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A WEEKEND IN DEATH CITY

Certain cities have a poetic mortality attached to them--they'd make a great place to die. Dangerous in their underlying temptations, these death cities range from predictable (Las Vegas) to hmmm, really? (Portland). Yes, Portland, aka Death City...

Certain cities have a poetic mortality attached to them--they'd make a great place to die. Dangerous in their underlying temptations, these death cities range from predictable (Las Vegas) to hmmm, really? (Portland). Yes, Portland, aka Death City, according to my boyfriend. How could this scenic indie paradise be so menacing? To me it always seemed like Austin or Minneapolis, one of those mellow, scenic cities where punks go to breed. Aside from the heroin it seemed pretty safe.

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Plus, we were in town for the least-seedy of reasons. I previously detailed another spurt of bad luck on the road with Love As Laughter and once again I got to hit the road, this time to play the Northwest Music Fest with Modest Mouse.

Carnage

Our first night in town proved that maybe attitude is everything. While I was peacefully snuggled into an empty bed at a friend's house my boyfriend got punched in the face by a Kat Williams look-alike (albeit much meatier) in a Burger King drive-thru, splitting the bridge of his nose wide open. He dropped, walked back to the cab, and got patched up by the driver and was delivered to our home for the night. I woke up to this sight:

Punks and Metalheads

Portland is a great metal town. It's a dark place, heavy and grim. This isn't your LA glitter metal. No one seemed interested in hardcore or flying guitar solos either. It was deep and dark, lots of black metal and doom. It seems fitting with the mountain landscapes, low cost of living, and easy drugs.

Portland is a house city, a charm New Yorkers are particularly susceptible to. The allure of a yard with a big old dog (in this case a black lab named Lemmy) and a front porch is undeniable. And when the house is a punk house, it always brings me back home. Turntables in the living room, show posters on the wall, a haven for prolonged adolescence. The two-bedroom we camped out at had a tattoo set-up in the living room and Christmas lights clumsily strewn on the front porch. It was on Failing Street. Perfect.

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Munchies

Portland is one of those special cities where you can get pancakes with your eggs instead of toast for no extra charge. It's a city of dreams, not a city of death breakfast-wise. Other food we ate didn't deserve much mention aside from the awesome proliferation of lunch trucks lining the streets of downtown. Every time I think I've eaten a good burrito here in New York I realize it's because I haven't been to the west coast for a while.

Unfortunately the lure of Keno at the amazing My Father's Place made our $6 breakfast cost $20…oops.

I was too much of a pussy to eat these.

Lodging

When the punk house got to be too much for us we stayed at a spot called the Jupiter Hotel. It was kind of lame in it's uber-green Pacific Northwest vibe. I mean, yeah, great you have ergonomically designed soap that has a hollow center to prevent waste, but does that really make a difference if it's only used once before being thrown out? However, Om played there our first night at the hotel and Hope Sandoval played there our last. Pretty amazing. But something even more amazing was happening in the tent across from the show. As we emerged from a hotel room, where we'd been doing vocal rehearsals for the upcoming show I came across this guy:

Turns out there was an amateur wrestling tournament with a cover of $5! I paid the meager charge and dropped Vice's good name to the security guy guarding the ring and soon was beckoned by the announcer to his table. He offered me a seat next to him manning the bell but I bashfully declined. As much as I wished to fulfill some unknown fantasy of manning a wrestling bell, my real hunger was for action and I had my camera ready.

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Though highly choreographed, this was no joke. The fans were rabid and the good-versus-evil mentality was fully intact. The good guys won, the bad guys were humiliated.

Lazarus lost to the champ Tex.

The girl wrestler, Trouble, beat the cocky Playa. Everything was aligned at the Jupiter that evening.

Good won every time, except for in the Lucha match where the crowd kept yelling for the fighters to speak English and there was no determinable favorite or winner—seemed like the judges just rang the bell early to get it over with. The evil-looking clown was declared the winner.

Apparently this wasn't just a local affair, there were guys from all over competing and some were lodged in the hotel. At the end of the night the ring was taken down and put in the most lovely of trucks.

Live Tunes

Oh yeah, almost forgot we were in town for a reason…to play the Northwest Music Fest, which should really just be called NXNW. I was lucky enough to score a plane ticket in exchange for back-up singing, tambo bashing, and merch-selling duties, a pretty righteous situation. Until I saw the line of kids waiting outside of the Crystal Ballroom (a seriously beautiful venue) did I realize what a massive endeavor it was to open for Modest Mouse in Portland. They had some serious fans. Like this guy:

Although it appears this man would die for his hero, that is his name written in red marker, not blood. And yes, he spelled it wrong. Even better, he told me he was 30 years old.

Despite broken faces, busted cameras, a serious cold taking out all the back-up singers, and a lack of funds on just about everyone's part, the shows were amazing. Modest Mouse was never my bag, but after seeing how they could out-maniac us off stage and then play flawlessly on stage moments later, I finally felt like I got it. And yes, there was a lot of plaid, a lot of hairy-legged women, a lot of facial tattoos and dread locks, and too many dudes in chambray shirts, but I now love Death City.