Jeffrey Lewis opened the show last night with a variety hour. The New Yorker and his companions (including some family from Portland) performed some simple rock tracks with jingly songs whose topics ranged from changing apartments to men’s ulterior motives.
He also had “films” which were oversized drawing tablets with sequential comics that he flipped through while rhyming an explanation. We were treated to the evolution of the written word and the creeping brain. Cute, cute, cute.
Jeffrey Lewis has a kitchy, fun, I’m-a-nerd-on-stage quality that some people get into—he expounded on his theories on winning in Vegas and sang songs that were not trying to reach significant depths; kind of like prefunking with a bright, reclusive friend who has you over for drinks and show and tell.
By the time Jeffrey Lewis departed the stage, the Doug Fir’s pine-cozy den was nearing capacity. The Ra Ra Riot gang, who had been lingering in the audience—their lead, Wes Miles, sipping pre-show hot beverages to warm up the tonsils—were on without much delay, and, between the bass and strings, generated a fun chamber pop/rock sound with a touch of sophistication.
The boys in the band were graphic-tee’d, tight-jean wearing hipster-looking bros, while the girls had their hair coifed high with spray, and more formal dresses to match. At moments, like during the title track of their new EP Ghost Under Rocks, the band would form two lines: the bass, drums, and guitar forming the back, the front composed of cello, violin, and vocals. Thus, the lungs of rhythm and rock billowed the breath of the melodic strings and high-end vocals. The band attempted to bring the stage alive with this breath, channeling their energy into frantic wriggling worm motions.
The dark backdrop of blues and reds fit the somber, bittersweet sound: good music for sweaters, tea, and looking out of windows at rainy days while processing some inner angst. Young and fresh looking, Ra Ra Riot was received with mixed enthusiasm by the crowd.
Minutes later, the Cribs took the stage, and I'm telling you, the brothers Jarman look a lot alike. The two have the same bowl-and-clipper haircut. They also have a blue-collar British savagery about them—straight out of Wakefield, England—apparently. One of my favorite lines was when the ragiest of the lot, Ryan, went off for a period between songs, and his more conservative kin said told us, “If he’s lying to you, I’ll kill him.” Just the kind of spit and determination that rock music needs.
Their music reflects a like-it-or-leave-it attitude: their songs have a lot of speed and energy in the vein of Art Brut and the Strokes, and the lyrical content is somewhat repetitive and shocking in its belligerence. Touring for their new album Men’s Needs, Women’s Needs, Whatever, they deliver content like “I'll never forget how all this begun, And I will never regret a thing I have done.” The only stilted, canned thing about them is a patent chorus of “Oh, Oh, Ohs” that permeate their songs. That, and their sailor shirts.
Ah, the sailor shirts. Even some of the more die-hard fans, up in front trying to jump-start a mosh pit, had sailor shirts. The Cribs had a stagehand lurking around the side to pick up the odd dashed cymbal or mic stand. It seemed like he didn’t have enough to do; maybe he was wishing they could have been crazier and justified his job. In sum, we should have all been twice as as drunk and mean—come out with some blood-soaked clothing—and called the night a seedy dive-bar brawling success.
