From Little Beirut a rumble, there at the end of the trail beneath majestic mountains and among the boarded windows a clamour. There at the end of the block on stolen Chinook land in a historic black neighbourhood, next to the jazz cat and the drag queen, around the corner from the vanguard of noisemakers and artist from Audubon’s darkest dreams, they’re on a street of artist and dreamers, part of this community, two Mistons (from the French word but, dumbed down and Americanized) making “old-timey” music for the new millennium, a buzzsaw Woody Gutherie, rock and roll that is unapologetic, with no tricks up its sleeve but is honest and humble in its discourse.
Two Oregonians on one street with a travel trunk of music history behind them, bashing and screaming in out, their hearts on their old tattered sleeves, their high water style sported with both pride and a knowing tongue in cheek; stay on your toes, don’t be fooled by your own gag, remember it’s a dance. The voice scrapes, rasp and breaks, over hot wire guitar and bedrock drums, pleading, prodding and provoking. Portland Rock, influenced by the river the rain the hills and darkness, the band’s bands that wrote the city in their image before Portland had an image outside of being an isolated logging town. “We are trying to keep alive a music form, trying to keep it relative. This is the music I was born to make, I’m not going to stop now”.
Surrounded by history, a community of other artists and creators; the Mistons are punk preachers for an age craving critical thought and chugga chugga let bust the bucket rock. For their street, for the city and the world.