It’s a little before 7 p.m. on Friday, December 11. I’m standing outside of Neumo’s, fighting back the winter chill and doing a little happy dance over the free parking spot I’ve found just across the street from the Capitol Hill club. In just a few minutes, I’m meeting Zia McCabe–keyboardist for Portland’s favorite shoegazing Artful Dodgers, The Dandy Warhols–for a pre-show interview. The hell with jaded rock journalist detachment: I’m pretty stoked.

Back in the mid-nineties, when most of indie rock was in still in the throes of whinging post-grunge, McCabe and her partners in crime (lead singer/band mastermind Courtney Taylor-Taylor, guitarist Peter Holmstrom, and drummer Brent DeBoer) had the unmitigated gall to proffer a shiny, catchy, sexy sound that was equal parts sixties pop yumminess, seventies new wave, and eighties college rock; all stirred together with deadpan humor and hooks to burn. It’s a rich, fat sound that I’ve been in love with for over a decade, and speaking to one of its architects promises to be a pretty cool experience.

The massive, Fu-Manchu-bearded teddy bear of a doorman admits me into the club proper, where a nascent soundcheck is underway in the nigh-empty, dimly-lit venue. The entire band’s there. Taylor-Taylor strolls the club floor like a preoccupied cat, listening carefully to the acoustics; DeBoer tinkers with his kit, afro peeking above the high-hat; and Holmstrom cameos several yards away, retiring to the bowels of the club dressing room after surfacing briefly to talk shop with a guitar-toting roadie.

Zia McCabe stands a few feet away from me, her red-and-blond-streaked hair tucked under a wool cap. This close up, it’s easy to see why she’s launched several thousand hipster-boy crushes for the last fourteen years. Enough elfin cuteness still lives in her features to reflect equal parts tomboy rock chick and earth mama, but adulthood’s brought definition–hell, elegance, even–to her face. She looks great–healthy, happy, and ready for the night’s gig–but I abstain from snapping any pics. I’m gonna talk to her at length soon enough, and I’ll take some then, right?

I greet the keyboardist with a handshake. She responds with a ready smile, an introduction, and a slightly embarrassed chuckle. “You know, no one told me about the interview until about five minutes ago, and I haven’t eaten all day. I’m just about to head out for a bite. Would you mind if we picked this up in about an hour?” No problem, I assure her.

As we head to the exit I ask McCabe about her five-year-old daughter Matilda, and she beams, flipping out her iPhone and showing off pictures like the proud mama she is: ‘Tilda’s with family friends for the night, baking sugar cookies and being a kid while mom works. The dichotomy of this scene rings strongly, as does the fact that a pretty cool, well-balanced adult’s emerged from this wild-child environment. “See you in a bit,” she says as she flashes another smile and waves farewell.

Two hours roll by. Due to an almost sitcom-worthy set of circumstances, my attempted interview with Zia becomes an amusingly quixotic quest; an epic journey between Neumo’s front door, side entrance, and security checkpoints in the hopes of resuming my conversation. Before I know it, I’m standing in the alley outside Neumo’s (one staffer assures me that McCabe’s gone outside for a smoke); then I hear the familiar strains of “Mohammed” throbbing against the club walls. The band’s already started, and I’m too far away in this sold-out house for my trusty Pentax Optio to capture anything more concrete than some nifty colors and diffuse images (see enclosed blobby photographic evidence). The funny thing is, the band’s so frickin’ good, I don’t care.

Bolstered by a damned spiffy light-show and obviously energized by the packed house, the Dandies slither through a near-two-hour set that flat-out grooves. they balance old (a great rendition of the band’s ’95 Velvets parody, ” (Tony, This Song is Called) Lou Weed”) and new (a gorgeously druggy “And Then I Dreamt of Yes” ), with enough enthusiasm to set the most jaded asses in the crowd to moving in time. It’s my third Dandy Warhols show, and by far the best I’ve ever heard them live.

My would-be-interview subject’s contributions to the festivities come into sharp focus several times: She’s a lightning-rod of energy, pogoing rhythmically through the band’s most beat-heavy tracks and hitting her bank of keyboards with mad-scientist fervor as she contributes a rush of low-end drone to the beautiful mess of “Wasp in the Lotus.” The woman who used to be dismissed as The Topless Chick from the Dandy Warhols is working the audience like a master even as she adds texture (and crushing volume) to the band mix. Good on her, I think as my ass shakes in time to the wall of sound.

Once the show wraps, things grow hazy. My show buddy Bob’s rented a hotel room/crash site for the night, and we take advantage of our relative freedom by bar-hopping until the wee hours. The evening becomes a joyous blur of socializing and tippling, and my Seinfeld -ian misadventures in search of Zia McCabe recede into my beer-sodden memory…Until a friendly and contrite email from the Dandy Warhols’ publicity person brings it all back the next day. It looks like I’ll get my interview after all.

To Be Continued…