thoughtcrumbs

Beginning to enjoy big city perks -- went to two notable concerts last week.

First was Rufus Wainwright at the Aladdin, which was appropriately worldly and mysterious but gritty, much like Rufus himself. Lanky and pouty, Rufus live didn't much resemble the pretty boy on the cover of Poses, or the punk darling on the liner of his self-titled album. My nurse friend who attended the concert with me confirmed that that was one unhealthy-looking boy. Let's hope that he's just road weary, and that those dangerous cravings he alludes to in Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk are unfulfilled.

At least he tells good stories. In particular, Portland is his favorite city in the Northwest . . . for the flophouses. Not quite sure to which flophouses he's referring, but Karren and I are thinking the Burnside area around Spartacus. Portlandians, what say you? Rebel Prince is about a particular Portland flophouse, where Rufus imagines lazing around waiting for the next sailor off the boat. (Better watch my usage of flophouse, or I'll end up with all kinds of the wrong web traffic.)

Martha, Rufus's sister, who opened and sang backup, was as captivating as her brother. With a high rubbery voice reminiscent of Patsy Cline or Joey Lauren Adams, she'd slide up into entrancing suspended chords. Their innate ability to harmonize in seconds and fourths and sevenths leads me to believe their famous folk singer parents began musical training prenatally. Their trio of One Man Guy with cutie pie Teddy Thompson was enthralling -- the song's loneliness is allayed by the holistic harmony of the three.

We were a surprisingly sedate crowd; my hot tea was in no danger of spilling, even during the encore of Instant Pleasure (a butt-wiggling funk romp that begins "I don't want somebody to love me/Just give me sex whenever I want it"). Don't we all.

Second concert was Dashboard Confessional at the Crystal Ballroom. With the exception of the second opening band's (whose name escapes me, sorry) jazzy cover of Ice Ice Baby, it was a long wait through the three opening acts until singer-songwriter Chris Carrabba (Dashboard Confessional) took the stage. And from then on, it was one big singalong. Not your typical groupies-shouting-and-annoying-the-more-mature-audience-and-performer deal, but a satisfying though bizarre zoo of well-articulated lyrics and in-tune singing, encouraged by the performer. Dashboard Confessional corralled the audience, only occasionally taking a few soft lines for himself. He deftly worked the crowd to emphasize salient phrases, like the one about him wishing he was making out with anyone right then in Screaming Infidelities, the only song whose lyrics I even slightly knew.

Cult experience? Perhaps. Chris looked like an unassuming Jason Priestly, and had hundreds of nineteen year old girls and their boyfriends (really!) singing his every word. I was right there with 'em on Screaming Infidelities. Unfortunately, he seemed to have only three formulae for his songs, and I was constantly thinking "didn't he already play that one?" But whatever he's doing, it's working, and as long as he doesn't mind having a fan base a decade younger than himself, then more power to him.