The
Viles, The Weaklings, Hellside Stranglers
Satyricon,
125 NW 6th Ave., 243-2380
10 pm Friday, July 30
$5
This summer, when you want to slip into the lascivious take-it-sleazy
lifestyle of primitive, irrepressible, just plain irresponsible
rock 'n' roll, don't shell out seven clams for the romanticized
Hollywood paean Detroit Rock City. While lazy culture
mavens continue to hype the costumed antics of arena-rockers,
the decadent real deal is right here, writhing under our collective
nose.
Kiss this, Detroit. Ladies and jerks, welcome to
Portland, Rock City.
Your hosts: The Viles (raspy, nicotine-frayed shouter Genny
Genocide, bassist Dawn of the Dead, guitarists Dave Dillinger
and Jeff Wonderful, and drummer Craig Becker) and the Weaklings
(careening front man Bradly Wayne Shaver, guitarist Mark
Rhemrev, bassist Casey Maxwell and drummer Steve "The Kid"
Mickelson).
These tour guides will direct you through the Portland
hiding behind cancerous yuppie condos, drowned out by gas-sucking
SUVs. The musical world of the Weaklings and Viles is like
Times Square before Rudy "Il Duce" Giuliani: There's
a touch of flash on the face, but a smoking ashtray heart
and a mind spinning in a cloud of booze and sex lurk within.
That's S-E-X, by the way. Leave L-O-V-E to the flowery
poets and pop stars.
"We don't sing love songs," Genny says of the Viles' Bowery-bred,
Heartbreakers-fed punk sound. "If we do, it's a warped love
song about how I'm gonna tie you up. Nothing very romantic."
The flowered fields of romance, of course, are the playground
of those dreaded, market-driven creatures called "girl groups."
The Viles loathe that designation, but Genny's high-volume
stage presence means they get lassoed with it anyway. In
fact, one label dismissed them out of hand, saying it doesn't
sign "girl bands."
Ironically, that very label--Junk Records--is releasing
the Weaklings' new album, Just the Way We Like It.
Adding to that irony is the fact that Viles songwriter Dave
once plucked the bass for the Weaklings, helping to pull
them out of limbo when they lacked direction and personnel.
After leaving the Weaklings for lifestyle-induced "health"
reasons, Dave hooked up with Genny for a hesitant first
rehearsal last year. "I actually thought it was gonna suck
really bad," says Dillinger. "But when we had our first
practice, I was blown away by how good she could sing."
That's what people first notice about the Viles: Gen's
paint-stripping shriek. In a town where Sleater-Kinney's
femme-pop is considered raw (for girls, y'know?), Genny
annihilates the preconception that women need be measured
against a shorter ruler. Yet, despite the sharpness of their
misanthropic edge, the Viles don't fall into the "man-hater"
trap dismissive journalists lay for female-fronted rockers.
"Our songs aren't man-hating--or woman-hating--songs,"
is Gen's chuckling assertion. "Just people-hating songs."
Fortunately, people don't hate them back. "The great thing
about the Viles," says Weaklings bassman Casey, "is that
people dance.... People are shaking their tails instead
of standing against a wall."
That should happen every time the adrenaline-pumped
Weaklings play as well. But after years of alternating great
and grim performances, Shaver's boys don't stoke the fires
of respect they deserve in Portland. Elsewhere, audiences
often walk away from the Weaklings' chaotic punk 'n' roll
spectacles with dazed admiration. Here, it's a shrug and
a "Humph, seen it."
Admitting he's "burned a lot of bridges in this town,"
Shaver says at this point he's fine "if people don't clear
the room when we get onstage."
But that's selling the Weaklings short. The current lineup
may project more pimping macho swagger than before, but
it's the most consistent crew yet. Shaver's quaint, tie-sporting
days are long gone: Now he's more likely to be stripped
shirtless, grabbing smashed glass and slashing fresh bloody
lines into the spider web of self-inflicted scars on his
narrow chest. Destructive? Yes. Iggy-derivative? Perhaps.
Dastardly entertaining? Without a doubt.
This nihilistic madness began as a reaction to anal-retentive
audiences. "You get really pissed off and start smashing
shit," Bradly says. "It's like, 'OK, you don't want to pay
attention? Well, I'll just fucking destroy everything, and
if that means destroying myself, too, so be it.' Now it's
mutated into something I can't even describe. It's a part
of me, that certain element which pushes me beyond, opens
up the gateways to even more. Some people like it. A lot
of people really hate it. I don't really care."
Desperate times--like the boring, uninspired days in which
we're mired right now--require desperate measures. And for
a musician, there's nothing more infuriating than an audience
that would rather preen than party.
"When it's more about a scene than a show, that's when
you either fall apart or come together as a band," Bradly
says. "That's when I look at [the band] and say, 'This is
about us. This has nothing to do with those fucking idiots
out there. This is about us playing a show for ourselves.'"
So if you're one of those people who'd rather see and be
seen than smash and get smashed, stay away. Your Rock City
privileges have been revoked. But for those who savor the
salty taste of sweat and blood, the Viles and Weaklings
are the perfect scoundrels with whom to kick off a long,
lost weekend.
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Willamette Week | originally
published July 28, 1999
|
