Basically, I went out of my way to book the unbookable bands. Clit Ripper and the Manholes are the untouchable bands of Portland punk. No one wants to book them. No one wants to play with them.

It’s obvious why the Manholes are to be avoided. I once heard someone at a party telling a story about how he was at a show in Corvallis and the singer in the band got totally naked, spider hugged him and spat beer down his throat. I said, “Was the band called the Manholes?” Of course it was.

But Clit Ripper is a little more complicated. As I’ve tried to explore, Clit Ripper—aside from their name—ain’t all bad. Their vulgar lyrics are thought experiments of sorts, often told from the perspectives of serial killers. From talking to the guys in the band and a lot of other people about them, I think CR is ostracized because Kashani was a member of the well-loved, and decidedly not-offensive Observers. Followers of that great, hardly offensive group were likely ill-prepared for Clit Ripper’s metal sound, name and violent imagery. Plus, Kashani, as evidenced in 1000-word comments here on LC is sort of a loose cannon. He already cancelled his appearance at this show, and then rescheduled it shortly after. He seems stoked now though.

Wombstretcha is an interesting case because they don’t belong to a community like the punk bands do. Or do they? What I admire about Wombstretcha is their ability reach people who would never otherwise listen to a Portland band. On the radio show last night, Ray told me that he had just mailed off a size XXXL shirt to a fan in Kentucky. Just check out this “Soundproof Fans” section of the band’s website. It has a photo from the Suicide Girls that features Wombstretcha CDs, and quotes from a kid who did a French presentation on Wombstretcha:

The presentation was great. I handed out stickers to all the kids (and teacher) in my class, and played soundproof van. I handed out a few CDs to people I thought would like it. The class loved the song, and thought that the presentation (basically talking about how womb kidnaps children, transmits AIDs, etc.) was hilarious. It went over really well and I think they were diggin womb. Hopefully, they’ll follow my advice (”Stick those stickers on children, grandmothers, blind people, cars, etc.”).

Wombstretcha’s fans are most likely sick, but they are weird and the duo’s ability to reach such a bizarre audience always amazes me. I hope some of that fan base turns out at the show, in all their white-trash glory.

Each of the bands that I will interview before their sets on Sunday stands relatively alone, scene-less in the music community because what they do isn’t boring. Call it what you will, but you cannot call a Manholes performance boring. Lyrics from the perspective of Jeffery Dahmer or a babysitter who molested one of the band members are not boring. A manikin with an enormous vagina that shoots things…that’s…you get the idea.

So anyway, you can stay at home and listen to the Shaky Hands CD and that will be a good time (it won’t be boring, but there won’t be surprises, you know?), or you can mingle with the weirdest of the weird, which could be horrible or amazing. Which’ll it be?

See you Sunday? It’s at 9:30 pm, free, and 21+.

Click here to download the last night’s “One Hour Pharmacy.”

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And there’s a band-like story to it (which actually made the local paper), too. Of the three of us, I’m the only one who has been on tour with a band before, but anyone can imagine that when a band’s on the road, the traveling experience can be both immensely helped or severely hindered by the people you meet along the way.

In the case of the Brownie Plus Motel, it was hindrance in the first degree. After some sleepin’ in a van down by the river (seriously), we agreed that we’d need a place to do some serious work the next day. So we decided that if we didn’t meet any nice (hopefully female and attractive) people in our travels that day, we’d check into a hotel. After a visit to Club Q queer night at the Elks Club, a hippie jam band called Bump at the Top Hat, and some country at the Union Club (guess which one of us went where), we walked around and looked for people to hang (or make) out with and eventually resolved to cruise West Broadway for a hotel.

Since by this time it was 3:30 am, we figured we’d try to pay an inn $19 to let us sleep for 6 hours. Most of the places that looked dumpy enough had a bell you have to ring for service, and only one innkeeper actually came up to decline our offer.

“We don’t have enough for a room, but we’ve got something, and since it’s so late…” Mark said.

“How much you got?” asked the innkeeper.

“Nineteen bucks,” he showed it.

“That’s not enough.”

“How much would you need?”

“Full fare, fifty-three bucks.”

