Dog and Pony Episodes

Travis Cyr

Thu, 18 Nov 2010 09:09:59 -0500

The Scene

Some Great Magnet

The morning we drove 8 hours I started the day by working for 8 hours before that. It was nothing special. Maine State Wardens failed to send us a picture of a missing boy but in the end he was OK any way.

Nothing we could do to help.

I had lunch with my girlfriend at 158 Pickett. I made friends with a dog.

Packed.

Got in the back seat of Nick’s G6. We, Nick and myself and Nick’s girlfriend Catherine, picked up Jakob Battick and his girlfriend, Marisha, and we rode.

Rode.

The CD player died. Forced to talk with each other. We made fun of our stereotypes of Northern Maine.

Driving through Houlton, four and a half hours into the trip, I mark the northernmost point I’ve been on the continent. And we keep going.

We drop off Nick and Catherine at the Hampton Inn in Presque Isle. There’s a P. I. High School class of ‘75 reunion. Graying mustaches and plastic cups of champagne and whiskey.

I steal a cookie on my way out of the lobby.

Jakob, Marisha and I drive on to New Sweden.

We arrive at 9:30 and set up our tents in the lights of Nick’s headlights.

In a cabin we find Jesse Pilgrim playing with his girlfriend, Margaret, Andy Barbo, Putnam Smith and John Nels. They play for a bit, rehearse Jesse’s music.

I head to bed. I’ve been up for 24 hours.

Arootsakoostik is a singular event.

Generally when I think of music in Maine, I think of it in terms of Portland. Good shows at Space, Geno’s, Slainte. The musicians clustered around Machigonne, generally not straying further than Lewiston and Guthries or Biddeford and The Oak & The Ax.

But then there’s Arootsakoostik.

Nestled up in Maine’s pompadour, it’s an outdoor music festival over two stages on one day.

Travis Cyr curates it, drawing some 26 diverse acts to play under the wide open skies of Northern Maine.

Portland acts like some great seine in the river, trapping acts as they flow south.

Arootsakoostik is some great magnet, attracting the shining Nickel of Maine music to it’s lodestone stage.

And it’s lovely.

There’s a community, an isolation about the event that pulls musicians together at Thomas Park on Station Road in New Sweden, Maine. There’s no distraction to take away from the music. There’s no city lights, no ambulance sirens. No one who isn’t there for the music.

And what’s more, all the money raised goes right back into the park. Goes right back into that crazy stage with excellent acoustics. Goes right back into creating this wonderful festival that has, for three years now, pulled a bright glittering ore of music up to The County.

When I awoke the day of the concert, I saw miles of blue. I saw green countryside opening its arms before me.

I saw the whole day ahead of me.

Edited by Rodney Devost
Audio by Krister Rollins
Shot by Nick Poulin and Rodney Devost

Farewell to Lady Lamb

Wed, 27 Oct 2010 19:38:27 -0400

The Scene

Lady Lamb The Beekeeper - She’s Leaving Home

The last day of Summer 2010 was - in keeping with the rest of that season - warm, clear and delightful well into the evening.

The city of Portland buzzed with an arc-sodium glow and passers-by cut through the still of the night air, laughing and finishing their errands and carousing as Nick and I sloped down Bramhall Hill to Aly Spaltro’s apartment.

Thinking back, I get this impression that the night was very dark, black above the bubble of light projected from the street lamps and stadium and store neons. Like Portland was settled at the bottom of an abyss.

We arrive and hear her guitar and her voice bleeding through the windows into the parkside night. The doorbell doesn't seem to work, so we wait until the song finishes and tap on the glass. She pulls back the red curtains and peers out. She welcomes us, 'you weren't waiting long, were you?" She sounds genuinely concerned.

She shows us in, her apartment is stripped bare except for her rehearsal space. She's got candles and art still on the walls. The rest of her possessions are packed in boxes and cases, lined up along the walls. She's moving, she's leaving. But this little woman with a big voice is giving one final gift in an infectious, hooky ode. "You are the apple, you are the apple!"

