Heal Thy Self

There's shit all over Ohm's dance floor. It's St. Patrick's Day, and that's really shit, mixed with a foot of water bubbling up from city pipes, enough muck to push partygoers out onto the streets to take their green Guinnesses elsewhere. Next door, McFadden's and the Voodoo Lounge are experiencing fecal follies of their own.

"Such a fucking drag," says Ohm co-owner Dan Reed. "We just put $5,100 into that floor."

Such disasters aren't the only things making business difficult for Portland clubs. And business is tough, according to Reed, who says Ohm spent most of 2003 on the brink of joining the dearly departed Jazz de Opus, Blackbird and Satyricon as the city's latest club casualties. Already this year, there's talk of more venues on the financial edge: Mount Tabor Pub and the Red Sea have been sold, the Bitter End is temporarily closed, and the Jasmine Tree is in the process. While it's the nature of the club biz to be volatile, Portland's unique social psychology also factors into the economic mix.

The cure to Portland's club blues might be right under music lovers' noses. In taking the temperature of the city's live music scene, we've identified some ailments, and in three young clubs, found a handful of successful strategies for building musical health.

Portland Neurosis No. 1: We're broke.

The size of Portland's music-buying market is as large as thriving scenes elsewhere in the country. The city's potential bar-hopping population--137,450 people in the 20-to-34 age group--trumps the size of the same demographic group in Atlanta by 18,000 people. Yet Atlanta's 40-plus live music venues are doing fine, particularly in the hip-hop market, where houses are packed. Nikhil Swaminathan, assistant music editor at Atlanta's alternative weekly Creative Loafing, says the Georgia capital hasn't suffered through a plague of club closures: "Nothing like what it sounds like [Portland] had."

The main difference might be Oregon's nation-leading unemployment rates and a median annual income of $28,000, which registers 8 percent lower than the national average of $30,500. Clearly, local clubbers aren't dancing in cash.

Prescription: The Twilight Cafe and Bar.

Poor economy be damned: The Twilight's fiery punk lineups attract a crowd every night.

The club's solution for drawing poor music lovers? No cover. "It just seems like the right thing to do," says owner Janelle Shore. "It's expensive going out as it is."

Seven days a week, the Twilight offers up to five punk acts on a single bill. The musicians, who receive no pay beyond an unlimited bar tab, often share equipment. The result? Familial support between musicians and fans--the stuff that scenes are born from. Shore claims her morning-to-evening food sales more than subsidize the night's free entry.

Portland Neurosis No. 2: We love our couches.

"Audiences are lazy here," says Dan Reed of the Ohm, with a frustrated chuckle. "They'd rather stay at home and smoke."

Reed knows a thing or two about active music scenes, after spending the late '80s and early '90s touring with the Dan Reed Network. Portland has a strong pool of musicians, according to Reed and other booking agents, who say houses deserve to be packed every night.

"There's that level of talent here that happened in Seattle before the signing frenzy," says Adam Mackintosh, who books shows at Dante's. "Go out and see it now while it's still here."

Prescription: Holocene.

The vibe at this Southeast hangout is comfy enough to get your slouch on, while the music is stimulating enough to get you off your buddy's couch.

Holocene consistently hosts musicians who play artistically edgy beats, and the intoxicating music consistently attracts friendly, artsy patrons. Just 10 months after opening, the club has hit equilibrium between its low-brow warehouse decor and the creative energy of its patronage, offering an atmosphere like an after-hours party at a Brooklyn warehouse gallery opening.

Portland Neurosis No. 3: We need the offbeat.

It's as Northwest as a Sasquatch sighting to appreciate the peculiar. If a club presents itself with a meat-market, mainstream-as-usual atmosphere (Level), or as a glossy, chic import (Aura), music lovers are likely to stay home to play with their ProTools.

Prescription: Voodoo Doughnut.

This quirkiest of venues in the heart of the Old Town pub-crawl zone offers graveyard hours--that's 10 pm to 10 am--while satisfying the big three late-night cravings: munchies, music and love. The makeshift donut shop/performance space/wedding chapel offers a one-stop sanctuary for the late-night marauder.

Live music is staged on Tuesdays and Wednesdays under the moniker Club Doughnut. Every show is an absurd event, with a crowd spilling out of the 14-capacity cubbyhole into Southwest 3rd Avenue's parade of drunks and jaywalkers. But music aside, the real nightcap draw will always be Voodoo's baking innovations, like the "Maple Blazer Bluntz" and caffeine doughnuts.

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Portland's club scene has been diagnosed. Club owners, booking agents and journalists can only help so much. Recovery, as counselors and shrinks testify, is in the hands of the afflicted. Music fans, take your medicine one evening at a time--and don't call us in the morning.