Why he even asked what we had in that case, I don’t understand and I still don’t understand why $19 isn’t better than $0 when it’s 3:30 am (the Jupiter in Portland understands this mode of thought—their rooms decline in price as the night goes on). But we marched on. Along the way, we found a heavy, bearded man passed out on the sidewalk outside a hotel. He was wearing a “These Colors Don’t Run” t-shirt and there was a trail of urine from where he unzipped his fly for a horizontal pee (he put his pecker away, thankfully).

“Are you alright? Can you hear me?” I asked several times. He tried to kick me.

Ultimately he let all three of us push him up the stairs. Somehow he remembered his room number. The key was in the door and when we opened it, a woman sat up in bed, naked. She was, presumably, his girlfriend, though she was disproportionately attractive if you ask me.

“Is this yours?” I asked. She laughed and nodded. Our cargo collapsed, torso on the bed, legs on the floor.

“We’ve done our good deed,” said Mark. “We’re sure to get a room now.”

The next place we pulled up was the Brownie Plus Motel, which is wooden, white, brown and dilapidated. We rang the bell incessantly. No one came, so we began to leave when I spotted an open window. There was no one inside and the beds were made. “What are the odds someone’s on the way back here after 4 am?” I thought, and I climbed in the window and let Mark and Michael in the front door.

“Okay, okay, if we’re gonna stay here, we have to take everything—even our jackets—and put it in the van and put the van around the corner,” said Mark in a tone appropriate for a crime movie.

As I carried our jackets outside I noticed several police cars rolling up. I put the jackets in the van, crossed my fingers about the beer bottles sitting on top, and simply walked off. I called Michael and said, “The cops are here.” He immediately hung up without saying anything, all professional-like. I went to the bus station down the street and pretended to sleep in the waiting room.

“I think you better come back, man,” Mark said over the phone.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I think you better come back.”

So I strolled back over to the scene of the crime and was met by an officer who tried to be surly with me for a moment before he saw it wouldn’t get me riled up (“You were just gonna walk off, were ya?” “Wouldn’t you?” I said. “Would you just climb in the window at my house?” “Well, no, that would be quite different…” I said. You get the idea.)

“There’s no damage to the room,” one of the officers said to the innkeeper, asking for permission to just let us go.

Michael explained that we’d be happy to pay (full fare) for a room, that that was our intention all along.

“That was breaking and entering, and that’s what you’ll get,” Mr. Brownie said, unable to look us in the eye. Even his pregnant girlfriend couldn’t convince him not to press charges.

“Just go to the courthouse Monday,” said the police, giving us our tickets. “I wouldn’t sweat it.” Later I found out that I was described by the pregnant girlfriend as “a skinny drink of water with brown hair, just like the others. He has a trench coat on and fancy shoes.”

Long story short, we wound up having to pay $250 each, and if we stay out of trouble for six months the misdemeanor trespassing will be taken off our records. Bottom line: Mr. Brownie preferred we pay $750 to the city rather than $100 to him. Once again, that’s just bad business.

We almost had to pay $300 dollars each if a lovely young woman at the City Attorney’s office hadn’t helped us out. She was one of many people who have lent a friendly hand on this trip. In addition to all the folks who let us interview them, here’s to everyone I can think of off the top of my head who did us a specific favor:

Annette met Mark on the train from Minneapolis and let all three of us sleep (innocently, clothed) in her king-sized hotel bed in Whitefish, MT. She also gave Mark and Michael great hair cuts.

Niki was our leg in to so much of the scene in Missoula. I think she gave Mark half the contacts we used.

The cops, uh, didn’t arrest us. They easily could have.

Dave from the Hermans hooked us up with contacts both in Missoula and in the publishing world that could very much come in handy. He also gave us free pizza at his day job.

Ashley (a bartender at club Q) and her boyfriend Danilo offered to let us sleep in their one-bedroom after hearing our sob-story.

But we wound up crashing at Mike from Victory Smokes’ place, because he has a whole house to work with. His band is fantastic and you’re sure to hear Michael and I talking them up next time they come to Portland.

The pharmacist who gave Michael a deal on his prescription and patiently waited on the phone for 45 minutes for it to clear.