She performs with a sincere, fervent burn. An ardent multitasker, she juggles guitar lines, a pear shaker, guitar effects, a kazoo, drums and, of course, her voice. She lightly steps on pedals in oversized shoes.

She wears a white summery dress.

It is the last day of summer, the start of the Fall. Autumn is, in fact, an hour and a half away as we record this performance and we're bidding farewell to summer and to a juggernaut in Portland music. Despite her diminutive frame, Aly's as big on the scene as her voice is on her.

She's playing ‘You Are The Apple’ on her first electric guitar. It's 'just a Mexican Strat' she says. And she's selling it before the move; she has a Tele now and she only has room for one. She says it's an awesome guitar, though. The T-Rex sticker agrees.

She's selling it, by the by, at an auction at her farewell show at Space Gallery (Friday, 10/29).

It feels like an iconic piece to me, for some reason. I'm glad it can stay in Portland. We'll always have memories of her cream colored axe with the calico pick guard and dinosaur stickers and the voice booming out above it.

She’s also selling her Ibanez acoustic at the show with a custom purple paint job courtesy of the artist herself. The 8 track that she’s recorded basically everything you’ve heard of her is set to hit the block, too.

I’m saying bring money to the show.

Aly was born in New Hampshire, raised in the southwest, gone to Germany and finally moved back here 7 years ago.

She’s been playing for about 2.5 years. Her first performance was at a tea shop in Brunswick that has since closed up. She got encouragement from her family and peers and decided to try the open mic at Slainte. After 3 weeks of not being able to push herself through the door she finally stepped in, plugged in. She got the last slot.

Will Ethridge and Johnny Fountain were there for that Portland inauguration and helped push her back out the door at Slainte and into her current position as darling of the scene.

And now she’s leaving. And it’s one of those bittersweet situations that the Germans probably have a word for but in English you’re left with a clunky, underwhelming sentence. Lady Lamb the Beekeeper is a prodigious talent and well loved in Portland, but she’s run into the limitations of Portland’s scene.

She can’t go anywhere if she stays here.

And someone with her talent and verve needs to get out, needs to get exposure. She needs what Boston and eventually New York can offer.

As a Portlander, my heart swells with pride that we’ll be able to say “DIBS” when her career takes off. But I keep thinking back to that blackness that hung over the city the night we filmed. Portland’s music scene is thrilling, it’s wonderful, it’s filled with talent and it sits at the bottom of an abyss. Undisturbed, in a way, by the whirling eddies and currents above it.

It’s a great scene, I love it. The City has an environment that’s very musician friendly, and the community rallies and supports each other. It is a great town to find out who you are as an artist, but there is not much of a chance for getting noticed beyond Portland without leaving and making your mark out there. And that’s a real shame, because there are beautiful and talented creatures here.

So Aly is slipping away, gliding off past the lip of the chasm and surging headlong into the waters of Boston and New York.

And she’s singing:

Alligators are here under the water.

You devour my heart you devour my heart like a strawberry cake at a birthday celebration

I need your love

I still need your teeth 'round my organs

For you are the apple

You are the apple.

Spose

Wed, 08 Sep 2010 16:42:19 -0400

The Scene

Official music video for Spose's hidden track "The Cask" off his new album The Audacity, set to hit stores this fall on Universal Republic Records.

Director: Nick Poulin
Producer/ Set Designer: Ryan Jarochym
Writer: Ryan "Spose" Peters, Nick Poulin, (Edgar Allan Poe)
Track by: Ryan "Spose" Peters, and Principal Dean Productions

Posted by Nick Poulin

Jacob and the House of Fire

Mon, 26 Jul 2010 06:05:38 -0400

The Scene

A couple years ago I met Jacob at a party. It took me a while, but I finally realized I had just recently listened to his album “Harmonia” through one of my friends. I probably spent another couple of minutes trying to figure out how his singing voice matches a man of his stature, but all first impressions aside, Jacob and I seemed to be completely on the same page. He was talking about his new band he was forming in Portland, I was telling him about my ambitions to be a filmmaker again.

