Adolescence was tough. Because of this, I’ve spent a fair amount of my adult life trying to put my adolescent self behind me. There’s something about Marnie Stern, though, that brings that out, and makes me want to summon my adolescent self and say, "hey, what do you think of this?" "You, who sits in science class doodling pictures of Angus Young (schoolboy shorts, cap, horns & tail); you, who ranks classic rock guitarists on college-ruled notepaper (1. Hendrix, 2. Page, 3. Beck, etc.) - what do you think of this babe that’s up here shredding and screaming into the microphone and stands for everything about butt rock that you love but somehow is something else, something more interesting, less pigeonholed?" My adolescent self would respond, I imagine, with "there’s not enough kick-ass music anymore," which, is right and is exactly the appeal of Marnie Stern. So, when I go down to Mississippi Studios on Friday night, I have my adolescent self in tow. He gets in using my ID, whose picture conveniently looks a lot like a fatter version of him, and in total defiance of my adolescent self’s express wishes, we go upstairs and find a comfortable seat.
The first opener is Sielaff/Schonberg, whom I know nothing about but quickly learn to respect. The band is comprised of drummer Lisa Schonberg, 1/3 of the former Explode into Colors, and bass clarinetist – that’s right – Jonathan Sielaff. The band is set up on the floor, Schonberg facing the audience and Sielaff facing her. The first surprising notes from Sielaff’s instrument, which my adolescent self and I cannot see because, remember, he’s facing the other direction, elicits a sort of WTF?, not really being the sort of sound we’d expected, and in fact being easily mistakable for bagpipes for a moment there. But it’s a beautiful sound, rich, dark, heavy, crazily ambient and expertly complemented by Schonberg’s drumming, which is largely understated until it becomes time to catch some people’s attention, build some tension in the room, and explode it with this whirlwind of sound that makes it easy to forget really how sparse is the instrumentation producing it. “Sounds like Black Sabbath,” my adolescent self comments, and in a very distinct way, it does. A strange epiphany indeed.
Another local act, AgesandAges, follows. Eight people crowd onto the stage, where several of them will make use of multiple instruments, which adds to the clutter. I count four guitars, including the bass, two dedicated backing vocalists, and at various times as many as six or seven people singing in harmony. There are moments when shades of Dylan are discernable, if one can imagine something sounding Dylanesque with all those extra vocals in the background. Their sound is a restrained cacophony of optimistic pop, distinctive for the layers upon layers afforded by the mass of humanity that has been gathered and put to the purpose of creating this music, but at its core, it's something that fits very neatly into Portland’s indie-pop scene. You’d think that a band that lets multiple people stand up there and sing backing vocals and bang tambourines all night would appeal to some sense of teenage democracy, but I am clearly enjoying it more than my adolescent self, whose arms are crossed, brow furrowed, waiting for the “kick ass” part. I think we both sense that that isn’t really what AgesandAges is about.
Then, finally, the moment my adolescent self has been waiting for. Marnie Stern and company take the stage, do a little bit of soundcheck (“Empty vagina 1,” she says into the mic. “Empty vagina 2….Full, peppy vagina!”), and then, evidently satisfied, jump right into the music, so fast that it takes everyone a little while to be sure that they’re actually performing now. The conclusion that the show has in fact begun is only really clinched when, half way through the song, the houselights finally go down. Marnie is completely on her game, but the crowd isn’t satisfied. The sound is apparently a little too balanced, meaning, perversely, that the guitar will have to be further jacked up. As soon as the song ends, the calls for “more guitar!” can be heard from all over the room; a cause which Marnie quickly makes her own, adding her voice to the chorus of input. So, the soundguy complies, guitars go up, the band begins to wail, and my adolescent self is fucking loving it! And so is everybody else. Marnie comments that this is the best crowd of the tour. “I might even get laid tonight!” My adolescent self moves to raise his hand, volunteer his services, but I catch him, shooting a very adult-like reproving glance in his direction. Yeah, but who am I kidding? Marnie Stern inhabits the stage like a beast, a sexy alter-ego of Ozzy Osbourne. She summons heavy metal in this kind of anti-genre, abstract form. Her rhythm section, workmanlike, paints this image of structure, a platform from which Marnie launches herself, headfirst and fingers unleashed, into flights of sonic fancy - the audial equivalent of a Dio album cover. Yeah, my adolescent self is all over this, he’s lapping it up. I’m into it too, but kinda finding myself wishing that it was a little more concise, a little more like the album. It’s a prosaic concern though, one founded on an appreciation of the music less rooted in the raw emotion. I’m thinking, in fact, that my adolescent self may be onto something. Heading for the door after the show, we see Marnie hanging out by the merch booth talking to fans. My adolescent self wants to get our picture taken with her. But part of being an adult, unfortunately, is feeling sheepish about approaching good-looking strangers, especially ones that can shred like that and make you feel, ironically, like your adolescent self. So, acting upon that excess of grownup self-consciousness, I shake my head and direct my adolescent self toward the door.
