Holy shit, this is much sooner than I expected to be writing about this experience and we’re trying some radical here; I’m not writing about this in my journal.

Takes too long for blogging. Perfect for short drafting. Too long for blogging. Yes, I just repeated myself. We’re doing this live. Go!

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First things first, Rolodex might be one of the tightest long-players that I have ever had the privilege of regaling with two ears. This opinion will track even when I reach my Vincent Van Gogh era.

Undue aspirations for a Neo-impressionist exile to Saint-Remy-de-Provence aside, French Cassettes fulfill a Wes Anderson meets Beach Boys niche of music that spans seven tracks, 26 minutes and 17 seconds to settle whatever psychotic fury possesses the troubled artist.

Of course, there’s a weird personal pressure not to compare Scott Huerta’s songwriting to Brian Wilson and–oh god, that already happened, breaking whatever compact I may have made with myself after interviewing the Cassettes at Treefort 2022.

It feels unfair. And maybe there’s certain shouldering of a pressure that need not exist. But that’s another thought for another time because the vocal harmonies on the record or live at Mississippi Studios are an inexhaustible source of renewable energy.

After Huerta, MacKenzie Bunch and Andy St. James (who fills in bass on the live circuit) tap into a singular “ooh, ooh, Oh, no,” a crowd member reciprocated with a full-throated twang of their own; “Gyaddamn!”

If that applause was anything to go by, the crowd at the Studio on July 25th was thoroughly pro-Rolodex. While talking with two fans in front, Audrey and Ally, this sensation was only confirmed; both agreed that “Utah” in particular was the song that they most recognized. Lucky for them, because it was the closer of a set which featured Rolodex on six out of the dozen tracks on the setlist, plus a b-side, “Good For It.”

The other five cuts were all new features from their latest, Benzene, released on June 7th this year and duly ignored by me posthaste as I struggled to balance three jobs (still do, to be quite honest). In this regard, NearHear was a lifesaver¹. For anyone who loves seeing live music in the Pacific Northwest and the Bay but frequently is not paying attention to what’s happening, NearHear is the place to know your space.

I’ve never snapped up a ticket faster for French Cassettes.

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Alongside the ticket were Spooky Boys and Salmon Doza, a.k.a. Sam Mendoza, a.k.a. the Dozey Boys. The latter finally settled on a name two-thirds of the way through their set of jangling Bay Area surf rock. Both the guitars and vocals were straightforward and appreciated. Tuned perfectly.

Contrast that to the Spooky Boys who, despite holding it down for the local plaudits², flooded the hall with washed out vocals and guitars amplified beyond recommendation for any ear plugs. They erred on that dreadfully bland dreampop sound that characterizes every Real Estate record I have ever heard in my fucking life, but a touch of mid-aughts post-punk managed to eke through the noise and keep it interesting.

The overall impression was that they sounded awful, warped into a bland dreampop outfit with midwest emo sympathies (no dig on midwest emo, I’m more offended by the bland dreampop). There was only so much frontman Cal Berk could do as he vamped and played it like he was totally into the act of being a “rock star” but is also completely over it. Somewhere, Lou Reed approved.

However, I’m happy to report that this issue of bad sound was most likely an caused by venue acoustics than actual intent. Specifically on “Cellophane.” Which powers on a riff instantly contemporary to Bloc Party circa 2006 on the record, but in a live context carries more of a muted American Football texture.

Both versions work, but until I can see Spooky Boys in a live acoustic setup that better represents their sound, I am sticking to their studio discography as evidence that Portland is ripe for a shoegaze scene.

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After Spooky Boys leave the stage, I’m pretty much convinced that the only semi-acceptable photos I’ll have are from French Cassettes. The lighting at this point has done my camera no favors–it already struggles indoors–anything on top of that and it’s doomed to blur. On post-show review, it didn’t help that the white balance was also set for outdoor photography.

When French Cassettes came on, I could only chuckle on the remark that the band’s vibe looked like a Stanford alum flanked by three truckers that made some of the best Sunday Morning music this side of the States.

And Benzene never really disproves that point, but it does linger. It’s only four-minutes longer than its predecessor, edging past 30 minutes over ten tracks, but those four minutes feel interminably longer. The last three tracks could have probably been cut.

It’s just not as a taut and slim of a record as Rolodex, and that’s okay because there’s good stuff inside; “Eyes Glazed Over” echoes of Queen’s “You’re My Best Friend,” the acoustics of “Megabus” fit snugly in alternative Americana of Cut Worms, Michael Rault and RF Shannon. In fact, that’s where this album largely resides, a surprising turn from the spright and bright indie rock sound that defined their erstwhile work.

But it’s “Baseball Bat” that sits head and shoulders above the rest. It’s the little touches that shine on this record; whether that’s Mills placing a tambourine on the hi-hat for some added percussive shake or Bunch adding a jaunty piano melody that chimes on Huerta’s fragmented lyricism in the chorus.

You are a soft drum in my chest
You fill my lungs
You fit me best, but
I know
You were
Let down
By my wording

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Bunch’s mellotron only seals the deal, mimicking a cello over the bridge of “Baseball Bat,” and teeing up guest Andrew Stephens’ trumpet to comes into the mix for a sober string/brass section that strikes a balance between ELO and REM. It also recalls to me something recalls something Huerta said about his writing process for Rolodex.

I kind of went frantic on ‘Rolodex’ and writing all those parts. I was listening to a bunch of ELO and I was like, ‘Well, he has 50 tracks on here. Why can’t I do that?’

I don’t really have a way to segue out of that quote, but I just thought it was eerie considering how many more layers of keyboards and textures have found their way on Benzene and “Baseball Bat.”

Live, the record sounds more like Lou Reed than Jeff Lynne, however. Mainly because Stephens was not available at Mississippi Hall. But the band manages all the same outside of these limitations.

As a touring outfit, they have achieved that rare station of being able to take less-than-perfect studio output and place it on par with their unquestioned opus (opi? opuses? hmm), all the while leaving everyone satisfied.

Eventually, there will be a show where the new material outnumbers the crowd favorites. Maybe the only song left from their Rolodex era will be a rousing rendition of “Utah.”

For now, they are a college-educated trucker band of indie rock proportions slowly filling in the niches of their sound, moving past whatever half-comparisons and metaphors a crazed journalist might come up with,³ and hitting him over the head with good music like a “Baseball Bat.”

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1. What you thought this was about segue into an album review? Naw, dawg, you gotta wait for that. ↩︎
2. No seriously, talk about a band that looks like it emerged from the dive bars between Highway 30 and the Banfield Expressway. ↩︎
3. To paraphrase a presidential candidate, “And that crazed journalist? That was me.” ↩︎

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