What seemed like a one time meeting quickly budded into a friendship (it helps that we both loved beer, and ended up at the same parties time and time again.) Cut to now, and it’s almost unbelievable how each of us has grown.

Jacob’s band (with all new line-up, now known as Jacob and The House of Fire) has just produced what I can easily call one of the best albums Portland will ever hear. “Frontier” not only contains masterful songs, but they each build on one another like building blocks until the whole thing comes crashing down in some intense, beautiful fury.

Now I know no one has heard the record yet, I had to beg for it for about 2 months before I could get my grubby paws on it, and I’m one of the extremely lucky ones. But you’ll just have to trust me when I say Coyote is only the very tip of the iceberg. It’s track one on the album, and a very quiet and convenient place to start (or build from).

I was so struck by this album (struck is a poor word.... Maybe blown away, ripped apart, thrown down a flight of stairs, brutally murdered....) that I had to put a project into motion. (now seems the best time to make this announcement, so here goes...) Jacob and the House of Fire and myself are collaborating on a feature film, featuring the music from “Frontier”. It’s called “Naked Knife” about the life and death of one man, the absolute love of his life, and the demons that grow to ungodly proportions over his lifetime. Think of it as all encompassing, every aspect of life and death, and how it affects our everyday lives. It’s about the choices we make, and how they will eventually make or break you. To say the least, the band and I are excited about our future working together.

The day we shot Coyote was one of those 90 degree scorchers, so when we put 12 people in a room together, turned on 8 bright lights, the collective sweat could easily fill a bucket. At the same time, the heat added to what we were trying to achieve. It seemed the more the band perspired, the better their performances became.

This is a band where every member has to wear their heart on their sleeves, and that’s a tall order when you have 10-12 people on stage on any given night. As I scanned over each individual with my camera, I loved seeing how each person feels the music in a different way, something I tried to capture when editing the video.

As I move forward on the feature, and the band works harder and harder to land a much deserved record deal, I can’t help but feel that Jacob and I are at step 2 in our ongoing pursuit. At one point we dreamed of step 1 becoming a reality, and now it’s time to focus even further into the future, push our creative energy, and keep plucking that chicken.

Posted by Nick Poulin

Christian Cuff

Tue, 01 Jun 2010 08:11:58 -0400

The Scene

Every project that I've undertaken while being a part of [dog]and[pony] has been completely different. Each video takes on a new life, represented solely by the artist and his music.

So when we were given the opportunity to sit in with Christian Cuff while he transitioned his songs from live European performances into an organized album, we knew this project would be unlike anything we had worked on before.

The first day I worked with Christian I drove down to Chester, NH. Christian and Joey were trying out a new drummer (they'd been through three or four and wanted a different style on the new record).

Before the drummer arrived, Christian played me some songs. A lot of them were low key acoustic numbers with a little bass behind them. Not exactly my cup of tea, but I wasn't about to tell him that.

Later that day Dan Boyden showed up and within the hour he became the spark to the explosion of music that followed. I found myself completely overwhelmed by the new sound of the tracks. They took on new life, new energy, and I really liked them... A lot.

Watching that first collaboration play out was exciting and inspiring. I saw slow acoustic songs become energized, explosive, epic tales of love, loss, and a search for identity.

Seeing this group of people, so passionate, so dedicated, and so energized by these songs, really inspired me to put forward my best effort on the video. I wanted people to see how good this album is, how far it had come, and the many reasons they should make a ten dollar investment in hearing it some more.

And while it all came together Saturday night at Space Gallery, I realized the last seven months flew by a lot faster than I wanted. Christian and I are now good friends, his new record is being released, and the video is finished. It seems like yesterday when we were in Chester, NH, dreaming of how big this album could be, and now all of the sudden wham, the day had come. I finished the video, and now it was all about the music.

