Here ’tis, part two of our long-weekend Musicfest Diaries series.

7:30 pm, Audiocinema: Daniel Rossen introduces Grizzly Bear’s next song to the plaid shirt convention (cowboy shirts on sale now at urban outfitters) that make up the crowd by saying in an English-sounding accent: “This is an old folk song, a sea chanty, I don’t know why I’m talking like this, this is weird, sorry!” They finish their beautiful set with the melodic, “On a neck, On a spit” and the audience lets out a collective sigh. DEVAN COOK.

8:30 pm, Tube: Lord Simms, lead singer of the Shakespeare power metal outfit Dagger of the Mind (and my roommate) recklessly jumps on top of a table at the Tube, knocking over a drink which spills onto his green tights. As fill-in drummer Lady Beren makes a final crash on her cymbals, a sweat-soaked dude sweeps his hair out of his face and turns to me and says, “That was awesome!” DEVAN COOK.

8:35 pm, Tube: You can’t ignore Dagger of the Mind, they won’t let you. IAN RASMUSSEN.

8:36 pm, Slabtown: Kurt Hagardorn tells a bad joke about being on the internet (“I was young and needed the money,” or something like that). The sparse crowd remains pretty silent, but Hagardorn makes up for it with a stellar rendition of show- (and album Ten Singles-) closer “It’s OK It’s Allright.” In fact, his whole set is stellar—a warm ‘n’ fuzzy, Sunday afternoon stroll through country-tinged ‘50s waltzes and dissonant guitar-pop. The mood is driven home by the Portland songwriter’s excellent band—which sounds like an all-pro Sun Records studio outfit (quite a feat on Slabtown’s crackly system)—and he and violinist Annalisa Tornfelt’s matching duds: Hagardorn wears a black cowboy shirt with red and white embroidery on the chest and Tornfelt (who also joined the night’s headliners, the Builders and the Butchers, later on) dons a matching, red and white sundress and simple black pumps. Slabtown’s never felt so cozy. AMY MCCULLOUGH.

8:45 pm, Tube: Bard-core band Dagger of the Mind—with former WW freelancer Jason Simms on guitar and vocals—commands Tube’s few hundred square feet, matching lines from Henry V with power metal guitar solos. During “Caliban,” a song composed from Shakespeare’s The Tempest, Simms launches into the crowd, mic stand in hand, growling lyrics into audience members’ ears. As the song ends, he emphatically throws down the mic stand and the microphone splits in two. His eyes widen and face blanches as he breaks character for a moment, his 15th-century posturing gone, and turns away from the audience as he scrambles to fix the mic. With the repair successful, he resumes his act as Lord Simms, Liege of Albakirk, announcing in an affected English accent that DOTM’s show next Friday is “a mere 40 yards from here at Dante’s Inferno, if you are so sacrilegious to brave such a place.” PAIGE RICHMOND.

9 pm, Satyricon: I’m greeted at the entrance of Satyricon by a roaming band of mustachioed teenagers (some real, some fake, most drawn on). It’s clear from their conversations that they either all went to high school with Typhoon, who are gathering on the stage inside, or are friends with those who have. Even if they weren’t, though, it should be obvious why the band has such a strong underage following. Despite being mostly underage themselves, and adorable to boot, the band manages to blow more experienced bands out of the water. The band is late setting up, but there are like a million of them so I let it slide. Once they start playing I immediately know why there has been so much buzz around them. I’m hit with a carefully controlled powerhouse of sound that’s wonderfully lush and balanced. One can’t help but be impressed, but then I always fall in love with a band that features an accordion, keyboards, vibes, eight-person acapella solos and a legion of perfectly harmonizing fans that don’t need direction from the band. IAN RASMUSSEN.

9:07 pm, Towne Lounge: Eskimo & Sons are finishing “2012,” the opening song to their set as we walk into the already-full room. Over the next 30 minutes, the line will grow out of the tunnel entrance and bend well around the corner. The group of young musicians mention more than once that they’ll be unable to stick around after their set to see the rest of the bands, as they are underage. “My mom is here,” says Dhani Rosa, the guitarist/frontman, “She’s from Mexico.” After the opening song, the band is joined onstage by a choir of seven of their friends—including Chelsea Morrisey from Dirty Mittens—armed with shakers and bells. This is a pretty clever plan if their friends are underage as well. They’re officially performers if they’re on the stage, right? JIM SANDBERG.

