From Little Beirut a rumble, there at the end of the trail beneath majestic mountains and among the boarded windows a clamor. There at the end of the block on stolen Chinook land in a historic black neighborhood, next to the jazz cat and the drag queen, around the corner from the vanguard of noisemakers and artist from Audubon’s darkest dreams, there on a street of artist and dreamers, part of this community, The 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...
