Skip to main content
In 1970s Portland, it's hard to imagine a band that had more going against it than Neo Boys. For one thing, all of the members were underage, as young as 13 when they started. Even if they had been old enough to play proper clubs, those venues weren't exactly keen on booking acts that might attract a crowd of violent punk rockers looking for a place to riot. As musicians, the group was, shall we say, a bit raw, at least in the beginning. And on top of that, their name was a lie. The Boys were actually four girls—an anomaly in Portland, if not totally unheard of—which in those days didn't help when it came to being taken seriously by the ruling rock-'n'-roll patriarchy.
It would seem, then, that the band's upcoming induction into the Oregon Music Hall of Fame would represent some level of victory—for punk, for women, for a group of teenagers who didn't wait to grow up or perfect their instruments before making themselves heard. But while they appreciate the recognition, it's coming, as it often has for Neo Boys, a little too late for their liking.
"It felt like, 'Oh, thanks,'" says drummer Pat Baum. "What about 35 years ago, when we were struggling and nobody would review our shows or give us any press?"
Acknowledgement may have been slow to arrive for Neo Boys, who broke up in 1983. But over the past two years, history has finally come back around to them. In 2013, K Records released Sooner or Later, a two-disc retrospective containing almost everything the band recorded in its five years together. Suddenly, the local media that overlooked them for decades came knocking on their door—literally: Most of the interviews they've done since, including this one, have been conducted around singer Kim Kincaid's dining-room table, at her home in Southeast Portland.
It's not an uncommon story, of course. In the digital era, many artists ignored in their time have been rediscovered, reissued and, in some cases, revived. But Neo Boys aren't just some lost historical curiosity. They're a true missing link—a band that, in its poetically political lyrics, cut a path toward riot grrrl, and helped establish the "do-it-yourself" ethos as a guiding principle for making music in the Pacific Northwest. On a pure songwriting level, the music is as sharp and inventive as anything from the era. It's astonishing that it went mostly unheard for so long.
But time, along with everything else, wasn't on Neo Boys' side. A year after they split up, Satyricon opened, and the Portland punk scene that coalesced around it would become mythologized; everything that came before faded into prehistory. There is, however, something to be said for the vitality of music created almost entirely in secret, before any guidelines had been written and without the faintest notion that it might survive beyond the moment. And that, in retrospect, might have been the one thing they had in their favor.
"In some ways, being in the dark ages, you got to invent it," says bassist Kt (KAY-tee) Kincaid, Kim's sister. "And in some ways, that was an advantage."
As far back as they can remember, the Kincaid sisters dreamed about having their own band. It wasn't until glimpsing a photo of the Sex Pistols in a magazine, though, that actually doing it seemed a possibility.
"When punk rock happened, we were like, 'Now we can do it for real!'" says Kt Kincaid. "We didn't really have a clue at all. It didn't matter, though. That was the great thing about punk: You could do it anyway."
With guitarist Jennifer LoBianco and two other friends, the Kincaids formed their first band, Formica and the Bitches, in 1977. After the other two defected to London, the remaining members recruited Baum—who they'd often see at the Paramount Theater's Catch a Rising Star showcases—shuffled the lineup and became Neo Boys, taking their name from a Patti Smith poem. It was a deliberate act of deception. "We didn't want people to think we were girls before they saw us," says Kt Kincaid. "We wanted to be judged on our credibility, rather than our sex."
That determination not to be marginalized pushed Neo Boys to work harder than many of their peers. While the early live recordings on Sooner or Later are decidedly rough—marked by wrong notes, questionable tuning and rhythms that wobble like a baby deer—those who witnessed the group in its heyday recall a band of steely, intense focus. "They barely moved onstage," writes Mark Sten in All Ages, his chronicle of Portland punk's first wave. "They stood in place watching their instruments, and their determined precision gave the band a cool that was as profound as it was inadvertent." And they progressed quickly as musicians, honing a sound more light, jangly and minimal than ragged and raging.
