The Jack London Revue – 6.12.26 – Scene Report

The Jack London Revue – Penelope Trappes, Wet Mango, & Production Unit Xero

Venue: The Jack London Revue | 529 SW 4th Ave, Portland, OR 97204

Date: 6.12.26

Being a somewhat new resident of Portland, Oregon, I don’t know much about the history of jazz in this area – and, if I’m being honest, the history of jazz in any era with the level of seriousness it deserves. What I do know is that Jimmy Mak’s was one of the last surviving jazz and blues venues in the Rose City and when it closed its doors at the end of 2016, it seemingly left behind a large absence. However, when The Jack London Revue opened, it seemed the most fitting location to continue that lineage. Situated in the bellowing basement below the Rialto Poolroom (which was full of soccer fans watching the World Cup), The Jack London Revue is this beautiful, dimly lit jazz club with a delectable bar and fantastic seating surrounded by velvet curtains. And you would think, being situated in the belly of bar commerce with a bustling city above, it would have that musk of old beer or a slight smell of mold in the air. Nothing could be further from the truth. It smells like history in this joint, and I like it.

I’ve been excited about this show for a few weeks, mostly because of what I perceived to be a drift towards the ambient and the ethereal. And in this venue … my goblins, the possibilities. There are some artists I revel in seeing live and two of them are playing tonight: Wet Mango and Production Unit Xero. Admittedly, I was also interested in the hype surrounding Penelope Trappes. Alas, I was ready to sit in this dim room and let all three of these artists haunt the fuck out of me.

First up was Production Unit Xero, who between all the shows they’re playing and the new releases on their label Heterodox Records, has had a pretty busy year so far. A couple of weekends ago they played in San Francisco, and this weekend at the Unicorn Campout in southern Oregon. On June 27th, they head to Corvallis to play a set at Ben Martens’ album release show for Heterodox Records. With that kind of schedule, I’m pretty sure Production Unit Xero is a timelord. Anyway, while sitting here listening to this incredibly ominous set, it was not lost on me that this … is jazz. I kept trying to come up with a new genre for it – circled my ships around calling it “new jazz” or something, but that already exists. Need to think of something to describe this. Production Unit Xero has been slowly accumulating sets like this for a while now and each one, for me, gets darker, more industrial and more ethereal with an eye on the destination. That destination remains clear as day, but the route towards that destination keeps getting more tumultuous and frightening. I cannot overstate how perfect this venue is for what I’m experiencing right now. Check out their set below.

As I’m writing, this light is doing funny things to my vision. The ink slows and dances off the page thanks, in part, to the gas discharge tubes of the neon lights above my head in all their old and evil chemical treachery. The other part is, without a doubt, the spirits who inhabit this place. I mean, where else would you hang out if you were a spirit? It’s music like this that reminds my how easily they could inhabit our reality; a song is not the speaker itself, but a structured vibration passing through our space. It took over 350 million years for the human ear to evolve, so imagine just how long it will take for our consciousness to catch up with the rest of the forces crawling around us. I wish they weren’t called Edison bulbs – that guy is a dick.

Wet Mango’s set is starting just as Production Unit Xero sat down at the big booth in the back of the venue. I told him about my little adventure of naming this particular kind of music set and he confidently belted out the verdict: “Industrial Jazz.” Behold, my friends. A new genre had fallen out of the ceiling and landed smoking on the table. INDUSTRIAL JAZZ.

Wet Mango sets are always nourishing. I truly believe it’s because they make the music I’ve been trying to find for a good portion of my existence. Going back to the beginnings of my life, growing up, I wasn’t truly exposed to my own flavor of music. We weren’t a big music family – like, there was no forbidden family cassette drawer on the premises. So, naturally, to scratch that itch, I would listen to music from rented Sega Genesis games as an extra incentive to play them. One of the best features on those games is when you would press pause and the music would still play. Loved that. Wet Mango’s set was the natural evolution, 30 years on, of my obsession with that elemental mechanical darkness. Very bubbly, but also rigid and metallic. The taste of blood. Deep, growling bass and bells, for whom they toll. The degradation of the beat, slow and long like a turtle set on a path collecting moss on their shell while getting where they need to be. The room was filled with crossover distortion that felt like a warm blanket of danger. I just know the soldiers of future wars will awaken and fight while a Yahama spire of sound reverberates through their lines. Great fucking set.

Penelope Trappes closed the night, and my goodness, what a presence. Vocalists, whether they themselves believe it or not, are a dime a dozen. Much like anyone can press piano keys, anyone can shout into the abyss. I’m a vocalist myself. See? Anyone can do it. Anyway, my point is, the problem with vocals is that your bullshit is easily detectable. A voice has very little cover once it enters the room and a lot of performances can be ruined by those who are not sure of themselves or their art. Penelope, on the other hand, stood there secluded in her own world while fully exposed to ours. She’s very sure of herself and her craft. I had this question rumbling in my mind throughout her performance: how do measure the character of a wild one? She stood in that corpse light with the microphone in her right hand like a scepter, floating among a stellar nursery, while somehow remaining right there in front of us. One with the spirits? Maybe. But you should believe her – everything she says – you’d know that if you could see the soft magma flowing out of her body like I can. After re-reading this, I’m starting to recall the phenomenon associated with spiritual encounters in basements.

A closing thought: angels are the wrong soldiers for demon slaying. Send the choirs of dark fire. Send the voices that have already crawled through the wreckage. This false sense of purity many cling to collapses the moment it touches real violence, real grief or real human ugliness. To face what wants to destroy you, you need memory of the muck. Also, Industrial Jazz is a definitely a thing.