Rock and roll is a funny thing. The base is a delectable gumbo of lifesaving qualities that'll put any modern anti-depressant to shame. Timeless and absolutely infectious, if life were a cancer, rock and roll would absolutely be the cure. With that, the authority of rock has been challenged it seems by a surge of emotional scholars that might be taking themselves a bit too seriously. In a search for purpose, direction and self-important artistic integrity we've left behind the carefree swagger that rocked our hips as well as the essence of rebellion reassuring us that life is damn well worth living. Of course, there is a place and demand for all walks of song, but in the natural progress of things it's left a yawning void in the very mechanics and motives of our beloved rock and roll. Yes, modern masterpieces such as OK Computer and The Moon and Antarctica are quintessential to the direction of our great musical monument but when all that glutinous lyrical questioning-the-great-unknown begins to mount, it's good to pop in some Sticky Fingers just to remind us that yes, everything's going to be okay. So on that note, I would like to thank the great powers-that-be for Jesse and his Eagles of Death Metal.
There's nothing quite like it, watching Jesse strut onto the stage in full form; tight and bulging denim jeans, aviator shades, finely combed handlebar mustache and long greasy hair slicked straight back. Walking down the street, anyone in their right mind would jeer thoughtlessly at this fellow and quite possibly throw a couple insults his way but for a solid two hours, he prowls the stage like a god sweating ecstasy pheromone and by god, male or female, you're under his spell. Sex appeal of course being a key element in any great rock and roll act; he's got it down pat. The Eagles of Death Metal have been going at it for a good 11 years thanks to the grand incarnation of the infamous Desert Session gigs. Their first album didn't actually make a splash until 2004 but the holy power of rock was somewhat of a life saver for Jesse, whom Josh Homme remarked as a complete wreck after a sticky divorce in the late 90's. The tables have been reversed and in fact, they've been thrown out the window; shattered glass, splintered wood and all. Anyone that attended the Wonder Ballroom on October 31st can attest to that.
It was perfect. Halloween loomed over a cold and rainy Portland and it seemed the kids were out of luck; if only life were as simple as rescheduling. For the 21 and over crowd however, the solution was stupidly obvious. Costumes; Wonder Ballroom; The Duke Spirit; Eagles of Death Metal; Rock and Roll! The lineup was an inspired one. Word caught the town like a tinder-dry forest fire and the ballroom quickly reached maximum capacity. It seemed somewhat ludicrous and yet strangely appropriate that three-fourths of the male crowd were sporting fake staches in support of their man Jesse. They could only dream of such a finely groomed blossom of moustache. It almost felt like a grunge convention with the concentration of flannel and facial hair but with that, a fair balance of ghouls, banana outfits and yes, a lustrous Jessica Rabbit pushed for center, all eager to sweat and rock their hips. The brilliantly British Duke Spirit took stage and for about an hour the square block that is MLK and Russell Street quaked something fierce.
I've always felt some deep vein of soul with The Duke Spirit's music. Their sound is like that of Jefferson Airplane crossed with a very bluesy Sonic Youth. The painful lament of catty vocalist Liela Moss against the sludgy southern tinged double guitar attack has left a thirst for blood in my mouth; it truly sets them apart from their influences. I will come right out and say that Liela stole the show; ripped it clean out of the talons of the talented masters of shred at her side. She carries herself like a vindictive goddess assuming the chassis of a woman who's seen the worst facet of man and oh, how betrayed, bitter and pissed she is. The subject matter is quite dark and trickles with tragedy but the ever present grind of guitar and the fury of Ms. Moss left us feeling far from helpless in the face of doom. Pointing incriminatingly with her words to the crowd during such songs as 'Love Is An Unfamiliar Name' and ‘Darling, You’re Mean,’ we felt judgment being rained down upon us, whether or not we called it upon ourselves or some inherited guilt bestowed on us by our forefathers, not a damn thing could divert her wrath. Eternal damnation could easily have been slipped into our drinks that evening as we were drawn in by her mad spectral twist about the stage and not many would have cared, it felt quite amazing actually. It was downright depressing to watch Leila and her band mates part the stage for the main course to follow but I have to say, it was a strange twist of fate I selfishly claim as my own good luck that Leila joined me at the front of the venue, dancing and swinging with me under the napalm halo of guitar. Rock and roll taketh no prisoner!
With that, the great chain bearers marched on stage, the key to our souls finely tuned and firmly strapped over their shoulders. Dave Catching, stoner rock aficionado and co-owner of the desert rock musical nerve center Rancho De La Luna in Joshua Tree, California stood over us in classic Catching form; bottle cap glasses, goofy shirt and blue jeans with his quintessential mini-hawk like a hopeful sprout of grass lining the cracked desert soil. Following close behind, Joey Castillo of Danzig and Queens of The Stone Age fame on drums, Brian O’Connor, a towering and magnanimous fellow striking some magnificent similarity with the pillow-smothering Chief on bass and, of course, the man behind the superlative falsetto, Jesse ‘Boots Electric’ Hughes taking center stage. The fans were rabid, red-eyed, foaming at the mouth. Dave, stroking his guitar pick like a juicy steak, leaned back and ripped the earth apart. Some wait years for a show like this. Hand crafted devil horns plucked the air as Jesse prowled the stage in all his sextacular splendor, howling wickedly for more guitar to whisk his groove onward. Many have commented on the strange anomaly that’s nearly plagued The EODM outfit. The live shows have become a tried and true cult phenomenon while their recorded material just can’t seem to capture the same essence. I admit it’s true. Albums like Death by Sexy are sure fun, but the dynamic between the band on stage is volcanic. Every single player rips a hole in time itself, turning the world as we know it inside out. Throw in some molten guitar duels and solos, plastered fans dancing on stage (or grinding on Dave and Jesse), stage dives, beer spraying every which way, oh, and bras twirling through the air and yeah, you’ve got a rock and roll show unlike any Portland has seen since the glorious grunge days.
The songs ran as seamlessly as Jesse could handle without being overcome with zeal and keeling over. It’s very much unlike him to go further than twenty minutes into a set without taking a moment to truly honor the woman in the house, but the blitzkrieg intensity of the audience was something nobody could foresee. After hammering the city block for a solid hour with new gems and old favorites alike, the band had to take an on-stage recess just to regroup and pay their dues to the cherished female presence. Jesse stood in disbelief as his followers rumbled with a mere flick of his wrist. It was a good night for him. He has given and we couldn’t have been happier to return in spades. And even so, with two encores, each bursting with three fire spitting goblets of song, we could have easily defeated time and arrested the morning hours. No such luck. All great things must find their balance and come to their beautiful end. Like bidding a cherished Wiseman a fond farewell, Jesse took a bow and was off to answer that far off call hundreds of miles away. It takes an iron stomach to tackle life so luxuriously. What we were left with was something grand indeed.
It seems with these small and wonderful things in this life, we can only hope for the magnificent bursts of beautiful flame to last and hope that’s how the cookie crumbles downward. But as The Gun Club preached in returning from the mountain with the Fire Spirit’s beautiful light beaming in our head, “no-one will expect all of me, so the fire…will stop.” And so it is with rock and roll. It’s our duty to feed that wild famished flame and forget not what a little bit of rebel spirit can do. Feed your local musician, attend your local shows! Jump, shout, move your feet and let your fists be recognized as they chug away. It’ll do good things to your head and surely inspire others to join the march.
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