Thursday night's Doug Fir show with Hurtbird, Mosley Wotta, and Empty Space Orchestra was the perfect band “blind date.” I had read Hurtbird’s personal ad in the Mercury and noticed the upcoming show. I then stalked websites, listened to tracks, and read biographies. Smitten all-around, I knew we’d get along beautifully.
Empty Space Orchestra lived up to its name, opening first and filling the empty space early in the night. Without saying much, they expressed their love for "instru-metal” music by starting with an ambient hum and ending with an outright head-banging jam session. Empty Space chose loud-and-layered over isolated-and-punctuated (even with the saxophone), so it was difficult for me to latch on to anything. I liked their moments of funk-influenced rock, but strictly instrumental bands work best when they choose a prominent instrument, like a violin (Talkdemonic, Dirty Three). They possessed enough mystery and passion to keep me interested, and the drummer was both bad-ass and adorable. I’ll definitely keep my eyes open for them next time I’m in Bend.
In addition to my date with Hurtbird, I really looked forward to meeting Bend’s hip-hop funk fusion sweethearts, Mosley Wotta (read: mostly water). Their online profile impressed me, marking them as quick-witted, streetwise social activists with big hearts and tons to say. Frontman Jason Graham asked that we not to be too cool while they’re performing, took the lack of audience response with a gentle laugh, removed his shoes, then began to rap solo with only a kick-drum to keep time. The name Mosley Wotta refers to mankind’s predominant biological common denominator, water -- a metaphor for unity through music. I was moved by his message and conviction: the more you love, the more you know/the more you know, the better you feel/so lets make love at every meal; and each life has a goal, gonna live and die/each death is a change only life provides/each dream is a life which exacts a price/fill my head with smoke. He accompanied everything he said with charades and gestures as if trying to convey travel directions in a foreign language. Graham brought with him a lady named Stephanie Slade, who danced when he spoke and provided tidal waves of vocals on par with Merry Clayton. A gang of shadowy men supported the hip-hop effort with funk-contoured keyboards, bass, drums, and an eye-catching Chicago Blackhawks jersey. Maybe it was circumstantial, but unfortunately, Mosley Wotta drowned the too-cool, ominous personality of the Portland petri dish (the Doug Fir on a Thursday) with an energy it clearly wasn’t able to digest.
Where Mosley Wotta cleared a path through the spoken-word jungle, Hurtbird stomped down the branches and followed. Their approach was subtle yet certain, adding bits of disparate genres in equal measure. First it was hip-hop; then, when we were convinced that was as far as they could reach, they threw in tribal chants. Then when you thought they were all serious business, they slipped in a love song about mechanical pencils. And when you thought they don’t know how to ride bikes, they schooled you on pedaling real fast around the city at night. “I Like My Bike” is an unambiguous head turner. It’s Hurtbird’s "Love Shack"; maybe their other songs are important, but this one sticks. A deadpan, “I like my bike it’s fast, it circles around the city lights…” followed by the anthemic: Our fair city, she fades/we are far from home we must say goodbye/My legs grow tired as the sun sets/we are almost home/Following each other over and under the bridges and the alleyways and talk to each other/the buildings and the avenues. If a song about riding bikes through the city is campy, these guys will be the first to tell you. The balance between making fun and making an impact is evident in their stage presence, in their poetic delivery, and in Ryan Hayes’ dapper sweater vests. Hurtbird has a grand vision for hip-hop, and I think they’re on their way to success, especially with OPB music already taking notice of their original approach. They fit in well with the Portland music scene – combining dark, introspective lyrics with vintage sound-clips; enough irony and goofball content to keep the young’ns happy; and that indie-rap thing that proves to have some pull these days (see: Die Antwoord).
The question I was left with that night was, "Is it better to be a musical purist and keep the genres separate, or to innovate at the risk of losing people initially?" I suppose the same thing happened with indie and country – we now have a thriving community of alt-country artists and fans – but I remember hearing Jenny Lewis for the first time and being so appalled by the occasional country twang that I wrote her off for years. Now I can’t go a day without immersing myself in banjos and harmonicas. Perhaps the same fate is in store for indie-hip-hop.
