A.O. & C.J. show review.

We met Adrian and Calvin in the radio station about two hours before their show. They had just eaten at Clarette’s and remarked upon the quality of its product (as opposed to the thin porridge they found in Kennewick the night before). After recording a few promotional vignettes about African music and their disappointment in us as a radio station, they left to set up for their show.

We joined them around six or so outside the Metropolis, a live music and art space located on Colville across from Luscious: An Urban Market® and next to the Patisserie. It had reopened with a new name and a more cosmopolitan façade after the Underground went dormant in mid-2006. The space is open and accommodating for small shows despite the lack of a full-sized stage or, from what it appeared, any sound equipment at all. Approximately twenty-five attendees gathered for the occasion, taking the seats neatly arranged against the walls, giving the performers ample space to roam and people to dance. From time to time, audience members left to smoke cigarettes or purchase coffees and teas from Coffee Perk, returning either one cigarette less or several cups of hot beverage more.
At approximately 6:05 pm, Calvin Johnson, owner of K Records and formerly of Beat Happening, Dub Narcotic Sound System and several other bands, took the floor with a single acoustic guitar. Johnson’s set, almost an hour long, consisted largely of songs off of his recent solo albums, What Was Me and Before the Dream Faded, many of which were long and sounded crushingly, inconsolably sad despite his enthusiasm. His distinct baritone filled the tiny room well, creating a mellow, somber, almost funereal atmosphere as he sang songs of longing and told us stories about how Adrian was to perform sans Her Band and about impeaching Dick Cheney.
Adrian Orange (or Age-O, as he likes to call himself now) set up in the corner, above the staircase. Declining to use a microphone stand, he preferred to wedge the mic between his shirt and chest, craning his neck each time he sang. He used loops for both his vocals and rhythm guitar, making his warbling voice and haphazard playing seem slightly less stark. He talked about the Phish and Grateful Dead concerts he supposedly attended in his youth despite the fact that he’s only twenty-one, lamenting the fact that he’d yet to see people dancing like they had then at his shows. His seemingly-endless loops, abrupt stops, and the general feeling of formlessness, however, kept the crowd content with moving as little as possible.
Maybe it was the fact that it was Sunday. Or maybe it was because of the cold, grey atmosphere on the other side of the windows. But the show was exhausting. Kids from town sprawled out across the floor, doodling in their sketchbooks and clapping politely. This was not a show about playing guitars well or making people dance, or even making people smile. The two men from Olympia and Portland rolled through town like musical, vagrant, gypsies and were so understated it was almost as if they were never here at all.

by: Andrew Hall & Kyle Gilkeson