Adelaide, the electronic music director at KGBA, bought Michael dinner and beer.

Aaron, the Local Music guy at KGBA, who interviewed the three of us, and filled us in on a lot of things.

Just now the guy in the bar who knew Mark was the frontman in our “band” bought him a beer and wished us, “Good writing in Montana” on his way out the door.

The Missoulian has an article today about our project and tresspassing habit.

Photo: Outside the courthouse, from left to right, Michael, me and Mark.

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Michael Byrne and I are driving to Montana in a couple of hours. There we’ll meet Mark Baumgarten and dive headfirst in the Missoula music scene. Is there a music scene in Missoula? You’d probably say no. But, honestly, there’s a music scene everywhere. That’s an idea I’ve been obsessed with lately in this increasingly broad column, and that’s what we hope to prove first in Missoula this week (as a trial-run) and then everywhere else if all goes well. The three of us are plotting a project we’re calling Lower 48, in which we’ll create a guide to the small-time music scene of the entire continental US, sticking to b-level cities and venues. It will be a music critic van tour that with any luck will help some people find some gigs, and maybe even go down in van-tour and rock-crit history.

Of course, this isn’t the first boast you’ve heard from me, so I’ll admit there’s a chance it could come to nothing. But I wouldn’t be typing this right now if I didn’t think there’s a certain magic in the idea that I hope will carry us.

Wish us luck, see you soon.

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Okay, so Jew’s harps don’t actually have anything to do with Judaism, but I just wanted to tell the story of one of the best bar bums I’ve met in my travel of dives. A lot of times homeless or semi-homeless folks make their way into places like the Nest or the Know on Northeast Alberta and try to bum drinks from people in a rather annoying, uncreative fashion.

But last week I was in the Blue Moon, one of Seattle’s oldest dives. Its chipped wooden booths are lined with books and the place has long been home to the literary alcoholic crowd of the U District. It’s also pretty legendary because for a long time there was a law that prohibited alcohol sales within one mile of the university. The Blue Moon is about a mile and a foot away from the edge of campus.

As my friends and I took a booth, we were somewhat aggressively accosted by a bearded unclean man, who for reasons I can’t recall grabbed a female member of our party by the arm. I stood to defend her in the loudest and most archaic Don Quixote voice and diction I could manage, and much to my surprise, the man totally played along. He bowed his head in shame and offered to sooth my temper with music, producing his Jew’s harp.

I had never seen a solo Jew’s harp performance—I had only heard the instrument, which makes a boi-oi-oi-oi-oing sound with a metal coil bounced in the mouth, used in songs by metal bands like Moonsorrow. It either adds punch to a transition in a song or makes it sound like Loony Tunes took over the mixing board for a second. In any case, the performance at the booth induced rhythmic bouncing from the five of us at the table.

After a couple of minutes it was last call (early in Washington, 2 am), so the bartender came to pull drinks. One of my pals was about to surrender a half-full beer when the man literally wrested it from the bartender’s hand and downed it to feeble protests of “c’mon Shultz!” from the regulars. I guess the Blue Moon is Shultz’s spot and this happens all the time.

Photos: Shultz playing the Jew’s harp and the Blue Moon’s sign by me. A Jew’s harp taken from the Wikipedia article on the instrument.

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By now you’ve probably gotten wind of what, in the ten days since the anti-war protest, has generated national attention. If you’re just tuning in, a group of about 30 masked demonstrators burned the effigy of a soldier at the massive protest downtown. What you probably haven’t heard is that a lyric from local punk band Riot Cop was chanted during the burning.

Good protest songs are often hard to come by these days. It seems that a lot of songs from ‘60s (like Dylan and Ochs) have a greater staying power and universality than songs by, say, Anti-Flag. While Riot Cop’s “Bye Bye G.I.” won’t likely make it into the national cultural memory, it’s a great punk protest song filled with local color, so I was pleased to hear the refrain from the song was used during the demonstration.

