Roselit Bone – Tickets – Doug Fir Lounge – Portland, OR – May 31st, 2017

Roselit Bone

Roselit Bone's Apocalyptic Western Album Release

Roselit Bone

The Jackalope Saints, Chuck Westmoreland

May, 31st, 2017

Doors: 8:00 pm / Show: 9:00 pm

$8.00 - $12.00

This event is 21 and over

Roselit Bone
Roselit Bone
"Though singer Josh McCaslin wrote much of Roselit Bone's debut album while living in the isolated woods outside Coos Bay, the imagery on Blacken & Curl is the stuff of a dystopian Western: dust blankets the landscape, the ravens are the size of dogs, and death comes slow and hot. The music, played by a 10-piece band augmented by trumpets, flute and pedal steel, enhances the dry, desiccated feeling, blending the cinematic sweep of Ennio Morricone with the twang of classic country and a sense of creeping malice that would make Nick Cave giddy. Bring water. You're going to feel parched." - Matt Singer, Willamette Week
The Jackalope Saints
The Jackalope Saints
Duplicitous, the wilderness speaks half-truths; it calls and goes silent. The Jackalope Saints' stories are similarly mysterious. From the experience of singer-songwriter Clinton Herrick, the Saints' music preaches the folklore of Wild America. Herrick's imagery is elemental—wind and stone, bone and dust—but the lyrical detail guards more than it reveals. Sun-bleached teeth and a shadowed gunshot grow large in the listener's mind. The imagery, however, only distracts from questions of substance: who, when, and where? But these are tall tales, ghost stories, the true experience of which cannot be found in fact.

Herrick has been drawn to this folkloric imagery since his youth.

“My Grandmother gave me a jackalope postcard when I was ten [years old] . . . It's still in my guitar case.”

Traditionally associated with the American West, the mythical jackalope can mimic any sound. Cowboys around their campfires, echoes, would claim to hear the creatures singing songs back to them in the cowboys' own voices. It is these uniquely American legends that continue to fascinate Herrick and inspire the Saints' music.

"Americana explorations come to life with a musical support group of banjos, mandolins, fiddles, slide guitar, and more, echoing the gritty wilds of the once-unknown West. The band's live shows are bona fide hootenannies."

~RYAN J. PRADO
The Portland Mercury
Chuck Westmoreland
Chuck Westmoreland
Eight years ago you would’ve seen Chuck Westmoreland onstage, a busted sprinkler head of awkward and endearing gyrations, gesticulations, and sweat who came, as he put it then, to “rock [your] balls off.”
Eight years ago he would’ve been preaching psycho-sexual pop songs with his band, The Kingdom. Singing conceptually interconnected, insanely catchy nuggets about cars, gender metamorphosis, Dog Day Afternoon, and—somehow—Johnny Unitas in a warbling falsetto caught somewhere between the pearly gates and a truck stop.
Eight years ago. Before he walked away from it all. Before marriage. Before his wife’s cancer fight brought him to his knees. Before the birth of his first child chiseled away whatever remained of that almost-famous man that used to bounce around under the spotlight.
Nearly a decade later, Westmoreland returns with his self-titled solo debut, a powerful album that takes his gift for character sketches and deconstructions and turns the focus squarely, and unblinkingly, on himself.
Chuck Westmoreland is not only a history of his eight-year rock ‘n’ roll sabbatical, but a departure from rock ‘n’ roll entirely. Westmoreland’s work with The Kingdom—hailed by everyone from Spin and The Onion’s A.V. Club to Portland’s dueling alt-weeklies—existed in an ephemeral flight of pop fancy. Chuck Westmoreland has four appendages firmly planted in the unforgiving muck and mire of real life.
“The songs are about the lyrics more than anything else,” Westmoreland explains. “I’m trying to tell personal stories that reveal something terrible, familiar, and hopeful to the listener.”
Owing more to Gordon Lightfoot than Guided by Voices, Chuck Westmoreland shears away all outré influences for a singer-songwriter’s lunch pail full of bare-knuckle blood and guts. Much like Springsteen turned his back on street-racing anthems for noir Heartland story telling on Nebraska, Westmoreland gets to the gritty business of life and death and loss on his solo debut. These aren’t songs about leaving and transformation; these are songs about sticking around in the face of tragedy, setting your feet, and fighting. Bones are cracked open and marrow spooned out with dirty fingers: the good, the bad, and the frustratingly in-between.
Sometimes that darkness is lathered up with sweet, warm harmonies, and slow-rolling rhythms (“Pattern in the Blood”), sometimes it’s laid bare in a creaking, near death rattle (“The Clouds Beyond Us Carry Rain”)…and sometimes it’s clubbed over the head with a beer bottle in the heat of a honky-tonk brawl (“Satin”). It’s a riveting journey that at once pulls influences from the high water mark of late-70s singer-songwriters, while sounding in narrative lockstep alongside the current stars of country’s literary revival.
“All these songs are about the character trying to recover something that has been taken from them,” Westmoreland says. “Or the character trying to understand some horrible thing they’ve been given to deal with.”
In Westmoreland’s case, dealing with horrible things means releasing one of the best albums of the year.