A Pair of New Reissues Shine a Light on Two Overlooked Corners of Portland Music History

Rediscovered albums by a Nigerian singer-songwriter and a 10-piece Cambodian rock band show that Portland's spirit of artistic freedom extends not just to its punks and indie rockers.

Peter Mekwunye on the cover of his 1993 album, "One Kind of Love."

When Peter Mekwunye's phone rang this past winter, he could've let it go to voicemail, as he typically does when he sees a number he doesn't recognize. Something, though, told him to answer this time. Unseen forces had compelled him to act against his natural inclinations before, often with life-altering results. So he complied.

The voice on the other end asked for Pedro. It wasn't a mistake. In 1993, Mekwunye put out an album under that pseudonym, titled One Kind of Love, recorded alone in his tiny downtown Portland apartment near what's now Providence Park. He only made a handful of copies, which he distributed to local consignment shops. He hadn't heard it in years, nor did he even own a copy himself. But he knew that if someone was calling him by that name, they must have somehow tracked one down.

"I just went, 'No way,' talking to myself," Mekwunye says. "'That tape must be sitting in front of him right now.'"

The caller identified himself as Tony Remple, owner of Musique Plastique, a small record store on Northeast Alberta Street. Indeed, he and his business partner had found the cassette in a personal collection they'd recently purchased. Remple was so intrigued by what he heard—homemade African pop, inspired by the music Mekwunye heard during his youth in Nigeria but played with the looseness of someone with little formal musical training—that he wanted to re-release the album through his label, also called Musique Plastique.

For Mekwunye, it couldn't have happened at a better time. The winter snowstorms had cut into his income as an Uber driver, and then a fender-bender halted it completely. A deeply spiritual man, Mekwunye took the phone call as a sign—a divine message of hope arriving at a trying moment in his life.

"You have no idea what his call meant to me," he says from Remple's backyard in Northeast Portland. "If it had gone to voicemail, it wouldn't have had the same impact as taking it right at that time and talking to him. And I've been thanking him since then."

Around the same time, the owner of another Portland record label walked into a body shop on Southeast 82nd Avenue on his own fact-finding mission. Two years earlier, at a grocery on Southeast Powell, Little Axe Records' Warren Hill had come across a tape of authentic, Portland-made Cambodian pop, made by a group called Wimeanacas in 1987. He too hoped to reissue their music.

Tracking down any band members still in the Portland area proved difficult, even though there were 10 of them at one point. When Hill finally found former members of Wimeanacas running an auto repair business in the Mount Scott neighborhood, they reacted with bemusement.

"I think they were a little wary of me," Hill says, "like, 'What is this guy's deal?'"

In the wider story of Portland music history, One Kind of Love and the Wimeanacas album seem like footnotes—obscenely rare curios that barely made it past the artists' bedrooms. Neither act toured; in Mekwunye's case, he never even played a live show.

Nonetheless, they are revelations—proof that the spirit of artistic freedom and D.I.Y. resourcefulness that mythologized Portland as a creative haven extends not just to the punks and indie rockers who get most of the press. Coming from immigrants working in non-Western idioms, the reissues seem especially well-timed given the current political climate. As high-order music geeks with an interest in the ultra-obscure, though, both Remple and Hill agree that the most crucial thing is the quality of the records.

"We're not apolitical. That is important," Remple says. "But first and foremost, really, I'll say the reason to put it out is as simple as it brought us enjoyment, and we want to share that enjoyment."

***

Tall and shaded with light traces of grey around his temples, Mekwunye has the demeanor of a particularly introspective guidance counselor.

Growing up in Nigeria, Mekwunye had little interest in music as a career. Though he admired fellow countrymen Fela Kuti and William Onyeabor, as well as Chuck Mangione and Beethoven, he came to the United States in the early '90s in hopes of going to law school. Living first in Texas, then San Francisco, Mekwunye says he didn't feel like truly happy in America until he decided, almost at random, to give Portland a try. It was in California, though, that he initially felt the strange, sudden compulsion to start writing songs.

"I didn't choose music," he says. "Somehow, music chose me."

Despite having no experience, Mekwunye rented time at a studio in San Francisco and recorded a few mostly improvisatory tracks. Looking to continue pursuing music in his new home, despite limited funds, Mekwunye purchased a cheap Casio keyboard and a eight-track recorder soon after arriving in Portland.

Reworking some of the older songs he felt were "too gloomy," the resulting One Kind of Love reflects the rush of joy Mekwunye felt driving across the Burnside Bridge the first time. While certainly lo-fi—it is unmistakably the sound of one man alone in his bedroom, though Mekwunye included fake musician credits in the liner notes to make it seem like he had a band—the sincerity of Mekwunye's soft voice overrides the sometimes cheesy digital presets he was working with, elevating the music to an almost spiritual level. Few songs follow conventional structures, which is precisely what drew Remple in after fishing the cassette out of the pile he and his partner bought—it sounded like an amateur defying the rules simply because he didn't yet know them.

"You're hoping to hear something new," Remple says. "It sounded similar to some things we heard, but it definitely sounded like someone making their own language with music."

***

By contrast, Holica and Sovann Yoeun, the husband and wife duo who led Wimeanacas in the '80s, were working musicians long before leaving Cambodia for America. Holica played the bar circuit around the city of Siem Reap, while Sovann toured the country as a singer. Fleeing the Khmer Rouge in 1975, the couple bounced from Thailand to Camp Pendleton, eventually settling in Portland near the end of the decade. A few years after arriving in town, they put together Wimeanacas—which loosely translates to "castle in the sky"—with other Cambodian nationals, mostly to make extra money playing weddings and other community gatherings.

Wimeanacas’ Holica and Sovann Yoeun. IMAGE: Warren Hill.

To open up another revenue stream, the band home-recorded two tapes, in 1983 and 1987, primarily to sell at their concerts. The music should be familiar to anyone who's come across the semi-famous Cambodian Rocks compilation—a mix of fuzztone guitars, Farfisa organ and distinctly high-pitched vocal melodies, with rhythms that range from jumpy to hypnotic. (Some songs incorporate accordion and a cumbia-like groove.) Like Mekwunye, the Yoeuns hadn't heard the recorded music, or even really thought about it, in years, until Hill wandered into their garage in January, asking for permission to re-release it.

"It's strange," Holica says, "but at the same time exciting."

***

In the intervening years, both Mekwunye and the Yoeuns kept making music, albeit in more private settings. Wimeanacas gradually disbanded in the '90s as various members started families and moved away, but Holica and Sovann still perform live on special occasions—not too long ago, they played at their former guitarist's wedding. Discouraged by the initial lack of interest in One Kind of Love, Mekwunye says he fell into a "spiral" that lasted several years, but he eventually returned to music, recently uploading a pair of albums under a new alias, John Clis, to Bandcamp.

Neither Mekwunye nor the Yoeuns are holding out hope that these reissues will rekindle their careers, nor are they under any delusions that they'll make them rich. For them, the recognition, however slight, is enough. And for Remple and Hill, the hope is that the recognition remains with the people who made the music, not those who found it.

"This project, for me, is really not about what I have to say," Hill says. "This isn't about me finding something and being like, 'Here it is.' This is about these people who made incredible, beautiful music back then gaining a wider audience that I think would appreciate them."

SEE IT: The Wimeanacas album release party is at Little Axe, 4142 NE Sandy Blvd., on Friday, June 23. 7 pm. Free. All ages. Peter Mekwunye's One Kind of Love is available at musique-plastique.com.

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