Magnolia Electric Co.'s show at the Doug Fir Lounge in Portland, Oregon sold out early (apparently, a lot of people here are really into this guy Jason Molina). After the show, I lingered around the exit where I heard versions of "That was the best fucking show ever" from dudes fastidiously checking and rechecking to make sure their show posters weren't getting sweat waves. Did I mention it was hot?
Let me start from the beginning. A San Diego band called The Donkeys opened with a sunny set of 70's pop—three-part harmonies and all—that morphed into a rollicking bar jam. The guy in the sound booth seemed to be having a difficult time syncing his disco ball with their fickle set, but you couldn't tell. The guys in the band were drunk anyway; at one point they had to restart because the drummer thought they were playing a different tune. This was a minor misstep they blithely laughed off (guys in bands are pretty cool about things like that). All in all, they were entertaining, smiling and laughing like funny summer camp counselors clowning for their impressionable—if slightly drunk—group of kids.
After The Donkeys kicked their way off, the crowd thickened and the heat increased. I found myself standing next to a couple of anticipative dudes in their mid-forties, one of whom was busy extolling "The Brown Box," an item I assumed was somehow for sale over at the merch table. He later added that it was only for "Completist nerds like us." Right on. Once the artist formerly known as Songs: Ohia took the stage, a rowdy bunch in the back started hollering like drunken cowboys (I suppose you'll have your hollerers at any show, but this one was, like, super hollery). At one point, Mr. Molina even asked them to "please quiet down" so we could all hear him sing. They obliged. Sort of.
Up to this point I'd been tailing this slight, introverted girl to, you know, figure out what she was "about." The mystery was solved by her earnest clapping in response to Molina's request for the crowd to shut up—of course: she was a serious fan who couldn't hear for shit! I'd followed her down into a sweaty armpit, so before long she surfaced for air, repositioning behind a boisterous group of guys. One was overjoyed, shouting all the lyrics and pogoing up and down like a human-sized piston. I wondered what she thought of this guy’s interpretation of the music. Would she kindly ask him to tone it down? Clap negatively in his direction? Reposition again? I watched as she nodded to the wickedly nostalgic encore of "John Henry Split My Heart," tossed her empty cup in the trash, and split before crowd gave its last holler.
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Check back Wednesday for an interview with Jason Molina!
