Panther

Panther meet all three prerequisites of Portland residency: gnarly beards (groan), band membership, and vague political concerns. The duo's hippy-dippy DIY aesthetic follows them through their new release, 14 kt God, with patches of computer squeaking to singer Charlie Salas-Humara's mescaline-drenched falsetto. Eclectic and shifty (do I vote Green Party or Democrat?), Panther are sometimes disco funk, sometimes loopy drone. Either way, they induce indie tribal dancing in that I-drank-too-much-Pabst-to-pick-up-my-feet kind of shuffling. "Puerto Rican Jukebox" is catchy and semi-unforgettable, and "Your Pants Are Creased Familiarly" could be a track from Beck's Midnight Vultures blasted on slow-mo. But Beck didn't have awful facial hair—I know Salas-Humara's spastic bobbing and weaving onstage isn't spurred by the sting of aftershave.
Fri., March 28, 8 p.m., 2008