9:27 pm, Towne Lounge: I’m blissfully watching one of my all-time favorite Portland bands, Eskimo and Sons, when someone taps my shoulder and says Josh Hodges of Starfucker hasn’t shown up yet. I left my phone at home, so I start to flip and cut through the packed house to grab a buddy’s cel. As I cut through the long corridor out of the Towne Lounge, I hear the distinct falsetto of potty-mouthed rocker/R&B singer Cody Chestnutt. It is blaring from Josh Hodges jeep, where he sits laughing and singing along with a group of friends. CASEY JARMAN.

9:28 pm, Satyricon: Absolutely no parking can be found in order to catch even a couple minutes of Typhoon’s gig. I head to the Doug Fir via the Broadway bridge due the conveniently closed Burnside bridge to make it there on time for Tiny Vipers. NILINA MASON-CAMPBELL.

9:37 pm, Towne Lounge: A guy and a gal talk loudly during Eskimo & Sons. The surrounding showgoers are subtly annoyed. My boyfriend reluctantly says, “Hey, I don’t mean to be a dick, but….” Guy and gal quiet down. Guy and gal start up again about two songs later. Guy turns to my boyfriend and says, “It’s just background music for somepeople, you know?” Meanwhile, a line stretches out of the Towne Lounge and down the sidewalk; it’s full of people who want to see both Eskimo & Sons and all the bands the folk-pop outfit’s under-21 members will miss due to bogus OLCC rules. Singer Danielle Sullivan mentions how much she’d like to see the other acts. Talking guy is too busy talking to see the irony. AMY MCCULLOUGH.

9:57 pm, Doug Fir: People behind me are discussing how nervous the front woman of Tiny Vipers looks after her fellow guitarist disappears briefly from the stage. They debate whether she’ll make a run for it, cry, or vomit. They tell her “it’s okay,” but quiet enough for her not to hear it. NILINA MASON-CAMPBELL.

10 pm, Fez Ballroom lobby: Courtney Taylor Taylor is talking old school Oregon politics with one of the chief policy wonk dudes from Sam Adams’ office, Roland Chlapowski. BYRON BECK.

10:01 pm, Towne Lounge: Starfucker takes the stage, with two drumsets facing each other and an antique-looking amp—like an Incan God—between them. And Peavey is a fickle god. As the two start their first song, drumming in unison, Josh Hodges turns on the synthesizer, the amp gives out. They both pause before Hodges’ bandmate casually gets up and whacks the amp, startling it back to life. The way Hodges fights with samplers and synths, it’s as if he’s wrestling with a dangerous beast—when he addresses the crowd, his voice sometimes comes through as a whisper, sometimes like a horrific boom. The songs end apruptly; they crumble apart at the ends, as if he’s finally lost control of them in a wild squeal of feedback. In-between songs, Hodges stops to whisper into the mic that he has 15 CDs for sale. “I packaged them with sage,” he says. “I picked it in Nevada. And radish seeds. Even if you don’t like the CD, you should buy it and plant the seeds and eat radishes.” JIM SANDBERG.

10:05 pm, outside Satyricon: As Adrian Orange plays next door at Satyricon, I’m at a bar with a group of friends including comrade/partner in crime (ex-WW freelance writer) Michael Byrne while we discuss his impending departure from Portland (as he has landed a job in Maryland). Upon hearing that he’s leaving a lady behind, a mutual friend is prompted to say, “You are leaving love for Baltimore? Love is way harder to find. People find jobs all the time but they spend their whole lives searching for love.” Realizing he has no argument, Michael defeatedly slumps back into the booth and sips his beer quietly. DEVAN COOK.

10:13 pm, Towne Lounge: Josh Hodges, a.k.a. Starfucker, is brilliant as usual. A guy behind me says to a friend, “Interesting.” You bet your ass it is: Hodges is the perfect example of guy-who-fiddles-with-a-keyboard-for-hours-in-his-room gone so, so right. People cringe when his “weee-oooo” knob twisting gets into only-dogs-can-hear-it range, and it makes me smile. I look around during “German Love” to find that only show curator Casey Jarman, his girfriend Emily, my boyfriend and I are rocking out (that’s four in a sold-out show). I unabashedly sing the wrong words (“Jungle love”), as does my boyfriend (a different set of wrong words: “If you need love”), and all feels right with the world. Oh, except for the two rows of seated folks sitting at the very front. Since when do the presumably most excited front-row mega-fans sit? Seriously, you people are tools. I mean, how do you not move your ass to Starfucker anyway? Get up and fucking dance already! AMY MCCULLOUGH.

