In the several months before I moved out of Santa Barbara last October, a band emerged on the scene to reignite my hope for the rebirth of the local musical landscape. Not since Matthew McAvene teased me with a few smoking sets in early 2007 had I felt the spark of any new, home-bred talent. All it took was one performance by Howlin’ Woods on a Friday night at Cold Spring Tavern to convince me that these guys had the goods. They could jam fiercely, led by the sinewy guitar voodoo of Griffin Chetakian. The rhythm section of Matthew Farrington on drums and Brian “Solar B” Chandler on bass (and keys) was rugged and raw, yet with an intuitive grace. A lot of bands can jam. These guys came across as the total package thanks to the presence of a true frontman. Jordan Chetakian – a powerhouse vocalist with some acoustic guitar chops to boot, boasted a dynamic range. He could rain down with the back-alley blues, bust out a little Sly Stone soul and woo the ladies like a tormented indie rock icon. Offstage he was just an unassuming, plaid-shirt wearing dude with glasses which made his spotlight transformation all the more profound.

By Tyler Blue (Website | Twitter)

For a live music lover like me, one of the best things about leaving a small town like Santa Barbara and heading to the big city of Portland is instant access to an extensive crop of diverse concert venues. When I moved to Santa Barbara in 1999, there were at least half-a-dozen clubs and bars which regularly hosted the sort of jammy music I wanted to see. They dropped like flies until SOhO became virtually the only place to go; at least for smaller shows. I’ve had plenty of memorable times there but one can only endure so much repetition before craving a change of scenery. Cruising the streets of Portland, I find myself frequently amazed upon discovering yet another theater which has eluded me up until that point. Practically every neighborhood has one and each is a unique entity with historical significance, style or both. It doesn’t hurt that they have cool names like Aladdin, Roseland, Groove Suite and Refuge. I just looked at http://www.jambase.com and there are a bunch more I still haven’t even seen, let alone been to.

Photo by T. Blue: Soulive’s Eric Krasno lays it down at The Wonder Ballroom

The first show I saw in Portland back in ‘99 happened to be at the city’s most famous venue - The Crystal Ballroom. Opened back in 1914, the ballroom’s claim to fame is its massive dancefloor which “floats” on ball bearings. I thought that was one of the coolest things ever and still do. Since my return back in October, I’ve been appalled to find that many locals don’t hold it in very high regard for various nitpicky reasons. Almost any other town would give its left nut to have a Crystal Ballroom. But in Portland, with so many other options to choose from, it’s understandable that people gravitate to other favorites. Several of my friends had been telling me that The Wonder Ballroom was at the top of their list.  I finally had the opportunity to check it out on Tuesday night when Soulive and Lettuce came to town. The 778-capacity venue, which opened in 2004, definitely lived up to the hype.

Zooming down from Camas, WA across the mighty Columbia River to make an 8 p.m. start time, I should have known better than to be in a hurry. Scrambling up to the box office, the schedule revealed there would be two DJ openers and Soulive wasn’t coming on until 10:15. Fortunately in Portland, there’s always somewhere close by to grab a pre-show cocktail and Secret Society Lounge is one of the best. Two martinis later, I strolled in to the Wonder; anxious to see what the place was all about. The building itself, which was completed in 1914 (apparently a banner year for Portland construction), started out as the Ancient Order of Hibernarians - an organization committed to immigration reform and preservation of Irish culture. In 2006 it was recognized on the National Register of Historic Places. Nestled near the happening North Mississippi neighborhood, it’s a little bit church, a little hipster hideaway.

By Tyler Blue (Website | Twitter)

It was the summer of ’87 when the announcement came through the pipeline. My favorite band at the time, Motley Crue, was going to be playing nearby at the Hollywood (FL) Sportatorium. A dream scenario was unfolding for my first concert but long before the music hit my virgin ears, I was already conditioned to understand what a challenge it could be just to get tickets. Fortunately a girl I knew who worked at a record store assured my brother and I she would be able to score us tickets.

The anticipation was overwhelming but the day finally arrived when tickets went on sale. Sure enough our insider came through and we were all set for the big day. Ironically, I haven’t enjoyed a connection like that since. The details of that late November night are forever emblazoned in my mind. Starting my illustrious concert-going career on the Crue’s infamous “Girls, Girls, Girls” tour surely played a big factor in implanting the glory of the live music experience in my DNA. From the sea of spandex and Aqua Net hair outside to this deafening opening band no one had heard of called Guns ‘n Roses to Tommy Lee’s still unmatched 360-degree drum solo, it was the stuff of legends.