My only hope is that people get the chance to see a fraction of what I have seen over the last seven months. That they'll be inspired by the music and by the people that have come together to create it.

Posted by Nick Poulin
Directed by Nick Poulin

Brenda

Mon, 10 May 2010 05:25:24 -0400

The Scene

When everyone piled into Brenda’s bathroom-sized practice space to shoot a video for their new song, “Blackout”, nobody, as far as I could tell, had a distinct plan of action. There would be torrents of band-purchased cheap beer and whiskey and a camera crew with some good equipment in tow. It was gonna be a party video—I prayed in the vain of the Eau Claire, WI hetero-hardcore band Dios Mio’s “Shit Life,” which is a must see.

Brenda and Metal Feathers’ (they share the space) amps, guitars, drums and plastic torso were stacked high up the walls above the dirty carpeted floor, probably as vacant as it had ever been. Besides D.J.’s minimized drum kit in the back, a sweaty human occupied each remaining square inch of the room. There must have been twenty people.

At some point it was decided that everyone would have an instrument, and that we were to rock out in time with “Blackout” blaring from the P.A. system. This went on for a few hours, each take increasingly rambunctious and wet. Josh became the primary target for projectile cans. D.J. poured beer on his own drums for an incredibly foamy party effect.

It became clear that we all had the same goal in mind: to capture our own shit life. A big unashamed party, everything maximized, everyone included. Mike shotgunning beers off a high hat. People picked up and dropped. Instruments and bodies abused for the sake of the moment.

I think “Blackout” does inspire the feeling of, “Fuck it. Let’s party.” Maybe that’s just because we heard the song a million times while fucking it and partying. Either way, the feeling is ingrained now. The humid exhilaration in the air was for the people, the place, the band and their excellent new record.

At one point everyone split for a stagger down along the mammoth oil tanks of South Portland’s Lincoln Street for one of Peet’s fabled toad walks, which did in fact yield a toad. It was like a spot on a busy painting for the eye to rest. Everyone breathed in the fresh air and cigarettes for a half hour or so, then went back in for a few more takes. It went on long into the night.

Brenda had a party, and this is the video. It was a lot of fun.

Article by Tyler Jackson
Video directed by Nick Poulin

Good Kids Sprouting Horns

Tue, 20 Apr 2010 06:08:49 -0400

The Scene

I went to the store to get libations and on my return I found them in my house, coming down the stairs.

We introduced ourselves, [dog] and [pony] and Good Kids Sprouting Horns. The band went out to their truck, grabbed their gear and began hauling it up to the attic.

It's about 130 miles of highway driving from Bangor to Portland. Good Kids Sprouting Horns made the drive in a little under two hours. They drove fast and straight to make it here in that amount of time. Direct.

Fitting, I suppose, that the state motto is "Dirigo."

Comprised of Anthony on the Axe and Vox, Jessamy hitting keys and singing and Ryan beating up the drum kit (with the occasional backing vocals), GKSH cranks out DIY-post-punk from the banks of the Queen City.

Lyrically, songs like 'Tight White Lines' dwell in a sort of existential angst. Anthony sings with expressive energy, pleading for answers and finally working himself up to a desperate, screaming finale. There's no hiding the pain. It's there for you to see. Direct.

Ryan's drumming is hard, varied and loud. He occasionally helps Anthony with background screams on tracks like 'Popcorn Ceiling.' He also won't hesitate to say something when Anthony's guitar drops tune a bit... which, judging by the duct tape, is probably not a rare occurrence.

While we're filming, Anthony is very clearly in control of his band. He demands excellence from Ryan and Jessamy, pointing out mistakes with no cushioning. In this way he is as direct as his music, as the drive.

Jessamy handles key duties, alternating between a hulking Casio and a kid's piano. The tones kicked out of an aging solid state amp. She backs Anthony's vocals and helps fill out a sound that otherwise might be thin.

