Baths / Braids / Gobble Gobble

Let it be known: the Holocene is a great place to see electro-pop. Which is pretty much all Portlanders want to see at the moment, what with all the burgeoning bands playing to prerecorded swamp-thick synth tracks while a guitar anchors the show to reality. That’s not to divulge any bitterness and incite equally bitter reactions—I like plenty of Portland bands that just plain don’t happen to have enough people to introduce their songs to the world (Perhaps, Typhoon, you could lend some members to Wampire; think maybe only three violas are enough?)—I’m just saying the Holocene happens to handle these kinds of musicians well.

On a Wednesday, sandwiched between spazzes Gobble Gobble (who we were told by the only guy who plays music in their four-person band are “from Canada”) and one-man dance party/cold shower Baths, were Braids, welcome space-or-dream-poppers care of the always rewarding Flemish Eye Records. Gobble Gobble was exactly as one would expect from someone who hates humanity’s guts enough to create this MySpace page, meaning they brought their own stultifying epileptic lights and the majority of the band gyrated all up in the audience’s personal bubble, going shirtless, hitting kites with tambourines or something. But they were committed to their abusive twee and equally committed to pushing the audience’s tolerance as far as it would stretch. Like Dan Deacon scoring a Quizno’s commercial. Get that Bromst (2009) cash, right?

At the other end was Baths, deserving of the love shoveled his way from the already-tired floor, wearing a sweaty gray tee-shirt and looking like everyone else in the audience. Unspectacular but crazy tight, Will Wisenfeld seemed both young and so much better than everyone else doing the exact same thing he was doing, which was: not a whole lot. He shook vigorously, smiled warmly, danced Yorke-ly—e.g., the song he opened with birthed the energy that sustained the second song he played, and both songs were familiar but seemingly identical, and you know Wisenfeld would probably dance the exact same way to “Single Ladies” given a boombox and a few minutes I front of his bathroom mirror. His set seemed inherently more vivacious than his great debut Cerulean (2010)—or more condensed; or quicker to please?—and with that his set felt vital to creating a coherency to the night. Felt vital in general. And the whole while I was watching him I became tediously angry with all the youth surrounding me. I’m not old, but fuck I felt that way.

Right in the gooey middle, right between youth rendered loudly and youth rendered threateningly, were Braids. They stormed stolidly through most of their magnificent Native Speaker (2011), and they sounded equally magnificent. They’re not much to watch; the most active members, keyboardist Katie Lee and fronter Raphaelle Standell-Preston, allowed themselves slight breaks in concentration, distracting from the near motionless guys behind them. It paid off anyway—they were a band to behold with one’s eyes closed, Raph’s voice was especially, because as you’ve probably heard by now, it’s something to devote all concentration to devouring. Any noise issued from her mouth cuts through all other noise, capable of ferocity as soundly as it is delicacy. Hers may only be one of many reasons to get on the bandwagon forming pied-piper-like at Braid’s heels, but as soon as she uses that voice, everything else seems built around it. Even the Holocene, a small space where bands like Baths and Braids sound their best.