Fast forward to 1996 – my junior year at Clemson University – when a band called Phish announced its Halloween show only two hours away at Atlanta’s Omni Arena. Continuing a tradition established three years prior, the Vermont quartet was going to don a musical costume; covering another band’s album in its entirety. (Little did we know at the time it would be one of the coolest, most under-appreciated albums of all time – The Talking Heads’ “Remain in Light.”) The demand was so high, most of my friends and I were all rejected in our attempts to get mail order tickets. There was no way we were missing this so we hit the situation room like Washington strategizing his crossing of the Delaware. We had to outthink the other Phishheads. Where would they go? How far were they willing to drive? A few days later, a three hour banzai to an obscure Ticketmaster outlet in Macon, Georgia yielded the fruit of our desire. A month or so later, we were sitting pretty on the floor of the Omni.

Since their return from retirement in 2009, Phish has trended towards playing smaller venues, making the ticket acquisition process that much more of a science. Last year fans struggled to gain access to Berkeley’s 8500-seat Greek Theater and Telluride’s Town Park. Scalpers fattened their kid’s college funds, charging obscene amounts of money to the desperate masses. This year, on August 9 and 10, Phish is making their Lake Tahoe debut at Harvey’s Outdoor Amphitheater. Even by modern standards, 7000 seats is microscopic. Déjà vu struck as my online ticket request was rejected, sending me back to the situation room. Gas isn’t 99 cents a gallon anymore so a three hour drive was out of the question. “Should I drive an hour to Longview, Washington?” I contemplated. Even that seemed like overkill.

Scanning the map, I settled on an Oregon town with a funky name – Scappoose. It was only a half-hour from the Portland metro area which struck me as too accessible, but how many people in this neck of the woods were trying to get Phish Tahoe tickets? The area is littered with Fred Meyer Ticketmaster outlets but maybe Scappoose was too much of an attention-grabbing name. It rolls off the tongue with satisfying ease. I should have known better but decided to take my chances. It was a pleasant drive cruising along the forgotten side of the Columbia River, past the industrial ghost zone. If we didn’t get tickets, at least I would know where to go if I ever need to wack somebody. Despite the narrow odds, we were feeling rather confident. So confident we only arrived about 10 minutes before tickets went on sale. Big mistake. Upon walking into the electronics section at Fred Meyer, my heart sunk. When I saw seven people in line, I knew right then our ship had sailed.

It was 11:53 when I resorted to the equivalent of a Hail Mary. I pulled out my phone and dialed up Ticketmaster. Getting tickets on the phone for a high demand concert is maybe just a tad easier than completing a Rubik’s Cube in the dark. I almost couldn’t believe it when I wasn’t greeted with a busy signal. Entering the automated system, I knew I had to buy some time until the clock struck noon. Bypassing the computer, I opted to wait a few more precious minutes for a live body. 11:57 rolled around and I was starting to quiver. I knew it was now or never. Returning to automated avenue, I annunciated the date and venue of the show with painstaking clarity. When H.A.L. eventually responded, “We are holding four tickets for you,” I could see the Promised Land just over yonder.

While on the phone, the live action was unfolding a few feet away as the ticket agent scrambled to pluck as many as he could out of the computer cosmos. It was no surprise when he announced they were sold out five minutes later. Only two people were able to hit the jackpot. Groans of anguish resonated all around. My final minutes on the phone felt like eternity as credit card information and other details were confirmed. I wasn’t about to do any celebrating until that confirmation number came across the line. When it finally did, I breathed a huge sigh of relief and did a subtle fist pump; not wanting to rub it in for the less fortunate. One bookish brunette offered a friendly high-five. I could hardly believe my luck. Three-and-a-half months from now I would wield my golden tickets and dance in the garden of delights. Ridiculous service charges and hoop-jumping aside, I won’t be referring to the evil empire as “Ticketbastard”… at least for a little while.

By Tyler Blue (Website | Twitter)

When the Grateful Dead used to announce a new live release, its impending arrival was met with voracious anticipation. Deadheads dropped everything and ran to the store on the first day it came out or else had it waiting in the mailbox. We all remember when “One from the Vault” hit the racks in April of 1991. It was like Christmas, Channukah and a birthday all rolled into one. Soon the Dick’s Picks series came around. The declaration of a new release was akin to Apple revealing upgrades for the latest iPhone. They only came once or twice a year so it was easy to keep up and buy them all. There were no CD burners yet so everyone had to buy their own copy. What a concept.