I wrote Riot Cop bassist Justin Spite a couple of days ago to see if he was aware of the use of the group’s song during the demonstration and he hasn’t written back yet. I’m also curious if Riot Cop supports the burning of the effigy. I’ve always been of a mind that soldiers should be held accountable for creating wars. Perhaps the military was worthy of respect when its purpose was to defend the lives of the folks at home, but I think it would be a pretty powerful deterrent to those considering enlisting if we, as a society, recognized that our military is a deplorable tool for greed and shamed those who chose to do its bidding. Bottom line: There is no war without suckers to fight one. Of course, the main argument against this line of thought is captured at the end of the clip of the effigy as a woman runs up and says, “What about the disadvantaged people who step up and become soldiers because they’re brainwashed?” This argument is pretty powerful, but nonetheless I can only dream of how small (and powerless to start ludicrous wars) the US military would be if it were composed only of those who joined up because it was their absolute last resort.

It’s also hard to whole-heartedly endorse a stunt like this because it alienates groups like Veterans for Peace from the movement. But what I can unabashedly get behind is a shocking display of outrage. Politeness has gotten the anti-war movement absolutely nowhere in the four years since shots were fired. Though the effigy may not have been the most well thought-out display of that frustration, I think that at this late stage in the game, it’s advantageous not to hold back when representing your feelings about the war. I am, of course, not advocating violence in any way, but simply more pointed demonstrations.

Needless to say, the Boregonian and Fox “News” are in disagreement with this view and the effigy burners.

While the effigy burning was going down, I actually happened to be in Seattle, marveling at how underwhelming the protest there was. Estimates show that Portland’s protest, with 15,000 people, was at least three times the size of Seattle’s. Way to represent, Little Beirut, and way to get some people on TV pissed off. I’m proud to be from a town where at least someone is thinking up ways to push demonstrations to a new level and where lyrics by a local band become a rallying call.

Speaking of lyrics, below is the full text to “Bye Bye G.I.” as displayed at www.riotcop.com.

Image: Display of soldier’s graves in the Park Blocks. Pulled from Riot Cop’s MySpace page.

BYE BYE, G.I.

RESIDENT PRESIDENT
DON’T THINK WE WON’T SHOOT
THE NEXT TIME YOU VISIT
”LITTLE BEIRUT”*
QUAINT LITTLE NEIGHBORHOODS
FILLED WITH TANKS AND COPS
BARBED WIRE FENCES
ALL THE STREETS ARE BLOCKED

AFTER THE PROTEST EVERYONE SAID
”THE ACTIONS WERE A FAILURE
‘CAUSE THE PRESIDENT’S NOT DEAD”
WHAT WILL WE DO WHEN EVERYTHING GETS WORSE?
TURN THE PRESIDENT’S LIMO INTO A HEARSE

(Chorus)
BYE BYE GI IN IRAQ YOU’RE GONNA DIE
BYE BYE GI IN IRAQ YOU’LL SHIRLEY DIE

RIOT COP BRUTALITY
IT FEELS FUCKING GOOD
THE WAR ON THE GOVERNMENT
IS IN YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD
1914 IS HAPPENING AGAIN
(BUT) THIS TIME WORLD WAR III
WILL NEVER FUCKING END, SO…

(Slightly Different Chorus)
BYE BYE GI IN THE MIDDLE EAST YOU’RE GONNA DIE
BYE BYE GI IN IRAQ YOU’RE GONNA DIE

*Portland, OR was dubbed Little Beirut by former President George H.W. Bush because of the city’s heartfelt welcoming.

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When asked if he hangs out at the Elbow Room frequently, Matt Lemeiux said that if the stool on which he was perched was cracked, then it was his regular spot. I laughed out loud when I saw the white threads from underneath the leather (or fake leather?) as he stood up.

Matt is a Salem native who moved from Portland to the Couv a few months ago after a split with his gal. Now he lives just a couple of blocks away from the restaurant where he works and from the bar we were standing in. It’s funny he would want to localize himself so much because it probably means fewer opportunities to drive the badass car he showed us when we went outside for a smoke.

Becky must have felt an FFW coming on (she’s been along for one or two), and asked, “You’re not in a band, are you?”

