August 23, 2003
A Brief Musical Interlude, With Digressions
In general, I don't put this Music Scene category to much use, because I don't, frankly, have the proper skills to be a music writer. But on this lazy Saturday night as I rest up before going to try to take many pictures of tomorrow's Adult Soapbox Derby, I figured I'd pass along a short note.
Last night, I trekked down to the Burlingame Acoustic Room (where'd I'd been exactly once before, to see Kaitlyn ni Donovan).
The venue is not the point of this item, but before I move on I should say that what appeals to me most about Burlingame (although they really do need to dim the lights more during shows) is what I've come to call the Passerby Effect. There's something of a rare charm in the fact that the stage is set directly inside the corner windows, so pasisng pedestrians and bicyclists might conceivably be drawn by the sights and sounds of live music. I also have something of a liking for the location being right onthe MAX tracks, so you get to watch little still-life tableaus of city life pass by outside.
But anyway. On this particular occassion, I was there to see Painted Birds (who I've seen several times) and The Brother Egg (who I'd never seen before, although I'd seen their singer perform some of the band's material solo), about whom I can only say that I'm not entirely certain just what planet they came in from, but it's certainly a curiously interesting culture they've brought with them to communicate.
To end the constant digressions, on to Painted Birds, who mainly consist of Clint Sargent of The High Violets and Justin Frey of Hoary Poury, but occassionally include various others, including the aforementioned Kaitlyn ni Donovan.
It was on this particular occassion that I remembered to tell Clint and Justin the strange but compelling image I had received from the ether while they were playing a few songs during Kaitlyn's regular Wednesday gig at Conan's (where I never go except for that weekly appointment).
What had struck me that night, suddenly, was that Painted Birds seemed as if they should be a band of travelling minstrels wandering some post-apocalyptic, neo-medieval Europe.
This does not necessarily help you to decide whether or not to catch one of their shows -- although you should, if only for "Going Down," to which every properly bar-going Portlander will instantly relate, probably in a way that will eventually make the Birds sick to death of playing it.
But the rather revelatory image that had struck me days earlier seemed to go over rather well with the Birds themselves. So take that as you will.