GKSH dwells in that DIY-lo-fi aesthetic. The music that just has to be made, comes bubbling out of Anthony like a science experiment. Listening to the songs, the raw need to make music comes through crystal clear.

Anthony does all the recording himself. For the latest album he recorded two tracks at a time with a cheap mixer and decent mics. He says he prefers to use an old Layla to interface, but it doesn't fit in his current home.

Good Kids is in for a little change in sound. Up through this album, Anthony has been the dominating force. But it sounds like his band is going to get more voice soon:

"Well for this record I wrote everything. I came up with bare-bones guitar, and built keyboards on top of it. Then got rid of the guitar and rewrote it. Then added percussion. As of late songs have been more of a team effort. I give Jessamy a basic idea and she adds her flare to it, and Ryan just plays whatever comes natural for drums."

Thanks to the Modern Age, such a need to create can have an immediate and powerful impact. Recording at home, one can externalize their inner anguish and share it. There's now a straight line from wherever-it-is-that-songs-are-born to instrument to recording to your ears. Direct.

It's a shame that lo-fi recordings tend to lose dynamic range first. Good Kids frolic in the shift from loud to quiet, from simple to complex, from a trickle of music to a full on wall of sound. Hearing them live is a Sea Change on their recordings.

The live experience sheds the detritus of ones and zeros picked up in the recording practice. Seeing them live adds a jangling energy to the music. It increases that dynamic range... dragging you through the valleys and over the hills and swells of their music with all the energy of an erupting volcano.

It makes the experience of the meaning of the song yours to experience with no one but the band.

It's direct.

Darrell Foster

Mon, 05 Apr 2010 06:42:17 -0400

The Scene

It's 40 degrees in the middle of March under a windy gray sky, and as noon passes by I can't help but think about how warm it is.

Portland is coming out of hibernation. Elsewhere in the country 45 degrees is cold, is freezing, is take-that-extra-coat-out-of-storage frigid, but in Portland this slate-colored day is the beginning of spring. I bike to Deering Oaks Park to meet Darrell and Jon and marvel at the sheer number of people who were deep inside Parkside apartments just days ago.

People are on the move.

The plan is to film Darrell Foster playing in the back of his Volkswagen van. We kicked around the idea of filming indoors, some warm fuzzy gas-heated practice space, but that isn't where Darrell plays. Darrell practices in his van, so that's where we're going to film Darrell playing.

By the time Darrell's van rolls into the park the wind is picking up and the temperature is dropping, and the first thing I think when I see the old boxy Vanagon is, “The heat in that thing can't possibly work.” Also known as the Transporter, the Caravelle, and the T25, the Vanagon looks like a refrigerator box on rollerskate wheels. For some reason you wouldn't expect it to move like a regular vehicle – maybe more like a buggy or a matchbox car – but the van slides along smooth-as-you-please, despite the fact that it's leaking coolant and transmission fluid.

Darrell rolls down his window and sticks his head out. “Come on,” he says, “we're going up to the East End.”

I slide open the door and climb inside. The van's interior is spacious, comfortable, and warm. Tibetan freedom flags hang from the ceiling. There's a set of wind chimes next to the door. Darrell's guitar case is on the floor. I have trouble getting the door closed – “You really have to slam it,” advises Darrell – but I finally shut it and we're off.

We are on the move.

Darrell is dwarfed by the seat of the van. He's a skinny guy, but tall, with arms and legs that stretch on and on and long hair to match. I'd say scarecrow in a leather jacket, but there isn't anything scary about Darrell because he just won't stop smiling.

We cross the city an discuss Darrell's decision to play in his van. It isn't some artistic fauxhemian conceit, or some kind of deference to uptight neighbors. Darrell is taking his van on the road this spring to play around the country, so it will literally be both his practice space and his home. Jon asks Darrell what kind of route he has planned, where he's going, and Darrell shrugs. He tells the story of how he flew down to Pennsylvania to pick up the van, which he bought sight-unseen. Airport security wouldn't let him take his tools with him so he had to hope that the van would hold together for the long journey back to Maine. There are a few repairs that need to be done before he heads out on tour, but he's going to handle those himself. “These old Volkswagens are the easiest cars to fix,” he explains. “Back before they started adding all these electronics.”