Maybe around the time Dick’s Picks crossed into double-digits, the reality set in that I was going to have to start to pick and choose. But it was so hard to resist the sudden and instant access to a perfect copy of a show which had only been heard on crackly cassettes or maybe not at all. For a band which, at the time, was facing the reality of the erosion of its talent, this was the ultimate way to revive the genius of their past heroics to be put on a pedestal in the present and future. The quality was so consistently stellar, with eyes closed, it really felt like you were there.

Several years ago, after Dick’s Picks had already run its course, the Dead introduced the Road Trips series which could be purchased in CD format or via digital download. The floodgates were officially open as these amazing shows were released at a rate so frequent, only the deepest pocketed audiophiles could keep up. Well, and the illegal downloaders too. No one seems to hesitate anymore in “stealing” these recordings as they tend to rationalize: “I’ve given more than enough money to the Dead organization over the years.” Actually, not such an unreasonable line of logic.

By Tyler Blue (Website | Twitter)

We can feel the planetary shift coming on. From weather to war to welfare, we can sense the world imploding and only hope to be part of its reinvention. Evolution is a powerful word and it can apply to so many different forms of life. Humans have evolved in synch with the music created around them. All of the great albums of music history serve as reflections of their generation on one level or another. I’m not implying the Beastie Boys’ Hot Sauce Committee Part 2 deserves consideration in this category…but it might. Their new album puts on a clinic in exploring virgin terrain while carrying a retro torch.
Depending on the listener’s state of mind, “Sauce” could be perceived as an expression of genius containing the secret to life or an overproduced piece of crap. After my maiden spin on headphones, I leaned towards the latter. Two more listens later and I was drinking the Kool Aid. Some of us have gathered a few gray hairs over the last seven years since the Beastie Boys’ last hip hop offering - the criminally underrated To the 5 Boroughs. 2007’s all instrumental The Mix Up was an aberration. Going strong since the mid-80s, the band was injected with a rare dose of mortality when MCA - AKA Adam Yauch - was faced with a bout of throat cancer. On the other side with a clean bill of health, this album is delivered anxiously, with a “strike hard at the brink of the apocalypse” sort of focus. Although, at points it puts on the guise of a half-baked lark which could come unraveled like a ball of yarn.

Following the model of previous albums, the first single - in this case the album’s first song - “Make Some Noise” - is its obvious alpha dog. Continuing where they left off with 1994’s Ill Communication, the Beasties establish a dirty precedent with layers of grit coated over the mix. We are instantly vaulted into a familiar comfort zone as this track kicks open the back door to reveal a party we thought ended a long time ago. It’s irresistible as ever but this time everyone’s wearing styley new clothes. “Sauce’s” rough-around-the-edges aesthetic hits its zenith on “Say It” which would be a parent’s nightmare blasting out of their kid’s room. A potential polarizer like “The Crunge” on Zeppelin’s Houses of the Holy, one has to wade through the sonic soup to embrace the primal stomp under the surface.

By Tyler Blue


Jerry Garcia struts offstage as the catharsis of a monumental “Morning Dew” still resonates through the air. The expressions on the audience member’s faces are as if they have been in the presence of God. The man who has just delivered the cosmic gospel only wants some cold water as he searches the green room. He exits, comes back in, sits down and takes a few bites of a cupcake before abruptly hustling back onstage to raise the roof with “Johnny B. Goode.” This is only one of many scenes you’ve never seen in any other concert video. In the discussion of that genre’s best, The Band’s The Last Waltz, Talking Heads’ Stop Making Sense and Pink Floyd’s Live at Pompeii tend to get the most mention, and deservingly so. What sets The Grateful Dead Movie apart from those classics and all of its peers, is how comprehensive it is in capturing every possible angle of every aspect related to producing and attending this series of concerts. Among other unique perspectives, we get to hang with fans munching on psychedelics while camped out in line for tickets, talk to a hot dog vendor who prefers the music of Sha Na Na, sympathize with a backstage door attendant dealing with persistent hippies and grasp the concept of “work hard, play hard” while the band’s crew gets debaucherous with a tank of nitrous…