Of course Matt was in a band. He said his pop rock project is probably going to be called Between Planets when they start playing out regularly. Haven’t heard of them? Well I bet you’ve heard of his brother’s band. Does ska guitar and the line “Here in your bedroom…” ring any bells?

That’s right, Matt’s brother is Kelly LeMieux, bass player for the band Goldfinger. Don’t even pretend you didn’t have their CD! I did. I fuckin’ loved it when they were tearing up the charts about 10 years ago, and the end of my middle school career.

But what’s weird is that Matt insisted I not dismiss his bro for being in a spiky-haired ska/pop-punk band. He relentlessly requested that I look up Kelly online, and told me about how his brother had backed Joey Ramone for a brief period. Had the two of them ever played together when they were kids? “No, I asked my mom to buy me a drum set when we were kids,” Matt said, “and I wish she woulda done it.”

Wikipedia reveals that Kelly LeMieux actually lives in Portland: “He is currently working as an instructor for the Portland chapter of the Paul Green School of Rock.” But I bet kids today don’t even appreciate taking lessons from a member of Goldfinger the way they used to.

And, truly the internet did deliver on Matt’s promise of evidence of his brother’s talent. There is an extended interview from a huge fan on 12stringbass.com. Here’s a quote from one of Kelly’s band mates featured in the intro to the interview: “[He] has definitely raised the bar of musicianship in this band because he is just fucking ill.”

Photo: Matt LeMieux in front of the Elbow Room sign, his barstool, and his car, all taken by me. Kelly LeMieux courtesy of 12stringbass.com.

Note on the title: According to that very same Couv story, prior to the introduction of the term “Couv” the Couv was known as “Portland’s Bastard Brother.” I hope that this is made up, because I think it would be funny if WW just put fake shit like that in the paper more often.

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To Whom It May Concern:

I know that the spirit of punk rock is to rage against society’s ills and excesses. It exists, in part, to afflict the comfortable. But it should never attack the defenseless.

Unfortunately, that’s exactly what the punk rock band Autistic Youth (Willamette Week, 2/21/07, p39 [click here to read this article]) is doing every time they feature their name in a publication, post it to a website or splash it on a marquee. They are minimizing and marginalizing a very serious condition – autism – that affects up to one out of every 150 children. They are making fun of a developmental disability that means severe lifetime difficulties for not only the autistic individual, but his or her family as well.

As the older brother of a young autistic man, I have experienced a lifetime of ridicule and lost friendships because of my decision to defend him – which he cannot do himself. He is unable to speak, as are thousands of autistic individuals around the world, including children. He has suffered taunting, cruelty and abuse from those who choose to prey on
those who are weaker than they are: those who choose to exert their power by deriding the voiceless.

By choosing the name it did, the band Autistic Youth has put themselves among those who exploit the handicapped. And, since those the band targets cannot defend themselves, those of us who are able-bodied and conscientious must step up to tell bands like Autistic Youth that what they’re doing is wrong.

We certainly have the right to free speech in our country: a right that, as a writer, I enjoy every day. However, free speech isn’t a license for flippant cruelty and malice.

Admittedly, I don’t know Autistic Youth’s history or philosophy. If the band’s choice of name has a reason that is benign, such as activism or awareness, I encourage them to explain that on their website or MySpace page. If they’re interpreting the word “autistic” in a different way, please say so. If there is no such reason, however, I urge them to consider changing their name.

The power of punk rock comes from angst, alienation and the solidarity of the disaffected in a struggle against the powerful. Why then attack the handicapped, the voiceless, the powerless?

Autistic Youth should forget the punk polemic for a second and consider who they’re hurting – and then, for decency’s sake, consider changing their band’s name.

Sincerely,
Roger

cc: Willamette Week, Autism Society of America, Autism Speaks, Autistic Youth

Here is the response from the band:

Hey Roger (and all others concerned),

My name is Adam. I play guitar and sing in autistic youth.

I and 2 other members of the band grew up in a suburb of Portland (Beaverton), and went to High School with an autistic boy named Erik, who played guitar and wanted to start a band with us. Alex, our other guitar player, suggested we call the band autistic youth (mainly a tribute to Erik, and all the 80’s punk bands with “Youth” in the name).