Darrell parks at Loring Memorial Park at the end of North Street and we set up to film. The wind is really blowing now, and the temperature has dropped into the 30s. Darrell takes out his guitar, slides open the door, and begins to play.

“Definition of Faith” starts with a light and airy motif, notes that float out of the guitar to be carried away on the wind. “Sick of trying to be myself,” he laments. “For a while I'll just try somebody else.” The words are carried out over the northbound lanes of I-295 and over the bay.

Just when it seems that the whole affair is going to be drowned out and blown away, Darrell's cello accompaniment, Tim Garrett, comes in. With a flourish the cellist begins a series of deep round string volleys, and Darrell begins to lay down a driving rhythm. His laments transform, turn into statements instead of responses. He's not being moved anywhere, he's on the move.

People begin to stop and watch. They roll down their windows, park in the Loring Memorial turnaround. Somebody stops in the middle of the road at the end of North Street, oblivious to the traffic lining up behind him. Any chance that this song which started so quietly will be threatened by the growing wind has disappeared. The cello, the guitar, and Darrell's voice continue to raise into a wail, until they create a whirlwind of their own that travels across the Promenade, up North street, and down the highway.

When Darrell finishes the first take his fingers are turning blue. “Cool?” he asks. Jon gives him the thumbs up, he retunes his guitar, and he starts to play again. The smile doesn't leave his face. He's happy to be here. Happy to play. Happy to be moving forward.

Darrell and Tim play some more. Eventually Tim falls prey to the cold, as the close-to-freezing temperatures could wreak havok on a cello that's worth more than my car. Darrell packs up his guitar and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. Jon offers him the chance to see the footage, but he smiles and shakes his head. He has to keep moving.

The Vanagon starts despite the cold and pulls away, leaky transmission and all. Darrell flashes a peace sign and rolls down the hill, towards the highway. He'll hit the highway and keep on moving, and who knows when he'll ever stop.

Written by Jake Christie
Video by Tasty Dude Films

Check out their website

Moses Atwood

Mon, 08 Mar 2010 07:09:22 -0500

The Scene

Moses Atwood is a performer.

He sits in the chair with his lap steel and bounces from after-the-snow-falls quiet to middle-of-the-blizzard roars. He chats and rambles on stage. He's gregarious, open. He plays a soft guitar and contrasts that with a powerful tenor.

But he's not Moses Atwood.

Moses Atwood is dead and buried in Georgetown, Massachusetts. He was, in the 1880s, a household name as a maker of patent medicines. You could buy "Moses Atwood's Jaundice Bitters" all over the eastern seaboard.

If a patent medicine (like Simpson & Son's Revitalizing Tonic) was pushed as "bitters," that usually meant it was little more than cheap hooch mixed with bitters to avoid the alcohol tax.

Atwood's bitters were taken to the Supreme Court over trademark infringement. Atwood released his recipe (booze and bitters) to a number of different firms. "Nathan Wood's Jaundice Bitters" was sold in Portland, Maine and is mentioned in the Supreme Court case. In the end, the plaintiff lost as the recipe had been legitimately sold, or something.

Check out the Supreme Court Case in original, olde timey print or read about Moses Atwood's Jaundice Bitters for free on Google Books.

Atwood was also among the nation's first photographers, documenting his hometown of Georgetown, MA on daguerrotype.

Who, then, is our Moses Atwood? I've been listening to him for years and was shocked when I heard his real name. I'm not sure why, exactly. I'd always assumed that Moses was a stage name, but I'd never guessed Atwood would've been.