10:15, Towne Lounge: I’m trying to watch Starfucker [Along with everyone else who blogged -Ed.] but it just isn’t working out. The duo is sitting on the already-low stage, and the audience is comprised of mostly giants shipped in from Denmark. I might as well be listening at home, but the band is electric. IAN RASMUSSEN.

10:23 pm, Towne Lounge: I make my way into Towne Lounge where Starfucker is half way into ‘German Love’, having saved the song for a little bit later on in his set than usual. There’s a line outside the venue, a line up the corridor to the main room, and packed inside. Around the stage people are both sitting in chairs and standing. Josh is accompanied by another drummer who learned the songs 20 minutes prior, but you can’t hear any unfamiliarity. After checking on the time, they start and restart the unrecorded ‘Ichiro’ to close the set—starting out melodic, delving into chaos, then returning to an easy vibe—Josh manning the keyboard and drums, his partner in crime finishing it out by playing his drum kit with a half-empty juice bottle after throwing his sticks towards Josh a few minutes prior. NILINA MASON-CAMPBELL.

10:48 pm, somewhere near Couch Park: My boyfriend and I skip from the LocalCut showcase to my car, singing “German Love” all the way. This time, we change the “She won’t have a thing to do with me” part to “She wants everything to do with me.” In doing so, we completely change the meaning of our fave Starfucker tune. We are assholes. AMY MCCULLOUGH.

10:50, The Fez: I don’t know why people aren’t talking about the High Violets. To me, they’ve always been psychedelia done right, with just the right balance of fuzz rock in the mix. That being said, the band’s set started out with a mediocre fizzle instead of the bang I’ve come to expect. But we’ll chalk that up to poorly mixed vocals that weren’t reaching the rest of the band. By the time HV hit its groove, however, I remember why I love them. It’s all about the reverb and the fuzz. The band’s songs show off a delicate mix between loud psychedelic guitar work and beautiful vocals. When they get it right, it’s simultaneously sweet and rocking, with singer Kaitlyn Ni Donovan’s voice ethereally floating above that wall of sound. After an especially rocking guitar solo, I have to leave. It’s not the finale, but it’s such a perfect closer that I can’t stand to see any more. IAN RASMUSSEN.

11 pm, Crystal Ballroom: Rilo Kiley’s Jenny Lewis is wearing gold shoes! And a silver one-piece! Wait—how many people do they have onstage? At least six, but I can’t bother to count the additional backing musicians and vocalists who have apparently now joined the four-piece. NILINA MASON-CAMPBELL.

11:06 pm, Holocene: Dat’r are onstage in the main room, which is densely packed with uber-hip kids. The two members run around the stage frantically, one shouting into a mic, the other beating on a drumset. The tall, skinny guy beats the set like it’s liable to hit him back, circling around it, attacking it from all angles, never stopping to leave himself open to counterattack. There’s 100 times more energy coming from the stage than from the crowd as the tall guy gives up on the drumset and picks up what looks like a Playstation controller to manipulate the bass-heavy beats. The song ends and the the one with the mic says, “We’re gonna keep practicing that one and it’ll be great.” JIM SANDBERG.

11:27 pm, Doug Fir: I work some magic to get into the Fir—which is already totally packed for Grizzly Bear—despite forgetting my VIP pass like a complete boob. While I’m curious about the Bear (who I missed at its earlier Nike show), I’m there to see Eric Bachmann. The ex-Archers of Loaf, sometime-Crooked Fingers frontman’s looking as stern as ever with his skull cap and trimmed beard—and his rich ‘n’ deep voice and skillful finger-picking don’t come across any less serious. He takes a swig off a bottle of Maker’s Mark—lovingly set on the stage by Musicfest director (and longtime friend of Bachman’s) Trevor Solomon—and launches ever-so-appropriately into Crooked Fingers’ track “New Drink for the Old Drunk.” I rock out as hard as one can to a somber yet driving folk song. My Bachmann love is further validated when he finishes the set off with “Little Bird” right after I say to my boyfriend, “I sure hope he plays the bird song.” Maybe his austere, “I pass judgement on thee” look is part of some mind-reading exercise. Whatever it is, it works. AMY MCCULLOUGH.

11:45-ish pm, Crystal Ballroom: The members of Rilo Kiley don’t even look like they are having fun playing this god-awful moneymaker song, which puts a damper on an otherwise inspiring set. I wait for “With Arms Outstretched, breathe deep and leave happy. It’s stuck in my head all night: “Well it’s sixteen miles/ To the promise land/ And I promise you/ I’m doing the best that I can. Don’t fool yourself/ Into thinking you’re more than a man/ Or you’ll probably/ End up dead.” Jenny Lewis is my false idol. CASEY JARMAN.