Erik was super excited. We had a couple practices, but never played out, and the band eventually disbanded. We kept playing, and decided to keep the name as an homage to Erik. He is totally aware of this (as are his parents, etc.), and we all still talk to him with frequency. He still plays music as a solo project. We have played a couple shows with him since, and plan to still in the future. Erik himself plays shows all the time, you should go see him!! His myspace page is www.myspace.com/erikanarchy1

We are totally aware that autism affects thousands of lives every year, and our band name is NOT meant to attack the defenseless or undermine the suffering that those affected by autism must endure. It is simply meant as a salutation to our friend Erik.

Feel free to email us if you have any more questions.

Adam

And a final letter from Roger:

Hi there Adam,

Thank you for your detailed and thoughtful response. I really appreciate the explanation.

That’s a really interesting story. I encourage you to post it to your website, and possibly even to your MySpace page. It’d be a cool way to let others know where you’re coming from – and avoid any future misunderstandings. You know, it’d even be a great way to tell your fans a little about autism. That in itself is another great tribute to your talented friend Erik.

I’ve listened to some of your songs through your MySpace page, and your band obviously has talent and creativity. I’m sure you have quite a few fans. Education and awareness are great ways to change the world, fight against wrongs and stand up for what (and who) you love. That said, please consider a short history like the one you gave me below.

Thanks again for writing back, Adam, and I wish you and your bandmates the best.

Take care,
Roger

Autistic Youth has yet to post anything in the way of a name explanation on their website or myspace, but since this exchange is only a few weeks old, maybe they’re working on it. In any case, it’s always great to see people sort out misunderstandings without any broken records or hurt feelings.

Read a profile of Erik Anarchy here. His next show is April 14th at Rock N Roll Pizza with Anger Management and Awake. 7 pm. Cover. All ages.

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When I wrote this review of Drats!!!’s Welcome to New Granada, which is based on the 1979 film Over the Edge, Drats!!! bandleader, the Chairman, mentioned in an email that he hoped the creators of the movie didn’t try to sue them or anything for borrowing the plotline, characters in their music and graphical style of the film for the album cover.

When I ran into the Chairman at a party a few weeks back, he told me about how he has a day job at CD baby. One day, he noticed that a very familiar name had ordered a couple of copies of his band’s album: Charlie Haas, co-writer of Over the Edge. Haas subsequently wrote the Chairman to say that he very much enjoyed the rock operetta. It’s a friendly, friendly world in which creators of cult classics support those who worship them, and even seek out and pay for their tributes. In a later email exchange, the Chairman offered to send Haas more copies of the record and he declined, saying that he always pays for books and music, even by his friends.

Here’s the initial letter from Haas to the Chairman:

Earth’s scientists will forever be baffled by the fact that it took two people to write the screenplay for Over the Edge, but it did and I’m one of them. I got the operetta from CDBaby and it’s great. “Johnny the Mute” put me into an out-of-body experience, in which I was once again working on the script with Tim Hunter at his place in Hollywood till 2 AM, followed by red beans and rice at the all-night South Town Soul Food on Wilcox. (We had day jobs then. Mine was at Warner Bros. Records. It was the heyday of Seals and Crofts, but I did get to hang out with Van Dyke Parks now and then.)

I especially dug your covering “Ooh Child.” Jonathan wanted “Baba O’Reilly” for the ending but we couldn’t afford it. The song “Over the Edge,” written by Little Feat for the movie, didn’t make it onto the soundtrack either, but it’s on the Hoy-Hoy! album. (I did the liner notes, a vanishing art form.)

By the way, we named the characters after our friends at UC Santa Cruz, and I’m happy to report that Richie White is teaching college art in Orange County and still surfing. So Richie lives. So do we all. Thanks very much.

Charlie Haas

The statement that “Richie lives” is bound to give anyone who has seen the film chills. He’s undoubtedly one of the best teenage anti-heroes of all time.

Drats!!! plays tomorrow, Friday March 9th at the Langano Lounge with Deep North. 9 pm. Cover. 21+.

Photo: From Drats!!!’s space. The Chairman is the one who kind of looks like George Costanza.

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