So when I heard his voicemail say, "You've reached Matthew Chase, leave me a message. And if you're looking for Moses Atwood leave me a message. And if you're confused... don't be," I was a little surprised.

And then he told me about the patent medicines and whatnot and it all made sense, I suppose. His music is temporally dissonant. His simple, direct lyrics and fine plucking and strumming harken to some Antebellum plantation. It's a good backdrop for a man in a white suit with a straw hat and red suspenders hawking panaceas for whatever it may be that ails you.

Also, please raise your hand if you think Moses' next album should be called "Jaundice Bitters."

So it makes sense, I suppose, that Mr. Chase took that name. And it makes sense that he keeps flocking South - painful though it may be.

Moses just spent our short winter here in Maine. He is heading back down South, Asheville way, to study... of all things... the psychology of performance. Which also makes sense. He has taken on a whole new persona. In some places it has replaced his actual personality. Many do not know he is Matthew Chase. For years, I knew of him only as Moses Atwood. I was introduced to him that way, in fact. He answers to it.

So it fits, then, that he's going back to school to look at performance and psychology and to see where those fit together.

Shooting Moses was an interesting experience all around. He is the first artist we've shot who didn't have a specific location to shoot. We invited him over to the lofty Dog and Pony Studios on Marshall Street and set him up by the window in our attic.

Also worthy of note: I think we spent more time chatting before the shoot with Moses than with any other artist. By an order of magnitude. Generally, our shoots involve a little chit-chat while we set up. Moses showed up, though, and we all had coffee and water and talked about the downfall of Detroit reflecting the downfall of America.

It goes like this: Moses, or Matthew, I'm not really sure which, had seen a program on PBS called "Blueprints of a Nation." In which, they profile the rise and fall of Detroit. How abundant resources near a large source of water led to a quick build up. How Detroit was a magnet for rails which led to an advanced rail system in the city. How the rail system led to a more business friendly environment, allowed for the building of a highway to cut through the thick inner city. How the highway allowed people to pass through Detroit and how Detroit bled out through the highway and the cars it built with all its resources.

And how America is modeled after Detroit.

That led to, of course, a conversation about zombies and what to do in case of a zombie apocalypse.

Then we got to shooting. He talked about listening to a lot of Randy Newman lately. Moses is intrigued by how easily and readily Newman writes songs about places. Moses wants to do a song about Detroit.

He borrowed a guitar he never used, favoring the infinite tones of his steely dobro. He apologized for his nasal cold but it adds a certain roughness to his voice. It's a roughness that suits his music. A roughness of campfires and fighting. He sings about a place here, about California, Manifest Destiny. About going West - Moses always sings about somewhere else and Matthew is always drawn South.

Chase talks about living various places around the country. Phoenix and Asheville, mostly. Phoenix is miserable, apparently. Hard packed heat stacked on black tar and people living in artificially cooled and watered homes around it. A hellhole. He doesn't like these planned and farmed cities, he likes the organic places.

Places like Detroit.

Moses is drawn to the organic. He tunes by ear. He often plays slide guitar which - mathematically - is more readily organically infinite in its tonal possibilities. He sings about simple human feelings. He's interested - it would seem - in the human and what makes humans tick.

So he tunes to his voice. So he says he's got a cold. So he tests the strings of his guitar and his vocal chords.

So he sings. He sings about better times and better places.

So, in the attic Moses Atwood performs.

Kino Proby

Mon, 22 Feb 2010 06:13:56 -0500

The Scene

It's the CD release night and the crowd masses inside the Port City Music Hall. McGuckin, Kurtz and Greer have done the sound check and suited themselves up in fine tuxery in anticipation of a thoroughly devoted audience. One, two, three the heads go back and the vodka disappears and the time for toasting is over. The time for rocking has begun.

Kino Proby celebrates its tenth anniversary in grand style, releasing a live CD to their adoring audience at their annual concert. I'm being a bit loose, there, with the term "tenth anniversary." The band has only been performing together since 2004. The roots of the band, however, stretch back to a trip in the year 2000 to Russia. While abroad, Adam and Jarlath not only started their friendship, they first learned about the band Kino.