As it turns out, the band evolved a little too quickly for some. "Within a year, they were way ahead of anything I could do," LoBianco admits. She quit and moved to Hollywood, opening the door for the arrival of Meg Hentges. A skilled guitarist fresh off the bus from Missouri, Hentges brought added complexity to the group, not to mention groove—later songs like "Time Keeps Time" and "Cheap Labor" have an almost rockabilly swing, while "Under Control" could be the Minutemen. She upped everyone's game, including Kim Kincaid's, whose descriptions of working-class angst and gender inequality grew increasingly poignant, especially for someone not yet of voting age.
By the early '80s, Neo Boys were one of Portland's most visible punk bands, opening for the likes of Television, Nico and X. Of course, what that mostly meant was, they played a circuit of art galleries, rental halls and short-lived all-ages venues. Like the rest of their peers, Neo Boys hardly ever left Portland. "It just wore you out after a while," Kim Kincaid says. After Hentges left town in 1983, the other members didn't have much motivation to find a replacement. They disbanded without having recorded a proper album, leaving an EP and a 7-inch single as the only hard proof that they had existed at all.
"Today, they're the biggest New Wave band that Portland forgot," writes Sten in All Ages. "They were at the heart and center of their own era, but they're not part of the heritage that survived."
Almost as soon as they broke up, though, others took interest in preserving Neo Boys' legacy. One in particular was K Records founder Calvin Johnson. An avowed fan, he befriended Pat Baum toward the end of the band's run, and knew that, somewhere, there was a trove of demos and live material expanding on its paltry studio output.
"I always felt like, 'Where's the rest of the songs?'" Johnson says. "There's so much that isn't available and needs to be documented." Over three decades, he'd periodically nudge Baum about compiling what the band had, but it wasn't until the mid-'90s that she first got around to pulling the tapes out of her parents' basement. "The wheels moved very slowly," Johnson says. "Everyone has lives, they're all doing stuff. They're not like me, sitting around and obsessing about music."
Another reason for the delay, though, was the band's reluctance to excavate its own past. The members thought no one would care. As time went on, however, there were indications that Neo Boys had left a wider mark than previously thought. Hannah Lew of San Francisco post-punk outfit Grass Widow repeatedly cited them as an influence. In 2011, the Oregon Historical Society invited Kim and Kt Kincaid to give a speech at the opening of its Oregon Rocks exhibit. When Sooner or Later finally came out, musician Lesley Reece's liner notes emphasized how crucial it was for her to see girls her own age not just singing but playing instruments, too: "How did they do that, start a band with other women, three of them not the singer? Maybe they thought the rules were stupid, too."
Whether or not it really means anything, with their induction into the Oregon Music Hall of Fame, Neo Boys are now formally aligned with the Wipers, Dead Moon and Poison Idea as a band that shaped the lineage of underground music in Portland. But perhaps even more than history's view of the band, what's changed is how the band sees itself.
"I have to say that, having to listen and listen and listen to all these songs to have it ready to send to K, I felt proud at the end," says Kt Kincaid. "You know, we did good."
THE REST OF THE OREGON MUSIC HALL OF FAME CLASS OF 2015
Heatmiser
The grunge-era group best known for launching Elliott Smith and ultimately overshadowing what also made the band great: the songwriting talents of Neil Gust.
Jerry Joseph
A longtime fixture of the earthy rock scene and a jam-band favorite, beginning with Little Women in the '80s and continuing today most prominently with his Jackmormons.
Bill Rhoades
The "Godfather of Oregon Blues" with his long-running band, the Party Kings, and probably the state's leading ambassador of the harmonica.
Ellen Whyte
A singer of many styles who's helped keep the blues alive in Oregon via her "Bring Blues to the School" program.
Dave Captein
A session bassist par excellence whose resume includes stints with Nu Shooz, Mel Brown and too many jazz bands to name.
Brian Foxworth
One of Oregon's most versatile drummers for hire, who currently backs Curtis Salgado while also playing in a tribute act to '70s Portland funk band, Pleasure.
Marc Baker
Host of KBOO's seminal Church of NW Music, which championed the likes of Everclear, Pink Martini and Richmond Fontaine in their formative years.
John Chassaing
Owner and operator of Showcase Music, Portland's first pro-audio retailer.
SEE IT: The Oregon Music Hall of Fame induction and concert, featuring Storm Large, is at Aladdin Theater, 3017 SE Milwaukie Ave., on Saturday, Oct. 10. 7 pm. $25-$110. Under 21 permitted with legal guardian.
Willamette Week