I picked up my friend Brandon on the way to Cascades Amphitheater, both of us wearing our Racket Magazine shirts. “Twinsies,” we laughed, before settling into a lovely little drive from Portland, across the river and into Washington. Along the way, we talked about life, love, death, and reminisced about the first concert we went to together: the 1999 OzzFest in San Bernardino, California.
Twenty-seven years, countless shows, and several (dozen) questionable life choices later, here we were again. The only thing standing between us and a night of live music was the parking situation, which sucked. I had forgotten how much larger amphitheater parking lots hate me. I’ve been spoiled by Bend’s Hayden Homes Amphitheater, where my definition of a long walk is three blocks.
Cascades had us hoofing it about a half-mile, although thanks to Strava I can at least pretend this was exercise (closed all my rings on the Apple watch, even). The upside was getting to watch the crowd roll in: rave-adjacent leggings, vintage Depeche Mode shirts, and at least one dude in full-blown steampunk attire. At one point, one gorgeous group of people started catcalling another, only for the whole thing to evolve into a battle of niceties over who could most convincingly tell the other group, “You are so hot.” Honestly, wholesome. While we assumed that there would be fewer scantily-clad metalheads in all-black at Muse than OzzFest, we were only barely wrong. Also, I am never paying $16-plus for a beer unless it comes in a jug, a boot, or a plastic baseball bat. Pregame accordingly, folks.
The Temper Trap had the unenviable task of opening the night, and I wasn’t sure they could match the particular flavor of weirdness emanating from the Muse crowd. They held their own. The set was brief but energetic, and since I know they headline shows of their own, its good to know they could easily stretch those songs into a much longer headlining set. I left with a mental note to catch them when they’re the ones at the top of the bill.
Portugal. The Man. was the bigger surprise. I first saw them in 2013 when they opened for Jane’s Addiction at Yaamava’ Casino. At the time, I was the casino’s publicist, and I was pretty excited to see them, as they had recently picked up plenty of airtime on KROQ. I was subsequently pretty let down by what I remember as a, uhhh, not-great performance. Going into this show expecting very little may have been exactly what Portugal. The Man. needed from me, because DAMN. What a spectacle.
Constant movement, rad lighting, and a chaotic cacophony of feel-good jams turned the stage into a goddamn party. Whatever happened between 2013 and now, it worked. The crowd was moving. I was moving. Somewhere, Past Me was wondering what the hell happened to the band he didn’t like very much.
Then Muse came out and, well, Muse fucking ruled. The sound was enormous. The lighting was phenomenal. The matching jumpsuits, glowing fretboard markers, neon drumsticks and assorted other visual nonsense were not just window dressing; every aesthetic choice was backed by a wall of sound that could have knocked over a smaller building. The set bounced between the Twilight-soundtrack-era jams that introduced a lot of people to the band and newer material, with frontman/guitarist Matthew Bellamy (no relation to Bill Bellamy, coiner of the phrase “booty call,” I checked), bassist Chris Wolstenholme and drummer Dominic Howard delivering the kind of absurdly tight performance you expect from a band that has spent decades playing arenas and stadiums.
There were also fucking pyrotechnics, because apparently a giant wall of sound, neon instruments and enough lighting to signal aircraft wasn’t quite enough. The touring keyboardist remained stationed toward the back for most of the show, giving off strong “stay there, do your work, and one day you’ll be allowed to walk down the catwalk for your solo” intern vibes. I wonder if he got paid in “exposure.” But everyone else? Absolute rock-star shit.
About five songs in, and they brought the pyrotechnics out. KISS style columns of flames kick ass and everyone knows it. And then came the finale: Streamers. So many streamers. Should have set them off during the fire.
There’s my one suggestion for a better Muse concert: FLAMING STREAMERS. Otherwise, no notes.
I walked the half-mile back to the car with Brandon in the dark (OK, a second suggestions: some lights on the way to the dark, dirty lot), sweaty, tired, slightly poorer and very happy, thinking about that first OzzFest we went to almost three decades ago. Some concerts are just nights out. Others remind you why you keep going to shows in the first place. This was the latter.