11:55 pm, Satyricon bathroom: From the dude pissing next to me, unsolicited commentary on Old Time Reilijun: “That was a shot of 151 to the soul.” Walking away, he mutters “fucking rock n’ roll, man.” I concur. MICHAEL BYRNE.

11:58 pm, Towne Lounge: After playing “Finch On Saturday,” Horse Feathers’ first song of the night, guitarist, vocalist, and one-man-string-and-percussion-section Peter Broderick announces that he is taking hiatus from the band for three months. He says he is moving to Denmark but does not reveal why. While Horse Feathers’ steady drums and whispering vocals make for melancholy music, the rest of last night’s set was almost mournful. On “Falling Through the Roof,” Broderick takes out his emotion on his violin—his crescendos are angry, his double stops forceful, his decrescendos heart-wrenching. The Towne Lounge is wall-to-wall people, standing on tables and booths, silently watching Broderick bang his head and shake as he drags his bow over the strings. When the song ends and the room applauds, the only sadness left comes from picturing this band without Broderick’s violin. PAIGE RICHMOND.

12:07 am, Holocene: Copy takes the stage with his keytar. He has a new Atari-era video display featuring his name, Copy. JIM SANDBERG.

12:11 am, Doug Fir: The transition from Eric Bachmann’s melody-driven set to Grizzly Bear’s hymnal offerings is a tough one for me. Everyone and their mother seems jazzed on the Brooklyn quartet (and, don’t get me wrong, I like “Knife” as much as the next guy), but I discover that I just don’t seem to get what’s blowing everyone away about the band’s live show. The sound is great, and they clearly know what they’re doing, but what they’re doing is creating a wall of lullabaic sound consisting mostly of really sad-looking guys going “Ahhhh” endlessly. And when the sleepy atmosphere is occasionally tweaked by semi-intriguing percussion, any chance for awesomeness is immediately abandoned in favor or more “Ahhhs.” The Doug Fir feels like some sort of church for misled, avant-garde saps, and I begin to feel guilty for sticking around when there’s a line of hardcore fans outside. I head to Slabtown for some high-energy folk-rock courtesy of the Builders and the Butchers, though I can’t help but wonder if Grizzly Bear’s Davy Jones-lookin’ guitarist Daniel Rossen ever let go of the sneeze he seemed to be on the verge of the whole time. Oh wait, that was just his sappy face. I get it now. No wonder he didn’t burst out into “Daydream Believer.” AMY MCCULLOUGH.

12:28 am, Kelly’s Olympian: I stop by to see the Valiant Arms, which features Jealous Butcher records’ Rob Jones on guitar and vocals, and my old friend Eric Jensen on drums. This is the first non-packed show I’ve attended show I’ve been at for Musicfest, but it’s still a good night. A few songs in, Jensen breaks his first stick of the night. It’s followed by a few more, and after a particularly furious song, the soundman apologetically offers a hushed “I love you, Eric,” over the PA. As I head back to the street, Jensen’s girlfriend and I share a quick laugh. “Doesn’t he remind you of Animal from the Muppet Show?” she asks. Yeah, he does. CASEY JARMAN.

12:30 am, Berbati’s Pan: Decidedly, the worst thing you can do to a friend is make a documentary about them. There was the reporter who pretended to be Michael Jackson’s friend and lived with him for a couple months while filming-and exploiting-his life in a 20/20 special. Then there’s the Dandy’s, who simultaneously made Brian Jonestown Massacre famous with the Courtney Taylor-Taylor-narrarated rock-doc Dig!, and depicted a rather unflattering image of BJM singer Anton Newcombe. Tonight was perhaps the worst crowd I have ever had the displeasure of being amongst, as hundreds of people who had seen Dig! and therefore felt that they a) know Anton personally, and b) should provoke him into doing his infamous stage antics by yelling obscene comments at him or booing whenever the band messes up. It reminds me of the part in Andy Kaufman Man on the Moon where a college crowd continuously shouts out requests for Mighty Mouse, and I only wish that Anton had a copy of the Great Gatsby on hand to read aloud to put the audience in their place. DEVAN COOK.

12:29 am, Berbati’s Pan: Brian Jonestown Massacre is about a half hour late setting up, and the crowd is drunk, restless and tightly packed. The room is dark save for a single candle at the right of the stage, when the band takes the stage in very un-BJM fashion: a ten minute, formless wall of fuzz with some near-inaudible vocals behind it. The guy next to me was so eager to start something that he yelled “fuck you, Anton” as loud as he could. No dude, fuck you. You and your ilk just ruined a perfectly good set. IAN RASMUSSEN.

