Waking late, chaos, things still unpacked for the road trip. Bandmates late for departure to Portland. Bad vibes and a car low on gas, oil, transmission fluid, bumper nearly scraping on the ground as we went to pick up Pearson. Packing the car had pinched our fingers and our nerves, leaving us to rush out the door, eating chocolate chip cookies my mom had baked. Our saving grace was Pearson’s pastrami and avocado sandwiches, one of which I hurriedly scarfed down as Jackie braved the traffic of the Tacoma narrows. Things got better, and we put on Mare for a listen.
Arrival in Portland as the sun set, our destination Circadia Arts Center, a converted church on the outskirts of Portland, near the airport. We missed the turn off at first, taking the scenic route behind PDX. As we pulled in, we couldn’t help but notice giant papier mache sculptures of dragons’ heads and grass huts in the shape of mushrooms, most likely illegitimate remains of an acid-soaked trip to the playa. Roadwork signs were strewn about on the lawn. Though we had a mind to load in, we instead went out to find something to eat. A fellow named Donatello (obligatory TMNT jokes here), pointed us in the right direction.
Northeast Portland is a strange place, one that I cannot entirely recommend. I couldn’t count the number of strip joints on all my digits. I probably couldn’t have kept up with a pen and paper. Liquor stores were similar in their frequency, and one can imagine the rapidity with which the weakest of the weaker sex would be separated from their wallets. What credit this part of Portland lost on strip clubs, it gained back with construction equipment rental shops. We made our way to a Vietnamese strip mall with a restaurant aptly entitled Pho Palace or some such thing.
A closer look at their menu revealed an old time favorite.
Noodles with pizzle.
After our disappointing and relatively pizzle-less meals, we returned to Cascadia and unpacked our gear onto what had looked like a large stage before we had left. It was now full with all manner of electronic devices, most of which were centered around a laptop of some sort.
We went on third, the first act being Sleeping With the Earth, a heavy-noise act replete with taped keys on a Yamaha keyboard, many effects pedals, and a DR-660 drum machine. He was an amazing, physical performer, and his screamed vocals were intense and emotional even though I couldn’t understand a word. The second act was the person who would end up putting us up for the night, Cult of Zir. He tapped all manner of musical references, beginning with Coil and moving on to more beat- and lyric-oriented material akin to Saul Williams. The friend he was performing with has been his musical accomplice since kindergarten, and their collaborative history showed in their onstage presence.
The night became more fraught with people dressed in the purest black of outfits. Sporting dreads, chains, facial tattoos, boots, and a certain disdain for people not dressed similarly, the crowd started bopping to the music as it became more boppable. Heavy backbeats ensued alongside sweaty, pale brows. Small co-ed groups began retreating to the men’s bathroom as Pearson, Jackie and I looked at each other and at the door. It was almost two in the morning, and we were feeling the effects of a long day in buckets seats. I took a nap on a pew, earplugs affording me relief from the pounding beats fueling the snowblown ravers.
Pearson and Jackie woke me up, and the car had already been packed. I drove us to our destination: a house chock full of books on ritual magic, voodoo, shamanism, and ethnopharmacology. We unloaded, making our way through overflowing boxes of kitty litter, swimming through the kitchen’s sea of unwashed linoleum, and up the mountainous and lint-covered flight of stairs to where we would be sleeping. Every nook of the attic looked slept-upon, aside from the drift of desktop computer accessories in one corner. None of us wanted to get near that, however, because there was a creepy mannequin bust of a woman in a corset with its head leaning against the wall directly beside it. On the way down to brush my teeth, I noticed the food-offerings made to the house deities; a grim reminder of Bali. Ashes from countless sticks of incense fell lightly against hardened bowls of chili that, to those willing to delve in, may have resembled the cracked mud of a long-dry lakebed. I knew that the broken dolls would still be staring at me when I woke up on top of those ossified beanbags.
