October 8, 2003

The Blood We’re Made Of

Last night we hit up Mates of State, I am the World Trade Center and The Thermals at The Meow Meow in downtown Portland.

Ever since I picked up their latest disc Team Boo (listen, buy), Mates of State has shoved their way into my top three favorite bands. I say top three with decided ambiguity, as my long-term memory is prone to forgetting important things like favorite bands in favor of its latest addiction.

I absolutely adore Mates of State. I love how their abstract lyrics weave around each other in a slow embrace. I love how all their songs are an eclectic mix of themes, rhythm and time. I love how two people behind drum and organ can generate such a thick presence and feel so delicate. Their music embraces everything I love about life, from the passion to the humor to the ironies to the darkness, and the entire evening I jammed alongside my fellow geeks with a wide crazed smile on my face.

The place was packed with A/V geeks, punk rockers and every convenient label in between. After spending the entire summer surrounded bronze meatheads (the coolest, sweetest meetheads you’ll ever meat, but meatheads nonetheless) these people were a welcome breath of fresh air. It was nothing but city air tinged with the smell of late night video game marathons, cold metal jabbed through flesh and general lankiness, but it was the most delicious environment. I was conscious of my breath and inhaled deeply to hold it, just so I could keep the atmosphere inside a little bit longer and let it circulate under my skin. It didn’t taste of anything strong or particular but it had a presence I could feel thickening my soul.