When I heard that someone was going to attempt to cover Paul McCartney’s Ram, I was skeptical, to understate. Ram is one of my favourite non-Beatles albums by a Beatle, in contention alone with All Things Must Pass. To take on such a project, an artist would have to be filled with foolishness or musical zeal – or perhaps a hearty serving of both. In either case, the artist that tried this would have to have a musical background versatile enough to battle just the thought of McCartney’s career.

The gregariously multi-project-bound Dave Depper might be one of Portland’s best bets for such an endeavor. Taking a month to himself and starting with “Heart of The Country”, Dave dove right into The Ram Project. The skill behind Dave’s guitar, piano, drums, and Paulesque vocals were never a question. From the opening tenor-stretch of “Too Many People” to the extended growling end of “Monkberry Moon Delight” and back to the scatting interlude of “Heart of the Country”, Depper is spot on. The biggest question that loomed over listening to this record was the soul behind it. Would Dave, along with the darling Joan Hiller, really be able to transform into Paul & Linda?

As I let The Ram Project play in the background while I went about my days listening to the album, I was (and also, wasn’t) surprised to find that I would get lost in those lulling copies from Ram. I honestly must admit that the echo from another room of Dave’s voice hanging in the air during “Long Haired Lady” sparked such a feeling that made me forget that it wasn’t Paul behind the microphone.

Musical zeal and a lot less foolishness than you’d expect, the well-traveled notes of Ram couple perfectly with Dave’s well carved collection of past projects. It amazes me that it was just a month he took to record every part alone, but after looking at his musical experience it’s not surprising. He just rammed on and did it. And did a damned good job. - Mike Harper (review also featured on Words Cut Open)

Rarely do I like to refer to a band’s self-referential promo for a new album, because in most cases, it won’t tell you anything about what you will get out of listening to it. This is definitely not the case for the Portland sextet And And And, who dubbed Life Ruiner as a “concept album” covering all the major topics of dairy products, fiddles, being like totally-super-stoked about being in a band, America, alcoholism and out of body experiences, all of which they promise will eventually converge into a singular concept (“NOT.”) Ladies, did I forget to mention that 2/3 of And And And is suffering from involuntary celibacy, and at least one of them is about to get his own place very soon?            

Basically, the underlying concept of Life Ruiner is what I like to call kidulthood, especially that of this generation, when being in your mid-to-late twenties means enduring another day living at your parents’ place because even Portland’s low-cost living won’t accommodate an artist’s rent. Nathan Baumgartner has all of us kidults down when he yells, “I hate this town / I’ve just been fucking around. / I want more alcohol!”            

Of course, you’ll be lucky if you can make out much of the lyrics from this lo-fi garage-produced jam, but that’s exactly why we love them, right? We love those moments when it sounds like they’re playing in the room down the hall, and what you’re hearing is actually the sound of distant music through plaster, or maybe the meddled buzz of an old radio tuner. And then there are those moments of pure clarity, when you swear you’re standing 5 feet in front of them hollering and dancing at the Mississippi Studios. Maintaining that fantastic balance of high-low styles whilst orchestrating a sextet could be incredibly difficult, but these guys do it well and they make it fun. In fact, it’s pretty obvious that they all are having a good time, in spite of their suffering with kidulthood and involuntary celibacy. - April Ehrlich

I am happy to report that the fine folks of Radiation City are not only comely as hell—surprise, they’re talented, too! Radiation City’s first full length, The Hands That Take You, is a gem; subtle and beautiful and strange, and classy enough to make me feel underdressed for the occasion of listening (admittedly, I was eating cold beans out of a can, in my underwear).

What’s most wonderfully surreal about The Hands That Take You is the future-nostalgia it evokes. A remembrance of things not yet passed, you could say. The album sounds washed-out and faraway all the way through, but never dated or irrelevant; more like found audio ephemera from a space cantina.

Radiation City manages an impressive breadth within such a steady aesthetic. The album opens with “Babies,” a snappy, spacey slide into another world. The tracks slip from haunting (“Summer Is Not An Act I”) to playful (“Salsaness”) with more grace than I have ever managed slipping from any thing to any other thing, ever. Lizzy Ellison’s voice lends itself perfectly to the atmosphere Radiation City creates—it’s bittersweet and delicate, but strong, and Cameron Spies’ saucy crooning plays well against it, especially when given a more prominent role—“Park” opens with an adorable lyrical bob and weave that sets off the wild crash of sound to come like a tickle before a rump-slap. Except, you know, classier. - Jenn Fritschy