Friday night’s episode was different than any we’ve done before, but we felt like it was the best possible way to get you in touch with what John Nastos and Clay Giberson are doing with the Duo Chronicles. Check out the episode and then go to the Duo Chronicles site to see what the guys have been up to in the last several months.

SLL Episode 147: Afterhours with the Duo Chronicles

Want to see more with John and Clay? Check out the their first appearance on Strange Love Live from February of this year.

SLL Episode 83: Afterhours Jazz with John Nastos

Or watch the episode.

***

This Friday night we’ll be joined by Brian M. Westbrook. It’s been a few months since he’s joined us on the show and he’ll be back in fine form with some gadgets you may want to take a peek at for the holidays. Join us live Friday night at 10 pm.

Related Posts

• March 1, 2009 -- SLL: A Night With John Nastos (1)
• October 27, 2009 -- Splendor on a Gloomy Monday (2)
• July 1, 2009 -- The South Park Blocks (1)
• May 29, 2009 -- Leftbank Project unveiling (2)
• May 11, 2009 -- SLL: 100 Episodes, Vidoop & No Kind Of Rider (0)

It’s been Blast-From-The-Past time at local radio stations.

In light of recent changes to the radio station I usually listen to, I’ve been surfing the dial. While my preference of music-style at work tends to be harder-edged, the only real requirement is that I like what I’m hearing. Most channels stick to a Top-40 format and play the same stuff to death. It’s been keeping my dialing fingers busy.

For workplace variety, Charlie 97.1 FM (no relation) covers most bases. I’ve heard Metallica’s Enter Sandman followed by It’s Raining Men. Occasional obscurities from childhood, like Wet Willie’s Keep On Smilin’. I’ve also heard extended versions of Disco Inferno and We Are Family. It’s the car radio music of your life.

KNRK does okay, but it’s also heavily formatted. I have trouble getting reception on the old boom-box, and by the time it gets late enough for proper reception, Dr Drew is telling kids to wear condoms and avoid butt-sex. Pay attention, kids. (About the condoms. You’re on your own with the other.) Moving on…

KGON? They’re playing the exact same crap they were playing in 1978. And 1991. And 1999. And yesterday. I’d bet money on hearing Steve Miller, Bob Seger or Boston within five songs, every time I tune in. I love you, Iris, but sweet Jesus, find some new records or at least turn them over?

KUFO. Aah, how I used to love thee. Now you play Linkin Park every hour. The new guy in the afternoon sounds like Marconi talking through a toilet paper tube, followed by Marconi at 7 PM. If he does say something amusing, it gets repeated a hundred times. And now, more Linkin Park!

Time to check out what’s next door on the radio dial.

Well, hello KINK! You are owned by the same company as your next-door neighbor, but have the balls to play variety. Mellower than what I normally listen to, it doesn’t insult my IQ. (Twenty-twenty!) Currently KINK is playing their entire playlist from A to Z. I haven’t tuned in recently, but am guessing they are well into the G’s by now. The first song I heard in my first apartment was on KINK: Elton John’s Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy on a transistor radio. I drift back to 1979 every time I hear that song.

The music got to my supervisor as well. A pretty girl walked by, and he stared and stared. After a couple seconds, I said, “Hey, she was okay, but FOCUS!”

He snapped out of his reverie. “F@%ing song!” He went out into the rain to smoke a cigarette. He got rained on pretty good. Guess Joni Mitchell struck a nerve.

The radio has me looking forward to work, if for no other reason than to wonder where the music will take me today.

It won’t be taking me to Linkin Park. Asbury Park maybe…

UPDATE: After writing this, I came across this article by Tara Dublin, doing a guest commentary at Oregon Media Central. She says it so well.

A who’s who of Portland radio all-stars, programming their own music? That would be something, huh?

Related Posts

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• April 8, 2009 -- Capturing the “Essence of Portland” (3)

The Freakpop Warlords of The Nothwest….WIZARD BOOTS, bring you a truly unique live show for a very special Friday the 13th at The Twilight Cafe with our friends MODA and Fun Yeti. That’s this Friday down at 1420 SE Powell….it’s only 3 bucks to see 3 amazing bands, so come on down!

We’ve also got an official website now…

www.wizardboots.com

AND….

If you want to see something really cool….do a search on You Tube for Wizard Boots and check out the brand new “Fuckabouthat” music video, shot in various basements all over Portland.

