The following is an account of the Arcade Fire after party hosted at Outlaws, a club on Burnside in Portland, OR, and provided courtesy of guest commentator Adele. The photo at right is from the long drive from the Gorge to PDX, as our girl Adele catches up on some much needed sleep.
As Dakin and I left the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall in Portland, Oregon, still reeling from Win Butler’s descent from the stage and brief pause atop a chair directly in front of us, I kept asking “Why didn’t I touch him?” “I don’t know,” said Dakin. “Everyone else did.” I know I’m not the only girl ever to have fallen head-over-heels in love with the married lead singer of a band for a few minutes during a live show, and after their stupefying performance in Portland, who
wouldn’t be in love with every member of the Arcade Fire afterwards? This isn’t a new story either: those who know me may recall a three e-mail romance with Erlend Oyes following a Kings of Convenience show at the Triple Door in Seattle, but I digress.
When Dakin and I stepped into the show’s after party at Outlaws on East Burnside, we were pleased to discover that the venue boasted not only a disco ball shaped like a cowboy hat, "Silent Shout" by the Knife pulsing from the speakers, two levels (each with a bar), a photo booth and a cigarette machine, but patrons were permitted to smoke inside!Heaven has a name and until my habits change, it is Portland, Oregon.
After securing a table and two cans of (free) PBR, Dakin and I discussed possible “surprise guest” performers and attempted to identify the contortionists and trapeze artists among the barefoot, legging-clad characters in the crowd. “Look, there’s the cute violinist!” I said, pointing to Sarah Neufeld who was standing next to our table with Regine Chassagne. Dakin instantly caught Regine’s attention and complimented her on the show. “That was the best live performance I’ve ever seen,” I told her. “And I’m not just saying that.” “And we’re very jaded,” added Dakin. “It must be nice to constantly receive that sort of reaction from people.” “We’re very lucky,” she replied, and with a small, bashful curtsy, she turned to rejoin her party. “WE JUST GOT A CURTSEY FROM REGINE CHASSAGNE!” exclaimed Dakin in disbelief. “And she was really nice!” It was true. We were expecting the confident, multi-talented, bilingual, Haitian native we had seen onstage to be intimidating, but the girl we met was humble--almost shy--and well, pleasant. She was just a girl.
I stood up to get a better view of what appeared to be a drag queen on stilts traversing the stage, and a bartender stopped to tell us that a band was getting ready to play on the second level. As we made our way upstairs it became clear that this information had not been shared with everyone, and we felt a little bit special. The second level consisted of another bar, some pool tables, and a sign which read “DO NOT TOUCH THE GIRLS” (which explained the function of the silver pole in the middle of the stage).
A drum kit and an organ looked ready to go, but there was no band in sight. Would it be the Mates of State? No, they don’t live in Portland, and Dakin had his money on Quasi. The Woolly Mammoth Dancers, still sporting their balloon dresses and red makeup stripes, took a seat at the table next to ours, while we peered out the window at a pair of trapeze artists dangling precariously from each other’s feet above the downstairs stage. Two drinks later I headed downstairs to find the ladies' room.
The main dance floor had turned into a flurry of motion, led by two drunken girls molesting each other on stage. I was about to head back upstairs, when I saw him -- Win Butler was standing at the edge of the dance floor casually sipping a beer. Okay, I was fairly intoxicated by this point, but I was almost positive that this encounter would not be a repeat of the fiasco a few years earlier at Seattle's Chop Suey where I relentlessly propositioned Adam Green between songs with such obscenities as “Hey Adam, let’s be friends!” and “I’m serious, lets go bowling!” I tapped him on the shoulder (or more likely the forearm since his shoulder is about three inches above my head) and offered my hand. I repeated the compliment I had made to Regine earlier and he thanked me.
“Yeah, I would’ve shaken your hand earlier but you were singing and I didn’t want to be that girl,” I told him. He laughed and I told him about Dakin upstairs and mentioned Duck and Cover. “I’m sure my friend would really like to talk to you,” I said. “What, like an interview?” “Oh no, I don’t think so. He’s had a few drinks.” I asked if Win knew who was supposed to be playing upstairs. “I don’t think anyone’s playing tonight,” he said. “What?!" I said drily "It’s your party, you should know the details!” He seemed amused, but I realized my temporary lucidity was fading fast and I should probably head back upstairs.
I described the encounter to Dakin, who was mortified, and insisted we stay upstairs until Win disappeared. Around midnight the DJ had switched to Blondie, and it seemed safe to return to the dance floor. After some vintage Cure, Outkast’s “Hey Ya” came on and we noticed Richard Parry tearing it up in the middle of the floor like a lanky, redheaded beacon of glee. Regine was dancing nearby and we saw fit to join in. Jeremy Garra was DJing, and though we never spoke, Dakin and I danced with the Arcade Fire. (Jeremy Garra also, sadly, emptied the dance floor by following "Hey Ya" with "Girls, Girls, Girls!" by Motley Crue. As the hipsters staggered back to the bar, I danced away, saying to Dakin "What, these people don't know how to dance to this?!")
After a frenzied trip to the photo booth with the Woolly Mammoth Dancers and a few other unnamed participants instigated by the two lewd dancers that had been on stage earlier (who also kept the photo strip), the bartender announced last call. It was 2:30 am, and I was surprised and disappointed--in New York the bars don’t close until after 4.
Walking back to our hotel in the chilly Portland evening, I was more than satisfied with our experience; we saw an amazing performance and partied with the band afterwards. Despite Dakin’s embarrassment, I think I escaped without making a fool of myself (for once). I mean, it’s not like I told Win Butler that I wanted to have his babies and eat his skin.
--Adele
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