Live On
09. The Storm Is Passing Over
10. So Amazed
11. Texas Girl At the Funeral of Her Father

© MuzikReviews.com

Keith “MuzikMan” Hannaleck

Netlabel: blocsonic.com

Info

Once again… back is the incredible! Here we have another excellent netBloc release for you. It’s always a pleasure to bring you this monthly collection. This month we’ve got music from Basque, US, France, Russian Federation, Netherlands, Poland, UK and Canada. The music included is as always quite varied… trip-hop, rock, indie folk, hip-hop, indie pop and pure electronica. If you enjoy this collection… please burn a copy… burn a few copies if you’d like. Give them to friends.

Be sure to check out the blocSonic Netaudio Guide: 2008 at the end of the PDF booklet or online.

Tracklist

01 - Seiurte - T.V. Show
02 - Just Plain Ant - Revolution (Featuring Precise)
03 - Amanyth - Sooner or Later (Featuring Christina Courtin)
04 - The Kirbi - Armada
05 - Paper Tiger - Sandy
06 - Cezary Ostrowski - The Airport Dots
07 - After The Ice - Thursday Morning Waking
08 - Daniel Maze - Herons Are Mellow
09 - Brigitte Bijoux - Seduction Douce
10 - The Wind Whistles - Where Does the Garbage Go?

Download (right click, save as) (120MB, 320kBit/s)

zip

DAMIEN JURADO
Caught in the Trees
(Secretly Canadian)

By Todd Lavoie

If Damien Jurado ever decided to take a break from music and funnel his creative juices elsewhere - not that I'm encouraging him to - I reckon fiction-writing would be his new calling. The Seattle singer-songwriter has long been a recipient of Raymond Carver comparisons, having built a decade-plus career upon crafting taut, literate tales of quiet alienation and shattering despair that share the same spirit with that of the piercing-stared short-story master.

Having largely foregone the confessional fess-ups of, say, Elliott Smith, Cat Power, or Mark Kozelek, Jurado's indie folk-rock (and occasionally just full-on, unhyphenated rock) tends to stick with character studies and immersions into the emotional lives of others rather than directing the pen towards the ins and outs of his own heart. Or, so I have gleaned from reading interviews with the man, anyway - ultimately, whatever ratio of storytelling-vs.-autobiography offered up in an artist's body of work is known to him and him only. In any case, these portraits-in-miniature have not only made for gripping listening over the years - credit duly given to Jurado's wounded, earhole-snuggling hushes - but they've given a solid argument for daydreaming about the possibilities of a literary career for the singer.

Jurado's latest, Caught in the Trees, probably won't shoo away any such reveries, either - the disc continues what is now a longstanding tradition of engrossing first-person-narrated fiction set to equally absorbing melodies. According to the press kit, it also took longer to make than any other in his catalog - one that is now nearly double-digits-deep with releases. Whether this was due to outside circumstances or the nature of the songs contained within, I am not sure, but the album does offer plenty of that trademark Jurado intensity.

Better yet, Caught in the Trees might also be one of the most collaborative in his career; bandmates Jenna Conrad and Eric Fisher played a considerably larger role this time round in developing Jurado's songs, and it shows. Rather than sounding merely like the work of a singer-songwriter accompanied by backing musicians, the new disc feels like a transmission from a "proper band," albeit one centered on a particularly compelling lead vocalist. Consequently, Jurado comes across as quite energized here. Contrast his newest with its predecessor, 2006's ghostly late-night shiver-inducer, And Now That I'm in Your Shadow (Secretly Canadian), and the power-surge is striking to say the least.

Vulnerability, mistrust, and infidelity figure prominently in Caught in the Trees' dissections of household discord, as do pills and drink. Narrators disappoint their lovers, and lovers disappoint the narrators. Couples harbor secrets from each other, trying to delude themselves into thinking that pushing onward - blind eyes firmly fixed - is preferable to tackling the dread and the fear head-on. Suspicion never strays too far, nor do the lies. Awkward moments and the gut-squalling possibility for confrontation loom overhead, storm clouds ready and waiting to tear it all asunder.

Listening to the disc, I was immediately reminded of, yes, Carver, but also, for a more contemporary reference, Anne Enright's riveting Booker Prize-winning novel of household dysfunction, The Gathering (Black Cat/Grove/Atlantic). Like the much-lauded Irish author, Jurado possesses a gift for tossing out straight-to-the-point turns of phrase that have a spectacular way of simultaneously punching in the gut and raising a sick smile to the lips. The novel's deeply troubled (but occasionally admirably witty) narrator, Veronica, offers up an unblinking worldview, largely informed by disappointment and dark secrets. As scorched-earth as her sentences might sometimes be, there's something impressively scrappy about her fighting instincts, her lacerating sense of humor.

Caught in the Trees brawls with a similar pluck, tying fist-raised declarations to arrangements that tend to be decidedly more rock-out than much found on recent Jurado releases. "You'll be happy to know / the situation is worse," he taunts on the electric guitar-chugging, pencil-tapping-propelled kiss-off "Coats of Ice." Far from self-pitying, Jurado's narrator instead appears to be reveling in the bile, as evidenced by the chorus: "You look like you could use a rest / you look like you'd be better dead."

Elsewhere, Jurado sneakily suggests, "You must remove the skin and burn it all for fuel," (the vaguely Sonic Youth-y "Caskets"), while his assertions that "I don't ever feel like getting well" on the anthemic midtempo number "Go First" sound downright defiant in their embrace of self-sabotaging behavior.

Such actions appear throughout the disc, with characters often acknowledging that they're doing the wrong things before going ahead and doing them anyway. As easy as it is to shake one's head in frustration when a friend or loved one shoots himself in the foot like that, there's a certain train-wreck fascination with reading about or hearing about such fuck-up-ery - chalk it up to the benefit of having some emotional distance from the events.

That said, Jurado offers plenty of such moments. Particularly noteworthy is "Sheets," a piano-and-guitar slow-burn accented by occasional disembodied handclaps: "Is he still coming around like an injured bird needing a nest? / A place to rest his head in a song you'll regret / Lord knows I don't want to compete / But I still sleep in the very sheets he's been in." Ouch. Wince.

Want another birds-eye view of homes in turmoil? Try "Dimes," a slow-gathering acoustic storm with Jurado deftly juggling brittle-hearted soul-baring and bold-faced bravado. His first words out of the gate? "I've got dimes by the dozen / I'm placing a call to your husband / Does he know about me at all?" As a possible response to or extension of "Dimes," its follow-up, the breathtaking cello-and-piano ballad "Everything Trying," guardedly offers olive branches between a feuding couple: "And I would come back and admit that it wasn't your fault / but I'm tired and unwilling to be the only one who was wrong."

Perhaps the most affecting of these bitter slices of life, however, is the crunching, feedback-biting "Best Dress," a Neil Young-evoking portrait of an unhappy couple pretending things will get better. "Hey now, put your best dress on / I'm tired of fighting," Jurado begs in an injured, hopeful wail while Conrad renders exquisitely downcast harmonies. "Let's take it out on the town / Do some old-style dancing." Meanwhile, the drums pound away like a vague approaching menace as teeth-baring squalls of guitar swarm around the couple. Do they know it will all fall apart once again? Probably. Will knowing this keep them from trying? Probably not. Are we, the listeners, all the better for having witnessed the damage? You bet.

Here's a clip of Damien performing "Last Rights" from Caught in the Trees:

DAMIEN JURADO
With Jennifer O'Connor
Sept. 10, 8 p.m., $12
Independent
628 Divisadero, SF
(415) 771-1422