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(T)he(y) had a lot to say;
(T)he(y) had a lot of nothing to say,
We’ll miss them.
We’re gonna miss them…

As fans of Portland’s rowdiest rock station know, major shakeups have been happening. KUFO has gutted its on-air staff and brought in “talent” from around the country. I checked it out yesterday, and I’ll get to that in a minute, but first I want to reminisce about the last eighteen years or so. I was listening when the “mothership” docked the first time, and believe the first song played was Ozzy’s Flying High Again. (Maybe not, those were the drinking years…) I know KUFO played You Can’t Kill Rock & Roll to welcome in the new millennium; a moment that gave me the misties. I stood downtown, listening on a Walkman, waiting for the world to end.

I was a big fan of the Bill Prescott Show. He brought in Tawn Mastery, famous LA DJ and sweet-voiced sidekick. They also had a studio minion named Cort Webber from MOE-lolla. He claimed to be a celibate young man; said he’d never even masturbated. Maybe that’s why he was so no-nonsense when dealing with the 7 AM beer crowd. You could talk to Bill, but you had to get past Cort, who was a formidable call-screener.

Cort added to the show, in ways other than making me feel sorry for his asexual ass. He made a Pop-Up-Video audio parody of Marilyn Manson’s Beautiful People, which I remember as one of the funniest things I’d ever heard. (Disclosure: I would be listening on the sunrise side of a night of drinking, so everything on the Prescott Show was funny. Yup.) When Cort finally admitted that he wasn’t a frustrated pent-up virgin, a collective “Phew!” could be heard throughout the Portland area. I wonder how many times he lost his virginity that year?

Until last Friday, Cort had been working at KUFO as a producer, and for the last several years as a night and afternoon-drivetime personality. He’s had a motley assortment of sidekicks on-air. He produced Craig the Dog-Faced Boy and Porkchop’s afternoon show, then got a night-gig with a local youngster, Boomer. I met them at a KoRn concert simulcast, which was a hoot. Fifteen-year-old skater punks and their MILFy moms. I became a KoRn fan that day.

Boomer drifted off the radar, and Cort needed a new sidekick. A contest was held, and this fellow named Bobby ‘Fatboy’ Roberts was in the mix. He’d been part of the show somehow, and KUFO, back when they had some wisdom, gave him the slot with Cort. And so the transformation began. It was a match made somewhere holy.

The running joke was that KUFO listeners were mullet-wearing El Camino-driving tweaker types with Fu Manchu mustaches who smoke menthol 100s. Girls were sloppy drunks with whale-tails and ass-antlers. To admit you listened to (and enjoyed) KUFO was akin to calling yourself an inbred yokel. Cue the hipster eyeroll.

Fatboy whipped out his bag of tricks, and things began changing. The intellect of the callers (on-air anyway) rose dramatically. Instead of poop and titty jokes, the conversation focused on pop culture, beer, world news, (guns, drugs, violence…) Man, I miss Dirty Laundry.

And the games! While not exactly a game, Thunderdome was a favorite part of my week. Cort and Fatboy pick songs not in heavy rotation, and the listener chooses the winner, usually with a smartass comment. Since I don’t have enough outlets for my smartass comments (ahem) I had to play along every week. My personal favorite? One time Cort played Spinal Tap’s Big Bottom. I called, and in my best Michael Clarke Duncan impersonation, said “MOE-lolla wants to tap that ass!” That earned a “YIKES!” from Fatboy.

Of course, the highlight of the week was Stump The Movie Douche. Being a film fan, this was right up my alley, and co-workers loved playing along. The first time I got him, I used Robin Williams and Florence Henderson, which earned me Nine Inch Nails tickets. There was another well-documented incident involved Laura Dern and Diane LANE. You can read about that here.

I still have my ace-in-the-hole Douche-Stumper, in case they ever have Tool tickets up for grabs again. It’s borderline cheesedick, (listeners know the term) but if it gets me into Tool…

Cort and Fatboy have resurrected the Midnight Movie. I used to go every weekend back in the late ’70’s-early ’80s. To have a modern day version, in a theater that sells BEER? When I was a young’un we had to sneak our own beer in! There was no kind host to feed us tater tots while we waited in line. You little bastards should be so lucky! And you can be: There’s another one coming up Friday November 6, at the Bagdad Theater. It’s Raising Arizona, and I plan on showing up for old time’s sake. I’ve put off going before. “Oh, there’ll be another one next month.” Maybe. Maybe not. Radio is a fickle bitch.

