Shellac, Night 1 (Spoiler Alert!)
I am feeling profoundly inarticulate in the wake of seeing Shellac play at Mississippi Studios last night. Of all the indie throwback tours running around the country right now, throw your money on this one (it was only $12, guys!). Old men put on a good show. Especially when one of those old men is Steve Albini—the savant sound engineer and musician famous for that Touch And Go sound. See, a properly searing guitar can tear open the room, can unite it. It's no small thing.
The late 1990s were a vital time for me, because I was angsty and in college and surviving heavily on angry music. "If you're heterosexual and you're angry, this is the kind of music you make," said Derek last night when I mentioned that I'd forgotten what a woman hater Albini was. I probably didn't forget, actually—I probably just didn't care because back then I was a lass of 17 with no real opinions of my own. I'm all grow'd up now. I'm a liberated woman working in an industry run by men. And I only have so much tolerance for chauvinist rants—even if they are just to get a rise. Which is most likely what Steve's doing. He's too smart to be a chauvinist.
Aaaaanyway, it was a nostalgic kinda night, and, as if to accentuate this, Fred Armisen of Portlandia fame was crowded right in there by the stage with all of us. The dream of the 90s IS alive in Portland!!!
For all you friends going to the second show tonight, get there early cuz Shannon Wright is the business and you don't want to miss her ...
FOJ
We're hot off the holiday weekend—which happened to be really hot. Tis okay, the Fourth of July is supposed to be hot. It's the natural order of things.
Friday, went to the river—an excellent little beach/swimming-hole combo fringed by a set of rapids on either side that you can ride down on, say, a tube. There, we all swam and tanned until we were impossibly crisp from the heat. The dog fetched, like, a million sticks. Or one stick about a million times.
Saturday, skated Mini West Linn—an excellent little park where we could all skate or sit happily in the relative cool under a deciduous tree canopy. Later, there was a BBQ function at Derek's house, where I grilled and ate a giant mushroom and then drank too much whiskey as the neighbors' renegade rez-bought mortars lit up the sky all around us.
Sunday, well, Sunday was a day for rest.
Ben blew up a watermelon, and George got the shot.
Party people.
Swamp thing.
The Summer Scene
I am trying to take it slow and maintain a respect for the summer. All its bounty. It came on so hot and fast—my lawn already cooked into a hay-colored patch (a development usually reserved for later in July)—that I'm kinda worried I might get sick of it?
For instance, my stomach didn't want BBQ food on Saturday night after having feasted on it Friday night, too. Another veggie burger, blahhh. Instead, I ate PB&J before riding my bike to the Q. And Sunday? We couldn't muster the energy to go swimming after having roasted at the river all day on Saturday. Instead, we just skated and sweat in the heat and humidity and then lazily sipped beer and booze on a patio under swollen thunder clouds.
Every night, apocalyptic sunsets blow up the sky. Fires are burning to the North. 100 degrees is in the forecast for multiple days this week. Is it the end of the world? Aw, well, Armageddon ain't so bad, I suppose ...
Sun-dappled trails into swimming holes, etc.
Lefty likes to catch a cuddle wherever he can.
This is how you hydrate. Right????
Favorites 6.25.15
Reading on the deck after dinner: Like, 25-30 pages. Nice, quiet way to tie up the day—just me and the dog and the cat and that one bird that hops around picking at the cherry pits under the tree.
Mt. Tabor hill bomb: Apropos of Monday's post—hike up through the forest; roll down the switch backs. The perfect pitch—no need to powerslide it out, but you don't gotta push, either.
Stella Taco: A newish taco join on Alberta Street where we all went one warm Saturday eve and sat at a high table with our feet dangling like toddlers and ate fried avocado tacos and drank ice-cold drinks and didn't want to leave.
True Detective Season 2 Soundtrack: Hey it's just original songs by Nick Cave, Leonard Cohen, Lera Lynn, etc—all strung together in a musical tapestry that's deep and rich and chilly all at once. I mean Lynn's This Is My Least Favorite Life from episode 1—DANG. T. Bone Burnett curates here, so, yeah...