Brian Jonestown Massacre:

12:40 am, Outside Aura: Just as I’m cursing the mass of well-dressed socialites outside Aura, a cop pulls a 180 and shines his brights on a couple of tall black guys with lots of bling around their neck. The shorter of the two grumbles “what the—” and covers his eyes. The cop keeps moving, and as my eyes adjust from the lights I realize that the pair is Trail Blazers guard Jarrett Jack and Forward/Center LaMarcus Aldridge. Made brave by a street-shot of Jamison’s earlier on, I let out a “Jarrr-reettt!” in faux-thuggish fashion. He looks kinda disturbed, but I offer handshakes and luck for next season. LaMarcus, whom my girlfriend considers “the cutest Blazer,” flashes a goofy smile. CASEY JARMAN.

12:43-ish am, Doug Fir: Grizzly Bear covers Hole’s “He Hit Me.” No one seems to recognize it. NILINA MASON-CAMPBELL.

12:59 am, Towne Lounge: Dolorean takes the stage, and wobbly, sunglasses-wearing lead singer Al James declares, “I was gonna bring my ticket stub, but I just got back from the JT show, and I’m pretty messed up. So we’ll see how this goes.” James was being honest—he is clearly intoxicated, and throughout the set cracks jokes about attending Justin Timberlake’s Rose Garden performance. He mentions planning the outfits he and his friend would wear to the concert two weeks ahead of time, and how some “stuffy” people in the boxed seats where James was sitting just didn’t understand the importance of the night. James admits he drank too much but has no concern about how it will affect his own performance, stating, “Once you have a drink in your hand, this sort of thing comes easier.” PAIGE RICHMOND.

1:25 am, Towne Lounge: Dolorean’s Al James is a genius, even when he’s drinking. He just made his third “Grizzly Deer” reference. “I heard they got a ten out of ten,” he tells the crowd. But when the band launches into “Heather Remind Me,” it’s as strong and sad as ever. But, as James reminds his crowd, “we aren’t sad guys.” CASEY JARMAN.

1:25 am, Holocene: I arrive at Dan Deacon unprepared for the tribal happenings happening inside Holocene. Once I make it past the smoking room on the side of the main room, a definite difference in temperature can be felt. By putting my hand into the room, the degrees are even higher—the humidity is well past that of a sauna—it could even rival a rainforest. Everyone is gathered around Deacon. There is a glowing skull, strobe lights, and a mass of arms in the air. Is this a concert or a cult? I hope it’s both. Once fully inside, my theory seems to be relatively right. NILINA MASON-CAMPBELL.

1:33 am, Holocene: By request of someone who came from Ohio, chants of “Harry Potter, Book six. Smoke weed everyday,” begin and Dan Deacon passes off the mic to the Buckeye. When he can’t find the track on his i-pod, a lecture ensues about it’s shittiness in terms of alphabetical order of artists versus songs. NILINA MASON-CAMPBELL.

1:35 am, Slabtown: I get to Slabtown for the last three songs of the Builders and the Butchers, and the stark contrast between this and the BJM show I just left is outstanding. The crowd is loving it, dancing and joyfully clapping along. This is the perfect chaser for my horrendous Berbati’s experience. IAN RASMUSSEN.

1:38 am, Holocene: Dan Deacon commands everyone from his spot inside the crowd in front of the stage to make two lines and join their hands in the air like a tent. They do it. He has more instructions, but once he starts the song, few follow. NILINA MASON-CAMPBELL.

1:50 am, Holocene: Dan Deacon passes out lyric sheets to everyone for a song called “Wham City.” Whereas before he had to ask people to stop reaching out to one and other over his head in fear that he’d lose a tooth, with this new task, they must actually follow through in order to be able to hold the paper. His new found choir begins as I call it a night. NILINA MASON-CAMPBELL.

2 am, Towne Lounge: Dolorean asks the crowd if it wants a ballad or freedom rock for the band’s final song of the night, and the ballad doesn’t stand a chance. “That’s just not fair,” he says. “How about a freedom rock ballad?” But it’s not the final song, afterall. “This one’s a Neil Young cover,” he says. Then, as if stricken by a sudden preemptive mourning, the singer turns away from the mic and mumbles to no one in particular, “don’t you ever leave us, Neil.” The band launches into a loving, if inebriated version of “Razor Love.” Slow dancing couples checker the floor. CASEY JARMAN.

BJM photos by Ro, Dolorean photos by Mark Baumgarten.