A Tweet-up of One

I caught a glimpse of their appearance at Live on The Square, through the window. (That’s my shadow above Fatboy’s left shoulder, if you saw it on TV.) I’d hoped it wouldn’t be the last time I saw them. What if a ‘real’ city heard their stuff and took them away? I’m hoping they land on a local show with tolerable music. If they go country, I *will* be investing in podcast gear.

And now to the fun part of the show: evaluating the New KUFO. It was probably smart of Alpha Broadcasting to let the smoke clear before bringing on the new crew. Despite the emotional attachments to the on-air personalities, I listen to the station for the music. The early part of the week was tough on me. I like, no need the pulse-pounding neck-hair-raising caterwaul of cookie-monster rock to get through my day. I love shouting down crackheads to the melodic strains of Slipknot, and practically dance a jig when I hear Disturbed’s Down With The Sickness. Dropkick Murphys at noon? Dude, that’s better than a breakfast beer. And there’s no other channel in Portland, except maybe KBOO, where I’ll hear Tool or the Butthole Surfers. Mellow music has its place in my life, but I need slaughterhouse rock when I’m at work.

So how are the new guys doing? I’d say “Meh” but the phrase is already taken. My first moments on the new KUFO went like this: Linkin Park song fades out, new DJ asks a woman caller, “What up, Snapper?”

Nice to see you brought your manners.

She hung up on him when he asked her how big her “fat-bags” were. Then five minutes of commercials, two songs, and five more minutes of commercials.

The fellow that replaced Cort and Fatboy? He supposedly hates blacks and gays, referring to things he doesn’t like as gay. His on-air voice sounds like a cross between a constipated Craig the Dog-Faced Boy and Fiddy Cent on Quaaludes. I didn’t catch any funny, just misogyny and rudeness. I can tune him out easily, though. If he talks too long, KINK is right next door. Alpha won’t let its DJs talk for too long anyway, I’m guessing. Got to get those ads on!

If there’s a pleasant surprise to this, it’s the return of Marconi. Yes, you read that right. While I’ve met Marconi, and he seems like a nice man, I never listened to his show much. His KNRK days were mash-up/remix heavy, with too much white noise for me to tolerate for any length of time. At KUFO his show reminded me of being next to loud people in a quiet bar. Great if you’re drunk, but I wasn’t. I tended to surf during his shows, especially when he’d rerun the first two hours to make the second two hours of his show. While I liked Cort and Fatboy at night when my brain is firing, their replacing him for drive-time wasn’t the end of the world.

And now he’s the epitome of good taste, compared to the new crew. I hope he continues to just be himself, and not try to outshock the new guys. Will I continue to listen to KUFO? Yeah, even thought I heard the Foo Fighters and Linkin Park ten times each during my workday yesterday. I hope they get back to playing Tool. Pantera has gone missing. Guys? They play Linkin Park everywhere, and hearing the “Cocaine/Champagne” song four times in an afternoon is too much. I noticed they play a few artists on a two-hour rotation. More choice Ozzy cuts, guys? Even KGON plays Crazy Train. A nod to Motorhead would be nice.

And if you’re gonna bust out the Culture Club to be funny, play the whole goddamn song. No one is gonna be pissed off (or amused) by a sound byte. Yes, I really want to hurt you.

I miss Cort and Fatboy already. I get teased for my terrestrial radio-loving ways, but I’m old, and habits die hard. I get a thrill when my wisecracks come back to me through the little magic box. I like listening to my imaginary buddies who keep my brain busy as I bang through the monotony of the work day.

KUFO, you talk about having balls. Perhaps my favorite moment ever on KUFO? Cort and Fatboy were playing My Rock, and accidentally (?) played the uncut version of Marilyn Manson’s Cake and Sodomy. It was about 11:30 at night, and my fellow redheaded co-worker turned that sucker up and sang along like a crazed banshee.

“White trash get down on your knees… Time for cake and sodomy…”

Got balls, KUFO? Put your racist money where your mouth is and play that song on drivetime.

(Don’t forget the midnight movie, kids.)

