I’ve been listening to Gregory Alan Isakov since I met my wife nearly 15 years ago, which means his music has been quietly soundtracking a pretty significant chunk of my life. When we saw videos of his orchestral shows at Red Rocks, I was pretty damn excited to hear those winding vocals, banjo plucks and melancholy little choruses backed by the Oregon Symphony.
I was considerably less excited about going downtown at night. I’ve avoided downtown Portland for most of the five years I’ve lived in Oregon, so imagine my surprise when I showed up Friday and found the area around the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall clean, busy, safe and, most surprisingly, ALIVE. Whatever Portland is doing to make downtown feel more welcoming, keep doing it. It appears to be working.
I also owe the Schnitz an apology. For years, I have referred to it as the Weinerschnitzel Arena, which I though was funny until I actually walked inside and realized that I need to put some respect on its name. The place has been doing this for nearly a century and the history oozes everywhere you look. The worn carpet, vintage seats and enormous chandeliers don’t scream “modern concert venue” so much as “we have some fucking history around here.”
There was no opener, so when Isakov and his band hit the stage, there was no bullshit. Just go time. The 18-song set traveled across most of his catalog, although the first two albums apparently didn’t make the cut, with Appaloosa Bones getting a particularly generous turn in the spotlight.
I went in expecting the Oregon Symphony, conducted by Christopher Dragon (dopest name for a composer), to turn these songs into some kind of symphonic monster — dozens of musicians swelling behind Isakov until the whole Schnitz was rattling. Instead, the orchestra did something considerably more interesting: It focused the songs. It didn’t make them feel bigger so much as deeper. The crowd seemed to understand that, sitting unusually still and quiet as Isakov’s band and the orchestra moved around one another with almost ridiculous precision.
And the sound was fantastic. The hall’s acoustics and modern sound system seemed to work together rather than compete, creating a room that felt both enormous and intimate. The audience was equally Portland: older women in gowns, Gen Z couples in patchwork pants and oversized sweaters, retired cops in jeans and button-ups. All of us, shoulder to shoulder, united by the strange magic of sitting quietly in a dark room while a man in a park ranger hat sings about trees and heartbreak. Prettttttyyyyy rad.
And that’s probably what I’ll remember most. This wasn’t Gregory Alan Isakov plus an orchestra. It was Gregory Alan Isakov with an orchestra — a group of musicians listening to one another and finding new spaces inside songs I’ve been hearing for 15 years.
His band worked with Dragon and the Oregon Symphony rather than simply sitting in front of them, and Isakov once again demonstrated why he can tour year after year and keep selling out rooms. I went in expecting a big show. I got something much better: a deeply familiar collection of songs that somehow felt new again, in a beautiful old theater I’m going to stop calling the Weinerschnitzel Arena. Probably. Pfft. Im not, but I do still love this place now.