Viktors I, II and III step onto the darkened stage. Theater smoke drifts past them as the Russian national anthem swells and lifts, setting up tension, mounting in volume. A colossal noise rips through the composition as Kino Proby batters eardrums. Viktor II (Kurtz) can't be contained. He bounds across the stage, practically flying off the notes he tears from his guitar, propelled by vicious tones.

Portland's Kino Proby tribute band - cover band doesn't do them justice - formed, appropriately enough, at a tribute concert in Russia called "Kino Proby." Kino is, of course, the original band. "Proby" means "attempt," roughly translated. Kurtz picked up a disc at the concert that had every Kino album. He was hooked. And it's been a lasting affair, to this day Kurtz says he listens to Kino more than just about every other band.

Viktor I (McGuckin) feeds off II's energy. They duel and battle, push and pull each other across the stage. It makes an energetic and unique dance - a stage experience you'll only see at a Kino Proby show. Between songs, I and II rattle on in Russian and English, praising Viktor Tsoi, Kino's revered founder, and explaining what the songs meant to Tsoi and - better still - what the songs mean to Kino Proby. The audience loves it.

Kino Proby has been tested on audiences for Portland to St. Petersburg. Their infectious energy, impressive talent and devotion to Kino bleed into the crowd in every situation... especially impressive considering all none of the Viktors are native Russian speakers. McGuckin now lives in St. Petersburg. Kurtz visited in the summer of 2007 and shared this anecdote:

"That was insane, because there we were, 3 Americans, playing beloved songs to the natives in their native St. Petersburg (also Tsoi's hometown) and they loved us. This was a room of about 200 capacity plus a balcony and it was packed and bumpin' and so exciting. The day between the two shows we payed homage to Tsoi by going to his grave (in the nothern part of the city) - this involved a few bus transfers and, during one, a girl walked by and saw us and said "Kino Proby!" and we were like "Yeaa!" and she says "you guys are great, respect!" (in Russian)."

A Kino Proby audience is unlike any other you'll come across in Portland. It draws people who love the Portland scene, punk fans and the far Eastern European contingent. What's interesting about the last group is that it comprises just about all age groups and classes. I saw dock workers and grandfathers dancing with hip young girls and professional mothers. Viktor II says this is typical of the Kino Proby audience. It's almost a bean supper for the folks we once called Reds. All the more impressive, not only is the music a Soviet Magnet... but it draws fans devoted to Kino as well.

It's a large following.

Viktor Tsoi is something like Eurasian Elvis. The music of Kino remains hugely popular, despite Tsoi's death in 1990. Kino was a voice for mid-80s Perestrojka revolt. The lyrics weren't as revolutionary as you might expect. They were simply human with a casual declaration of freedom. But the music was the first of its kind - the only of its kind, still - to come out from behind the Iron Curtain. It was the voice of human change, simple and idealistic and most importantly loud and ear-jangling in just the right way. And Portland's own Kino Proby has managed to capture that for much of its crowd. Kurtz again:

"I remember after a show at Harper's Ferry in Boston, an emotional young woman came up to me and said in broken english that KINO is her favorite band and, of course, since Tsoi is dead, she could never see them live but it had always been her dream and that [after the Kino Proby show], she feels like she has lived her dream."

The Viktors invite everyone wearing a Kino Proby shirt onstage. Soon the stage is crowded with laughing crowd members and more of them don't have the shirt than do. It's fine participatory fun and just a reminder that Kino Proby is a special experience, one we're lucky to have in Portland. It is a unique blend of talent and material, culture and chance. It mixes superb musicianship with a tumultuous time in world history, struggling humanism and mixing cultures.

And it's all right here, once a year.

On the web:
Kino Proby
Kino Proby's Phoenix Profile
Bryan Bruchman's review of the CD release show