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• November 27, 2009 -- Unholy Night (0)

Portland is such a beautiful city during the sunny summer months, but the transition into the darkness of winter is not a pretty one. My Monday morning Twitter stream was full of tweets about heavy rains and self-diagnosis of various diseases. It was as if I could actually hear bottles of Zoloft being opened all over the city. And then I saw this tweet from @PinkMartiniNews:

“First ten people to tweet us win a pair of tickets each to tonight’s Pink Martini CD Release show at the Crystal Ballroom!”

OMG! I hit reply, tweeted “Hello”, the clouds parted, and the next thing you know I had two tickets waiting for me at the Crystal Ballroom box office.

But I said to myself, “Self, you kind of blew it last week when you acknowledged your parents 47th wedding anniversary with just a congratulatory tweet – no card or gift. No one loves Pink Martini more than Dad does. You could totally redeem yourself by giving the tickets to them.” And so I did, but I also purchased a ticket for myself because, well – it’s the Pink Martini CD Release show and I didn’t want to be left out.

I’m kind of new to the Pink Martini fan club. I had never actually seen them live until I saw Oregon! Oregon! (or Shut It, Margie Boule! – as I like to call it) at the State Fair two months ago. It’s hard to say how good Oregon! Oregon! actually was because a certain cast member’s voice was nothing short of an auditory assault. The Pink Martini portion of the show, however, was so divine that your ears were completely willing to forgive you for what you had just put them through.

I’d also never been to the Crystal Ballroom before. My parents and I arrived early enough to snag the bench closest to the stage, thus avoiding most of the personal space violations that come with general admission. For example, one lady had the balls to ask my 70 year old mother to move so that she could sit on the bench instead. Keep it classy, Portland. Or, more accurately, keep it disgruntled.

In contrast, 12,000 brightly colored helium balloons decorated the ballroom ceiling, somewhat reminiscent of the Chihuly installation at the Bellagio in Las Vegas. Long sparkly ribbons dangled from each balloon, filling the ballroom with twinkles as the lights went down and the stage lights went up. Everyone was given a flower. Seriously. It may sound a little Pollyanna-ish – but if you want to cheer up a rain soaked Portlander – give them a colorful balloon and flower.

Pink Martini took the stage to the cheers of an enthusiastic but somewhat subdued crowd. The band played as China Forbes’ voice melted over us like drops of sunlight. Thomas Lauderdale punctuated the set list with his playful explanations between each number. Couples canoodled. Single ladies swayed. Those who could really dance, did. Everyone else seemed to be nodding their heads in agreement with each beat. The evening ended with the show-stopping Brazil, much to my Dad’s delight. (The man has a home-made CD with 18 versions of the song.)

Following the show, the entire ensemble signed autographs and posed for photos. Class acts, all the way.

It’s kind of a bold move to release an album titled Splendor in the Grass on a textbook Portland rainy day. Frolic in the grass today and you’ll find yourself soaking wet and covered in a mixture of leaves, bugs and mud. It’s hard to turn that experience it to a romantic lounge number. Actually, Pink Martini could make it work. But while Pink Martini is based in Portland, it is not of Portland. The liner notes of their latest album read like a travel guide and the list of collaborators would make Joseph McCarthy spin in his grave. I suspect this is a large part of their appeal.

Pink Martini takes you away from where you are to a much much better place.

Personally, I’m not ready for winter this year at all. I can’t believe I’m putting myself through it again. But, like a good native Oregonian, I know it is my duty to suck it up and endure. But this year I’ll be cueing the Pink Martini, my new secret weapon against the color grey.

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• February 4, 2010 -- Winter Olympics in the NW (3)
• January 13, 2010 -- The Writing Was on the Wall (2)

I’m going to try to refrain from using foul language, but no promises. I’m writing this in a fit of barely contained rage.

Alpha Broadcasting has recently purchased several local radio stations, including KUFO. KUFO has never been the pinnacle of highbrow music, but it feeds the sweaty masses with knucklehead rock and occasional snips of hilarity. Or, between 3 PM-7 PM, constant doses of hilarity.

KUFO, in its infinite wisdom, has fired all the remaining talent at the station, The Cort and Fatboy Show most notably. (The Rick Emerson Show was also canceled, but I don’t get up that early.) I came home from a lovely afternoon to find the topic exploding on Twitter. Fatboy’s Tweets are humble and surprisingly upbeat, befitting his personality. This pisses me off to the extreme, because I listen to their show every day at work. You can bet I will be boycotting KUFO for a while, if not indefinitely. If the lineup is like what I’m hearing about, I will NOT be listening.

