Holocene, September 22, 2024, 9-11 p.m., 21+
Rebecca Hanson and ghostwriters (pictured below)
As my roommate and I walked home from the 7/11 up the street with our 40oz Miller High Lifes (Lives?) clacking in a plastic bag, a great idea befell me: “hey, let’s drink these and watch LCD Soundsystem at Madison Square Garden on YouTube!” Maybe we had to numb ourselves for a Sunday show night, tricking us into believing that we were somewhere we definitely weren’t.
But there was no need for such psychic vibe cultivation/preparation. This show needed to be on a Sunday, and it needed to be in Portland. I don’t believe that there is any other time and place in the world that would quite appreciate the inherent goofiness of the Dare’s rapid-fire set with sufficient full-bodied glee. These are the terms on which we met the Dare—Portland and Sunday, humor and horniness, irony and joy.
Holocene is a sturdy venue. There would really be no other place in Portland to go see the Dare other than this refurbished warehouse, complete with snow-globe-esque paneling. The beer is $4 and cold. My notes say “lots of girls in fake bikini shirts” and “double beer,” which to me implies that I had at least two.
Taylor Skye, half of Jockstrap, opened punctually at 9 p.m. to a throng of young ladies in ties. It was the sound of 312 carabiners jumping and nostalgic for recession-era pop, the music loaded with generational nods. Skye’s sense of humor shined, and as he vanished into the dark, the whimsy remained.
I was still double-fisting a Rainier and a Modelo, trying to find my co-correspondent. Nowhere is weird how it is here. Everyone in the room knew the irony of a party in Polycule City. Everyone knew what we were here for: something that was once “a bit,” but now might actually mean something. It wasn’t hard to look over the crowd, and soon I was reunited with my group—until, of course, he appeared.
I’m not ashamed to say that I screamed.
The Dare sauntered out in his signature suit and shades. Not bad for a Sunday. Setting loose the caged party animals, he began with “Open Up." The mic stand flew back and forth in his palms during “Good Time.” It was a good thing everyone brought their ironic and now-foggy sunglasses, because those strobe warnings posted outside the venue windows were not in vain.
Crowd-pleaser “Sex” dragged the devotees to the front, arms outstretched. “I Destroyed Disco” reminded us of his inherent ironic tone, taking us straight back to beer and YouTube: almost like a James Murphy touring hologram. As the performance progressed, the songs blurred together into one thrumming mass. He warned us before playing “Elevation:” “It’s a ballad.” Sure enough, it was a rare breather in a relentless set, and I swear his eyes shut behind his glasses.
After “All Night,” the lights cut. He stood there a few seconds, told us he hates encores, and hit us with “Girls.” He knew we were hungry for it. And boy howdy, we were.
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