The Wainwright Brothers, those beardy bluegrass buskers known for inciting dance frenzies up and down the West Coast, are back at it again.
Punk was designed to exude grease. Oily, filthy, sweaty grease at the perimeter of safety-pin piercing-holes and studded denim vests.
All Nicki Bluhm wants to do is have some fun, and she’s got a feeling she’s not the only one.
Jazz venues have come and gone over the years in Eugene, but we now seem to be enjoying a downtown jazz resurgence.
If Eugene had a soundtrack, it would, without a doubt, include a song or two from the up-and-coming band Blue Lotus.
If you prefer your shirts plaid, your music twangy and your whiskey from a Mason jar, you’re probably going to like what’s going down at Sam Bond’s Friday.
Tara Stonecipher & The Tall Grass isn’t a band with lighthearted content.
There’s an art to making elegies and sorrow-ridden songs appealing. Jeff Tweedy and Elliott Smith both come to mind.
If you’ve ever wondered what would’ve happened to Sublime had lead singer Bradley Nowell survived his deadly dance with heroin, I have the answer.
Phoenix, Ariz., is the sere severity of the suburban Southwest, the immediate instigator of Stephen Steinbrink’s songs.
When you toss Bradley Wik and the Charlatans’ debut album Burn What you Can, Bury the Rest into a computer, the machine will categorize it as pop music. Machines lie.
OUT/LOUD is the biggest women’s queer music festival in the Northwest and it’s happening right here in downtown Eugene in Kesey Square.
The Oregon Bach Festival doesn’t start till the end of June, but if you just can’t wait to get that summer Baroque fix there are a couple of enticing early music concerts this weekend.
I feel old. Young bands are listing “mid-aughts indie” as their influences — groups like Pavement, Guided By Voices, etc.
Musekiwa Chingodza is an international phenomenon occuring every other year in the U.S. and Canada.
When Portland folk move to Eugene, a common complaint is that there’s not enough punk rock.
Writing about Primus is like trying to stuff a baboon into a sack — there’s no right way to do it.
Brooke Parrott’s songwriting recalls Laurel Canyon-era folksingers like Carole King, early Bonnie Raitt and pre-rebellious-period Norah Jones.
Bronwynne Brent might look like another relic from the ‘70s, with her flowing brown hair, flowery frocks and guitar in hand, but that assumption proves wrong when you actually listen to her music.
Broken Water is a product of Northwestern weather: cultural, musical, political and alluvial, rooster-vanes swinging in the storm.
Pop music abhors a vacuum. After K. copped for the Big Sleep in 1994, the scene went supernova and collapsed, opening up a black hole that snuffed the uber-hip underground.
The UO isn’t the only place to hear exotic sounds this summer.
Have you ever stopped nodding along to a drum beat only to realize that you have no memory of consciously deciding to start?
Consider The Blimp as a lit cigarette ready to burn hydrogen and explode.
If you found yourself in Los Angeles asking a real hip-hop head how the L.A. conscious hip-hop scene began there, said hip hopper would mention Project Blowed and its veteran founding affialiate Aceyalone.