This is from PDXsucks.com:

We at Portland Sucks and PDX.FM would like to cordially invite you to express your anger, your sadness, your fondest memories – because we know that you loved listening to Cort and Fatboy every day too. We’ve set up a voicemail line at 503.928.5174 and encourage you to tell KUFO and Alpha Broadcasting how you feel – or, if being pissy isn’t your thing, tell us how much you’ll miss Cort and Fatboy. We don’t need your names if you don’t want to give them but we do want your thoughts and opinions.

I’ve heard through the Twittervine that there will be a hoisting or ten of the glasses in their honor at the Horse Brass Pub tonight at 8 PM. (No word if the boys will show, but I hope they do.) I will raise my Diet Dr Pepper in your honor and avoid the bottle of whiskey calling my name right now.

Guys, you’ve made my afternoons for the last several years. I’ve had an outlet for my smartass remarks during Thunderdome, I’ve stumped The Movie Douche more than once, and even got to attend a Blazer game with Cort and Fatboy. My one regret: I’ve procrastinated attending their Midnight Movies. I’d always assumed there would be one next month.

This makes me want to go out and stomp on some chickens, but it’s not the chickens’ fault. AUGHH! The only thing keeping me calm right now is the knowledge that they are so talented, so funny, that there’s no way they’re going to be off Portland radio for very long.

And where they turn up, so shall I.

KUFO? You can kiss my rosy red ass.

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• December 9, 2008 -- Radio Waves (3)
• January 8, 2010 -- The Button Man (1)

I went to a concert Wednesday night. It featured music and video projection and was a nostalgia trip for many, while providing an introduction to fans that weren’t even born when the music was written and first performed.

At first glance, one might suspect that Weird Al was filming a video for ‘White and Nerdy‘. The crowd was packed with chubby Caucasian males in the 30-50 year-old range. (My estimate was 60%.) There were girls, fortunately. The cool kinds of girls who go to these concerts, in their bellybutton-high miniskirts and torn jeans.

You’re probably thinking I went to the Star Wars extravaganza.

Nope.

For those of you reading at work, this is where the NSFW warning comes. While I don’t have dirty pictures to share, there are some words coming up that may set the prim and proper on edge. Like the name of the band.

Yes, last night I saw the…

…BUTTHOLE SURFERS!

There, I said it.

I first heard of the Butthole Surfers in the mid-80s, when I lived a few blocks from Satyricon. While making my morning beer run I noticed the marquis, advertising BUTTHOLE SURFERS and HOLY FUCK BATMAN. Wha-? Can they say that? Satyricon had an edgy reputation, but I fully expected Mildred Schwab to show up with a ruler and make those boys take that filth down. Now!

Posters kept popping up on light poles, with opening bands like HELL COWS and SMEGMA. Curiosity piqued, I wanted to go, but research said that these were borderline dangerous bands to see. Fights, drug use, shows often left unfinished because band members got arrested or too high to continue. I prefer my anarchy from a distance, and they slipped off my radar until ElectricLarryland started getting airplay.

Pepper was the first hip-hop flavored song to strike a chord with me. I wasn’t against rap in general, it just sounded like angry people yelling at me, and I’d gotten enough of that when I was married. Pepper had lyrical qualities, and it reminded me of a girl I really liked, so I bought the album and memorized it note for note.

About two weeks before 9/11, the Surfers released Weird Revolution, an album meant to “freak out the bug-eyed, bow-legged normal man.” The cover featured a giant baby shooting jet fighters out of the sky with its eyes. You can imagine how that went over after the World Trade Center attacks. The album slipped into obscurity, with a faithful few (hand in air!) preaching its wonderfulness. If you hadn’t known it had been released pre-9/11, you would think of them as the most insensitive band ever. In retrospect, it makes them look visionary.

What band would show up Wednesday night?

The opening act was interesting. Psychic Ills. If I were to pitch them Hollywood style, I would say they sounded like Nine Inch Nails playing Pink Floyd’s A Saucerful of Secrets. The soccer mom next to me looked bored. I noticed we had the same sneakers on. Why was she here? My question was answered a few minutes later, when two ‘tween boys came up to check in. How cool is that? Mom takes son and friends to first concert, and it’s the Butthole Surfers. I mean, what twelve-year-old doesn’t like saying “butthole”? Hell, I enjoy saying it, and I’m four times their age.

