Words by Jordan Kinley//Illustration by Erica Parrott
Today I woke up with a 104 degree fever and lungs filled with enough snot to choke a cougar. Perhaps the gods had it in for me, sending me a plague on the day of what would be one of the most significant concerts to take place in humble Portland. Or perhaps it was because I needed a little suffering and sickness in order to truly enjoy Stephen Malkmus and the Silver Jews. Regardless, it was an evening of historic proportions, one which even bronchitis couldn’t stop me from attending. I was armed with codeine cough syrup to keep my lungs at bay and my mind prepared to enter the languid world of Malkmus and Berman.

I was first introduced to the Silver Jews and Pavement the summer before I left for college. They have serenaded me during the worst of times: the alienation of freshman year, the twisted ends of acid trips and drunken sprees, and of course, my hopelessly fragmented romantic interludes. Tonight, it all seemed to come full circle, as these two men descended from my speakers into the lonely city—Portland, Ore.

Malkmus performed an acoustic set first. He walked onto the stage, sporting a new mustache and an acoustic guitar. An amplified acoustic guitar brought a completely new layer to his lo-fi songs. He quickly introduced himself and the festival by saying, “Welcome to NW Music Fest…it sucks.”

Indeed, this was the attitude that I had come for. His acoustic version of “Trigger Wound” was brilliant. The fact that just an acoustic guitar can reach the same gritty peaks of the original version speaks to the fact that it was Malkmus alone who carried Pavement. Barely moving away from the mic, he sang with his eyes shut. Regardless of age or mustache, his tone was smeared with the same childishly apathetic, yet anxious tension that was present on the very first album.

As a fan, I was relieved that he didn’t follow the path of such artists as Calvin Johnson or Phil Elvrum who often refuse to play songs from their original band. He offered a mixed bag of Pavement and solo songs, thoroughly pleasing his range of fans. Toward the end of his set, he called out David Berman, asking “If anyone in the audience knows how to control David Berman could you please bring him to the stage.”

A man in a black, country western suit meandered onto the stage carrying a Jack and Coke. Sharing a mic, they performed a duet of “Blue Arrangements.” They performed the song with such casual exuberance that it spoke more to the beauty of their friendship rather than their mutual talent. It was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see these two legends sing like a couple of drunkards at a karaoke bar. Stumbling through the lyrics, they ultimately confessed, “It may seem that we don’t care about this song, but don’t worry you’ll get the old Silver Jews soon.”

The promise was certainly fulfilled. Malkmus finished his set, and a few roadies later the Silver Jews returned to the stage, sadly lacking Stephen. The perplexing and wandering personality of Berman’s lyrics seem to be embodied by every feature of the man standing on the stage in front of me. They started with “Punks in the Beer Light.” Many reviewers of their first tour noted that Berman had lacked the ability to truly perform his songs, often resorting to reading lyrics off of a lectern or simply humming along at times. Tonight, this most certainly was not the case. The band was well rehearsed and performed the songs with an intoxicating energy and precision. “Wild Kindness” also comes to mind for its precise guitar solos and remarkably seducing lyrics. “Trains Across the Sea” was an astonishing trip through what Berman later revealed to be a description of his wet dreams.

Between songs, Berman showed his entertainer’s charm. He explained his reasons for touring were to spread the word about how he hated to be called Dave instead of David. He told the audience that he had eaten some really good German food in Portland that, in two hours, had left him hungry for power. His wife showed some charisma, confessing that Berman didn’t want to memorize certain parts of the chorus and that she was happy to take on what she referred to as the leftovers. I usually respect the mystique of performers like Animal Collective or Built to Spill, who flow through all of their songs without addressing the audience. But with Berman it was quite different. His lyrics are so perplexingly personal that it was enlightening to hear the candid anecdotes that offer so much insight into the dynamic of a man plagued by so many demons.

As they continued to play, I could not but help and think that perhaps I had hyped the show too much. Would the sloppy duet of “Blue Arrangements” be the only appearance made by the part-time Silver Jew? Berman clearly played to the audience’s collective anxiety. He would stare at the bar in the back and make cryptic references to Malkmus, at certain points requesting that he come on stage. His request were to no avail. Berman apologized to the audience for Malkmus’ absence. As he announced his last song, Berman mockingly made air quotes with his hands. They finished their set with an amazing performance of “There Is A Place.” The song’s climatic chant turned into a beautiful mantra of sorts. And mysteriously, like a brilliant whore who always keeps her clients wanting more, they left the stage.

Thankfully, they returned this time sporting the previously M.I.A. Malkmus, who not only toted a mustache, but also a Budweiser. And with him they gave two of the most amazing performances I’ve ever seen on a live stage: “Smith and Jones,” and ” New Orleans.”

They were epic—beyond adjectives. The intimate connection between Malkmus and Berman beamed through every fucking note and syllable. Before they began “New Orleans,” Berman said, “That felt good to play with you. Stephen, will you come and play on our next recording?”

This was not just a concert. There was something elegantly sincere about the combination of amazing musicianship and a cherished friendship. ” New Orleans” was performed perfectly. The morose voice of Berman tumbled off of the wiry back-up vocals of Malkmus. The paradoxical anxiety of the song broke through each line, especially, “Not the one you heard about I’m talking about another one.” Malkmus, in his usual childish antics, provided the audience with suitable hand gestures for each lyric. At the end of the song, Berman ripped open his shirt and wrapped himself around the embarrassed Malkmus to the sounds of much applause.

And that was that, a performance that offered everything it should. The audience was not only offered amplified renditions of a well chosen set list, but also precious insight into the quirky relationship of two of the most illusive and mysterious men in the indie world. As for me, I left the venue thankful that I would have at least one good story to tell my children.

Stephen Malkmus
Matador Records
Silver Jews
Drag City Records