Kota Kakutani of The Heavy Johnson Trio

MUSIC CRITIQUE Push the Fader Up Some say rock is dead. Not these people. BY JOHN GRAHAM 243-2122 EXT. 253

Supersuckers, Heavy Johnson Trio, Formula Five Berbati's Pan 231 SW Ankeny St., 248-4579 9 pm Saturday, Jan. 9 $8 Fade In In April, Umberhulk's Sean Roberts and Shawn Bosler expressed to me their desire to ignite a fire beneath snoozing crowds in the Portland underground. Now Umberhulk--known for its monstrous, progressive rock-cum-emocore--is gone, having suffered an implosion similar to that of the loud-rock scene, which once glowed with plentiful combustive elements. Sadly, few seem to care--a slight shrug here, a fatalistic sigh there, and that's all. What happened? Don't people remember when bands actually moved them, not just emotionally, but physically as well? When a stack of Marshalls punched air into their solar plexuses? When vocalists expressed a passion, anger and anguish so undeniable their bodies contorted with the music's exhortation to "kick out the jams, motherfucker"? Or have we become, as Henry Rollins put it in his typically disagreeable fashion, "a bunch of pussies"? I wondered where this type of music had gone, this music that melded fiery emotion and wit with a raging, high-volume post-punk attack. To find answers, some of the remaining faithful--Jason Fell (Popewyrm), Trevor Solomon (Fuckpriest Fantastic), Mike Thrasher (local promoter, ex-dirtclodfight), Scott Wagner (Topsider), and Dan Carey, Eli Johnson, Josh Bass and Kota Kakutani (Heavy Johnson Trio)--convened to discuss why intelligent, individualistic alt-rock seems be be vanishing. P.J. Harvey and X (both prime examples of brains and brawn uniting as an urgent, provocative whole) serenaded us as we shared ideas and pitchers of beer. Here's the breakdown on the shakedown: From the Golden Age to the Molden Age Most everyone concurs that the late '80s and early '90s saw the high-water mark of Portland's musical history. The town was flooded with acts, all of which seemed to have an equal shot at success regionally, if not nationally. Today, a few bands bust out while the rest languish, and loud rock that isn't formulaic punk or metal is among the rarest of beasts. Where'd it all go? One hypothesis: It evaporated in the same rain puddle as the small all-ages clubs that used to dot the city landscape. Jason Fell, vocalist for cartoonish art-metal hellions Popewyrm, speaks for all when he laments the loss of "nurturing incubators like the X-Ray, where anything could happen." That famed downtown firetrap exposed more acts than Larry Flynt does breasts, and now without the bright-eyed teen scene, bands are forced to play to cynical, jaded twentysomethings. Meanwhile, LaLuna, a strong supporter of city acts five years ago, now books primarily national acts; new kids in town are left S.O.L. on the sidewalk. Perhaps even more critical is the demise of the local music media. Snipehunt, Tonic and Paperback Jukebox all folded in recent years, while PDXS has seen its music coverage dwindle significantly. To thrive, scenes must be watered like plants, and that means press attention. As Mike Thrasher puts it, sometimes "people need to be told what's cool. They want to be told what's cool." There's also the danger of an individual critic's perspective, a danger increased with limited coverage. Heavy Johnson Trio's (HJ3) drummer Josh Bass warns: "The printed word has got some authority--it defines the scene. So if someone writes 10 times that Band X is the biggest band in town, it'll become that." This torpor is not merely symptomatic of Portland. Famed labels like AmRep, C/Z and Trance Syndicate have shut their doors, while once-loud companies are switching formats to keep up with mainstream tastes. Trevor Solomon laments that a local label-owning friend couldn't afford to release Fuckpriest Fantastic's manic, angular music because volume-heavy rock isn't profitable. "Country music sells," he told Solomon. "It makes money." But why this turn from rabid, raucous post-punk? One theory goes, as grunge and faux punk became popular, jocks and frat boys began to infiltrate the underground. Soon shows became violent battles for space on the floor, and the smart kids split. (Thrasher explains: "People who are into thinking-man's rock are less likely to wanna get beat up.") Dan Carey, HJ3's leather-lunged singer, also theorizes about the "cult of diminished expectations." While previous generations had "vital issues" to combat, such as wars, Republican presidents and disco, Gen-Xers and Clinton-era kids have gotten complacent and lazy. "To play loud music, you have to put forth a certain amount of effort," he says. "And that doesn't gloss with people in the cult of diminished expectations." And the Future Is... So far, this may sound like a scatter-shot firing line. In fact, all the participants agreed that, sour grapes aside, it was up to them to turn the tide. Since this music grew out of punk, itself a maligned genre, they know public support shouldn't dictate a scene's strength. "DIY-or-die," the punk mantra decrees, and Thrasher agrees. "If we want a heavy music scene here, then we have to make that by putting out our own records and making sure people get 'em," he says. Josh Bass adds, "[Sub Pop-styled] hype doesn't just happen. It has to be created.... Part of the malaise and 'the world's getting too easy' thing is people think they're entitled to happiness, rather than understanding that they have to go out and make themselves happy." And Scott Wagner states unequivocally: "Basically, the bands have to bust their asses." That's not a challenge for these particular bands. Solomon is famous for, in his words, "breaking his fucking knees and getting naked" onstage. Heavy Johnson Trio plays more noisy shows than Imelda Marcos has shoes; Topsider and Popewyrm live the Josh Bass credo that "entertainment equals fun," and shows are not the time to stand stiffly and calculate pi. "Maybe it's a natural life-death cycle," says Carey. If the scene continues to decline, he reasons that perhaps the slide itself will cause a rebirth. When all hope seems lost, people frequently get inspired. "The greatest art always comes from the darkest times," he says. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Willamette Week | originally published January 6, 1998 .