The Surfers took the stage promptly at 9 PM, and they kicked it off with Something. The setlist focused on their older material; I recognized maybe four songs, and soundbites of many others. My date was bummed that they didn’t play Pepper, or at least they hadn’t when we snuck out ahead of the crowd.

The show was not as cacophonic or disjointed as their reputation would hint. My friend noticed that they seemed somewhat sober and in good health. Gibby Haynes, lead character in the band, made marijuana references and pointed to “Portland girls gettin’ freaky in the crowd,” but it was a well-behaved crowd and band. Gibby has been filmed smoking crack onstage, had sex with a band member onstage, and has been arrested for assault onstage. None of that happened Wednesday. The violence was contained to the video loop screen, which at one point featured a montage of B-movie head wounds. Scanners. House of 1,000 Corpses. Night of the Living Dead. A film called Stuff, which is a favorite guilty pleasure of my date. Gruesome, but fitting, considering their reputation.

But then, music is more fun when it’s a little dangerous…

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Yes, looks like this young man is going to make it to the big 4-0 after all. Surely the best entertainment value on a Monday night….NO COVER…AN OVER THE TOP SENSORY OVERLOAD OF LIGHT & SOUND …. DRINK SPECIALS… FABULOUS PRIZES …IMPROPER BEHAVIOUR …and of course live music from special guests EMPIRE ROCKET MACHINE and an epic set from the guest of honor, WIZARD BOOTS, who will be unveiling the new and improved band featuring TWO DRUMMERS!!! HOLY CRAP!!!

WIZARD BOOTS 40th BIRTHDAY BASH
w/ live music from Wizard Boots and
our guests EMPIRE ROCKET MACHINE

MONDAY 9/28/09

ROSCOE’S
8105 SE Stark
Portland OR
(near intersection of 79th & Stark)

See you there!

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I didn’t get cake and sodomy, but I did get to chill with the beautiful people.

As I get older, the numbers go up but the youthful spirit maintains. While I’m not ready for bucket lists, there are a few things I want to do before I die. One of those things was to attend a Marilyn Manson show, and last night I succeeded.

Boy howdy.

I was originally introduced to Marilyn Manson by KUFO. I won movie passes to a Jackie Chan movie and a cassette (!) of Antichrist Superstar. I took the tape to the used music store and asked to trade it for a Doors album. The clerk said, “Yeah, this stuff would probably make your head explode.” Chastised for my ignorance, my interest was piqued. Later, when I was filling out one of those ‘12 for a penny’ CD club orders, I ticked off three Marilyn Manson albums. Portrait of an American Family became a favorite, and I began following his releases.

I was raised on Alice Cooper, and initially thought Manson was a ripoff. When Alice Cooper announced he was a born again Christian, his demonic persona took a holy hit. Who will we look to as our evil overlord? My mother, a deeply religious woman, hated Alice Cooper. (“Why do you keep calling her ‘him?’”) Of course, I had to investigate, and saw through the attention-grabbing theatrics. Manson has taken these kinds of antics, added liberal doses of cocaine and absinthe and escalated the debauchery to new lows.

Thank god.

I had tried to see Manson shows before. La Luna cancelled a show after it was revealed that the venue would need insurance premiums of $41,500 for the Antichrist Superstar tour to visit. The next opportunity was an arena tour with Hole, the show where Courtney Love walked off stage after five songs. I had to work, and none of my GFs wanted to go. Finally, last night I got my opportunity. A reserved seat in the balcony was the deciding reason; I have a concert tape of one of his shows, and there’s no way I’m getting near the stage.

I hadn’t been to the Roseland since its big remodel. 1998? I saw a Damned show, and an Alan Parsons show. (Yes, Alan Parsons.The band was heavenly, the crowd were overprivileged assholes.) Before that, it was a regular spot. I’d lived three blocks from the venue when it was the Starry Night, and when I wasn’t inside I’d be hanging out on the sidewalk with a quart of beer up my sleeve, taking in the sonic bleedover. Step away from the big doors when you hear the thumping; someone’s coming out! A bang, a crash, and a “Stay the hell out!” Misbehavior was dealt with harshly.

