The Helio Sequence

Tonight I saw Portland's best band, The Helio Sequence. It's been a long time since I've seen them, but oh, how gloriously happy it made me. I haven't felt so pleased in a really long time. I can't even remember when! It was almost as magical as seeing them back in the day, shining out from that dark cave of Ohm. But I didn't realize how long ago back in the day was until I got to the show! Holy cripes, have they changed. But Brandon Summers is still a glowing, effervescent god. Still reminds me of Steve Marriott, though less so without his bowl of hair flopping around. And Benjamin Weikel is still freaking out Animal-style on the drums, mouth agape in the most endearingly exuberant way.

I don't know what it is, but with just the two of them, they fill a massive ballroom with sound that literally feels golden, like optimism and energy and hope bouncing into your cells. It's gotten a little less hyperactive as they've grown a bit older, but that may even be a good thing, because it makes it seem like their state of mind is almost accessible, and not something that has to be absorbed through osmosis if you're not a zippy 19-year-old.

Okay, so why has it been so long since I've seen them? After their 2001 album (their second), they didn't release anything for a while. I was freaked out to see Benjamin Weikel drumming with Modest Mouse at SXSW, because I thought it meant the end of Helio Sequence. I spent most of the set saying "I can't believe it!" I don't even know when that was. Was it 2004? It was the year Mission of Burma played. (Mental note to self about Mission of Burma poster on the wall in bathroom: see if it's sold out or what.) Anyway, when they finally did release a third album (love and distance), it was in summer 2004, and I was pretty busy with personal turmoil at that point. Flooding, car accident, illness, death. I think I vaguely remember hearing about and intending to get the album. I think I've been semi-conscious in a sense since then, certainly not as in tune as I always was before, so I have been oblivious to most things and haven't seen any adverts that they were around. But they are! I'm so glad. And they even promised that they plan to release a new album soon, although I missed some information there because the idiot beside me was screeching out a whistle that sounded like feedback.

I'll take the opportunity to briefly address such behavior here. If you're at a show to see someone, people, it is rude and stupid to whistle or cheer when they are talking. Wait until they are not speaking, dork. Likewise, if you go to show and find out that ooo, the floor bounces, this does not mean you have to go around bouncing the floor. If that's your bag, come back after the show and bounce on the floor. The rest of us are there to see the show, not to see you giggling and squealing and rocking the floor like it's a ship. Another tip: if you are seeing a pleasant, etheral pop band or something like that, don't make your little devil horns and thrust your hand in the air. And don't go looking for a mosh! Jeez, I didn't even think people still did that. What the hell show do you think you're at? What are you doing? Also, if you are going to dance like a crazy person, dance to the music that's playing. Otherwise it's perfectly clear to everyone that you're just one of those drunk guys with the bachelor party that wandered in by chance.
And now back to The Helio Sequence.

Reading an interview with Brandon Summers in the weekly after the show, I realized with some strange sadness that he recalls a Portland long gone, one I was totally immersed in and enamored with. It seems like longer than the decade it has been since those days. Portland used to be pretty damn cool. And now the weekly is actually printing sidebar definitions of once bread-and-butter bands. It's kind of sick. I didn't realize it had really gotten so . . . whatever it is. I kind of thought I was imagining it or I was unfairly biased. Apparently, he doesn't mind the change, and I guess I have to admit he said he likes Portland as-is. The aforementioned 2004 album, love and distance even has a song ("Everyone Knows Everyone") that eerily (to me) but cheerfully (to them) describes the freaky comforting quicksand that is Portland.

The Helio Sequence would be one thing I'd miss if I'm ever able to get out of here. I'm going to be hypervigilant about any of their performances in the future, because with this kind of pleasure, I can't afford to miss a single one.


p.s. Three points goes to anyone who can accurately connect the weird, unexpected dots that made this entry on The Helio Sequence fit with this blog's usual themes.