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They were the local Fab Four, the band that represented everything that was right and wrong about Portland. They had cool T-shirts, a lesbian drummer and swelling emotional rock songs about the fickleness of love. They were signed to Sub Pop when Sub Pop was still cool. So why didn't Hazel become alterna-rock stars at a time when all the world's eyes were turned to the Pacific Northwest, trying to pinpoint the next Nirvana? The answers run the gamut: a disappointing first album that failed to capture Hazel's live energy; American youth's fickle taste and an exodus from soulful grunge to vapid modern-rock; Sub Pop's mishandling of the debut, Toreador of Love; Hazel's questionable judgment in posing half-naked on the cover of Toreador; a spotty follow-up with a punctuation problem, Are You Going to Eat That; and finally, the most frequently cited reason for Hazel's inability to ascend to the top of the pops--the hippie dancer Fred! Some people truly hated Fred Nemo, an older man with tattered clothes and scruffy facial hair who would strike poses and balance heavy objects on his head, imperiling band and audience members
alike. But to bandmates Pete Krebs, Jody Bleyle and Brady Smith, Fred was one of the four necessary pieces to the Hazel puzzle, and in a sense, he kept the pressure of commercial success at bay. "The great gimmick of having me," Nemo says, "was that it helped disguise what a great power trio they were." After years of rumored break-ups and unofficial final shows, Hazel plans to play two dates and enter the annals of Pacific Northwest rock history. The quartet performs Saturday, Feb. 7, at LaLuna and Friday, Feb. 13, at the Crocodile in Seattle. "Before we close up shop," Nemo says, "we want to do a good show for anyone who was our fan. It's the most diplomatic thing we could do." --Richard Martin AD-AZZ Blaxploitation Buff
On first reading the editor's column in Bad Azz Mofo, a local 'zine that dropped last summer, you'd swear David Walker, editor, publisher and HNIC ("head nigga in charge") was a strapping, militant African American with a 40-ounce Afro and a hatred for whitey. Truth is, he's slightly balding, slightly chubby, with loose (but not saggy) jeans and a humble, soft-spoken intellect. Bad Azz Mofo is the outlet for his alter-ego, Superfly. Or Shaft. Hell, Walker would probably be happy living out the role of Cleopatra Jones--or any other character, just so long as it appears in the '70s-era film style known as blaxploitation. In the première issue of Bad Azz Mofo, Walker discussed what this low-budget film genre meant as a term, what it meant to the people involved and how it affected the industry. The issue included an interview with blaxploitation hero Jim Kelly. But the bulk of the 'zine was a Leonard Maltin-esque review guide to blaxploitation films. At the end of the first and recently released second issues, Walker throws in some book and album reviews, but his heart is in it for the movies. They're rated on a scale of one to four Afros; a lower-than-low rating earns a Jheri curl. Walker says he doesn't publish Bad Azz Mofo for the money, though making some would be nice. He simply wants to tell this part of the Hollywood story, which, he adds, "is the root of many of today's films, especially Tarantino's." Walker is so dedicated to the subject that he's used what little resources he has to produce a 25-minute documentary that includes interviews with film stars Jim Brown, Fred Williamson and Kelly. Walker has passed copies through the HBO and Showtime offices, but he's still looking for distribution and the funding to finish it. Some of his friends and 'zine contributors are organizing an as-yet-unscheduled benefit concert featuring Portland soul diva Tahoe. -Geoffrey W. Abraham
Un-Published The closing of BonaKeane Gallery (see Visual Arts story) isn't the only heartbreaking news for the visual arts world this month. Mike Roberts, heart and soul of Untitled, the 'zine devoted to Portland's art scene, has decided to call it quits--for the time being, anyway. The final issue of Untitled hit the streets last week, just in time for First Thursday. Roberts, who also works full-time as a postal worker and whose wife is expecting a child, will put art-scribing on hold until the demands of domestic life ease up. For three years Roberts has provided a comprehensive, up-to-date publication on the month's visual arts offerings. Each issue was the consummate insider's pamphlet, chock full of playfully written insights and informational nuggets. Neither critic nor cheerleader, Roberts rode the middle ground as visual arts champion, writing up most of the shows other publications missed. But what may have endeared Untitled to artists, gallerists and the general public was the feeling that you, the reader, could do this yourself. Each issue was handwritten, photocopied and distributed by Roberts. There are many signs that tell you First Thursday and a new month of art are at hand: Artists at their wits' end, gallery staff working at odd hours, walls fresh with new work awaiting critical plaudits or beatings. But one concrete way to tell appeared at the entrance of each gallery: There, the new issue of Untitled, just a bit taller than a stack of takeout Chinese menus, was waiting to be read. --D.K. Row Correction:
The excellent bread at Paragon restaurant is supplied by Grand Central Bakery, not the Pearl Bakery as we erroneously reported ("A Diamond in the Pearl," WW, Jan. 21, 1998). WW regrets the error. |
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