I did some reading up on the Roseland, and saw that people had issues with the security so I planned ahead, carrying nothing but ID and a cell phone. Metal detectors were no problem, and the pat-down was perfunctory. I wasn’t trying to sneak anything in, maybe that’s why I didn’t have a problem. (I wasn’t sneaking anything into Tool, either, but the gal spent about five minutes on me. I almost proposed marriage.) Considering the crowd that attends these shows, a thorough frisking isn’t out of line.

This was my first trip through the corner entrance, and I like the new setup. (It’s been new for several years now, I guess.) I made my way through the ID checking station, and took my spot in the balcony. Second row, second seat, looking straight at the stage. A/C vent right above me? Oh yes, this will do nicely.

The crowd? I expected Juggalo-like knuckleheads. The reality? I wasn’t the oldest person there, by a long shot. There were lots of couples on dates. Nearby were what looked like a mother-daughter combo. Mom looked about 40. I wondered if she’d seen MM back in the day. I’ve seen video of what happened backstage in the ’90s at MM shows. If that were the case… “Hi, mind if I buy your mom a drink?…” I resisted the urge.

My seatmates were of the finest kind. On one side I had a New Yawker who’d bought his ticket off a scalper. The other side was a small group of folks my age. They were drinking heavily, and I saw the guy pop a handful of pills right before they sparked up a doobie. The New Yawker had his iPhone out. Can I really be in danger if a third of the crowd is carrying iPhones?

Downstairs was another story. As the smoke filled the stage, the lights dropped and the house exploded. Mister Manson’s appearance caused an immediate frenzy, a frenzy that wouldn’t stop for an hour and a half. He seems a lot taller that I’d pictured from TV and videos, an imposing figure.

The setlist focused on newer material, most of which I was unfamiliar with. Particular favorites were a song called WOW, and another bass-heavy tune that Manson felt obliged to “apologize for stealing six minutes and nineteen seconds of your life.” No need. It was a haunting melody, and has inspired me to fetch the new album.

I’d wondered which Manson would show up. He has a reputation as a balls-out rocker, (literally at times) but in recent years he’s mixed it up. Would we get the Willy Wonka Manson? Nope. His black-clad outfit remained constant throughout, and it never turned into a fashion show.

Controversy? He wasn’t going to shock anyone in attendance, clearly preaching to the choir. During one song, he posed as a preacher, but looked more like an evil scarecrow. (His bible self-immolated, which the crowd loved.) When he tossed an American flag into the audience, it disappeared immediately. He probably went through two cases of beer during the performance, taking a sip, spitting it onto the moshpit and tossing the bottle into the crowd. Another crowd souvenir favorite? The black towels he was using to mop off with. (I wanted one of those.) He had a young girl on stage to continually fetch these things for him.

Every show I’ve been to at the Roseland/Starry Night has had one idiot try to jump from the balcony to the speaker stacks onstage. The idiocy reached new levels last night, as a drunken doofus jumped from the balcony into the crowd below. We all looked down to see what happened to him. It appeared no one on the floor was hurt. Filing out of the show, I thought I saw the jumper limping and leaning against a wall, crying. You, sir, are an idiot and an asshole, and I hope you got stomped a little while you were down there on the floor. To borrow one of Mister Manson’s lyrics, “I wasn’t born with enough middle fingers.”

Favorite songs? The girls really lit up when Dope Show played. (Literally.) God is in the TV got the crowd stomping, but the biggest reactions came when he closed out with the Eurythmics cover of Sweet Dreams, followed by Beautiful People.

After the lights came up, I surveyed the damage. A lot of sweaty, wasted people downstairs. A lot of drunk and happy older folks upstairs. Getting out of the balcony after a show at the Roseland is like drinking a forty with an eyedropper: It’s possible, but damn, it takes a while to gitter done.

The sidewalk crowd was a happy bunch, albeit an interesting looking bunch. I waltzed through a cloud of nicotine toward the transit mall, grateful that the crowd had spent its pent-up energies at the show, and not with bareknuckle brawling afterward.

Beautiful people? It’s in the eye of the beholder.

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I am saddened by the passing of Les Paul — guitar making innovator and player extraordinaire. He was 94 years old. Nothing matches the feeling of plugging his namesake electric guitar into a cranked half stack and crushing out power chords. It feels good in your guts to play a Les Paul. Your stomach rumbles, your ear drums split, and your teeth chatter.

Countless Portland garage bands have had their sound influenced by this great man. I’d like to hear the thoughts of others. Please feel free to post your comments.

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