Same Goes for Christopher Cross

Three words no one will ever get excited about: "Unreleased Pablo Cruise."

White Light, White Heat, White Trash

I’ve been trying to clean up my archives lately. No easy feat considering I’ve published well north of a thousand articles in my career as a journalist, less than three per cent of which are actually worth keeping. I wrote the following article eight years ago, at a time when I was wrestling with my deflated ego, trying to figure out what I should do with my life since that earning a living as a music writer and editor was not only losing its appeal but also becoming less realistic. Frankly, I was burned out, and everything felt like work.

I don’t think aforementioned “following article” is terrible. It’s merely serviceable pre-show hype, significant only for its subject matter, the White Stripes. This story was published on the eve of the duo’s emergence from the garage rock underground to pop music showroom.

During my stint at the P-I, I did very few interviews—not that musicians didn’t want to talk to me; I just didn’t want to talk to them. Part of it was my own shyness; the other part was my not wanting to transcribe the same stock answers musicians would tell every other interview. I was a fan of the White Stripes, however, and so when I was offered a chance to chat with drummer and vocalist Meg White, I seized it. As for the interview, well, it wasn’t all that revelatory or interesting. Meg seemed almost bored to be talking on the phone—and perhaps she was. Don’t get me wrong; she was perfectly cordial and warm. Maybe she was just a bit reticent to talk about herself and the band she shared with “brother” Jack White.

Another reason I’m sharing this with you is simple relevance: The White Stripes are back in the news. They’re issuing a new record of outtakes from their 1998 debut on Jack White’s Third Man Records, and the band’s documentary of their 2007 Canadian tour, Under Great White Northern Lights, is making the rounds on the film festival circuit. As for the band’s future? Who knows—Jack is presently busying himself with the Dead Weather and his Third Man Records label and stores. With that, I give you the short concert preview from all those years ago.

The White Stripes: Fame comes rapping

By Joe Ehrbar

Special to the P-I

Meg White had no idea the garage-rock duo she and her so-called brother, Jack, formed a couple years ago—the White Stripes—would cause such a fuss.

“We never expected to go anywhere,” says Meg White, speaking by phone from Jack’s home in Detroit one recent afternoon in June.

As it stands, no other American indie band is generating a bigger buzz.

Based in Detroit, the White Stripes, who play Seattle’s Crocodile Café on Wednesday, July 11, have ignited both rabid fans and ecstatic critics with their unabashed blend of raucous R&B, deep-fried country blues and folk and howling garage punk. Virtually overnight, the band has escalated from an anachronistic phenomenon to a burgeoning movement.

Everywhere you turn, it seems, the penetrating eyes of guitarist/vocalist Jack and drummer Meg are staring back. They’ve been the subject of intense media frenzy and have been heralded as “the next big thing” on the pages Rolling Stone, Spin and Mojo, garnering the kind of coverage usually reserved for big-time acts, not ones on the cusp.

Naturally, Meg White, who prior to becoming a White Stripe had never played drums, is surprised by the sudden interest. “It’s a little overwhelming,” she says. “I never expected things to go this well,” she continues with a nervous chuckle. “We were sticking to music because we wanted to.”

With the band’s much-anticipated third album Red Blood Cells just hitting stores, a cross-country tour in full swing, and the major labels circling, White Stripes mania appears moments away.

Not long ago, life was much simpler for the White Stripes. After getting tossed from the high-octane Detroit combo The Go in 1998, Jack White decided to form his own band, using a stripped-down vehicle to remodel his favorite music: folk and blues, particularly the strains the emerged from the cotton fields of the Mississippi delta.

Initially, the White Stripes recorded a couple 7-inch singles, released in small runs by tiny labels, and played few shows outside Michigan. Word gradually spread on the pages of fanzines and internet chat rooms that by the time the band’s second full-length De Stijl was released in 2000 by Sympathy for the Record Industry, the White Stripes had infiltrated the indie music press. Now they’ve got a major indie rock PR agency, Girlie Action, evangelizing their cause.

What the White Stripes play isn’t new, just a scruffy new take on the scratchy old blues. At times, they strut with the stripped down R&B swagger of early Stones or the Kinks; at others, they recall bittersweet country blues of Blind Willie McTell and the provoked garage punk of the Seeds. Make no mistake, though: the White Stripes have a fiery personality all their own. And in Jack White, rock ’n’ roll has its first convincing and evocative blues interpreter in years.

With knuckle-dragging rap-metal and pre-fab pop maintaining its chokehold on pop music, the White Stripes’ back-to-the-basics revival seems like the right intervention.

But their appeal extends beyond the music. First, there’s the Meg and Jack’s curious relationship: They insist their siblings (and they certainly play up that angle), but in reality they’re ex-husband and wife. Then there’s their look—red and white and mod all over, with no detail spared from their post-Cubist, candy-cane psychedelia—from Meg’s kick-drum cover to Jack’s boots. Finally, there’s their size: a two-piece band—no bass, just guitar, drums and vocals. Taken together, these could be read as gimmicks—a sophisticated primitivism, if you will. But gimmickry doesn’t account for the raw power and sincerity of the White Stripes’ mighty din.

Yet despite their contrivances and the realities of current situation, the White Stripes are not interested in going mainstream and have thus far resisted major-label overtures, letting the diminutive indie Sympathy release Red Blood Cells instead. Or maybe they’re just holding out for the right deal.

“We’re pretty wary of major labels,” says Meg. “Their focus seems to be not on the music but the business end of things—making money. So you know they’re gonna have control over you, and their ideas are not necessarily going to meld with yours.

“Plus, we’ve heard all the horror stories. And for the most part we’re doing just fine without them.”

An abridged version of this story was originally published in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, July 6, 2001

Drawing Flies

History of Trench Records Part 3

It was a big deal when the Flies swarmed on the Spokane scene in 1993. Loaded with local luminaries, the Flies were a punk rock super group of sorts. Original vocalist Pat Smick was the town’s punk rock mascot, haunting the bars, all the shows and the one record store that carried his beloved Maximumrocknroll and punk singles. Guitarist Jon Swanstrom had cut his teeth in a promising hardcore outfit called TFL—a band which lasted long enough to record one hard-to-find 1990 single and a stillborn album shelved by the band’s label following the group’s implosion. On bass was Brian Young, formerly of the much-loved power-pop band the Young Brians—they, too, recorded a single and an album. Rounding out the Flies was drummer Dan Ellis, who had played in a couple bands—none of which I recall.

Smick was sacked early on, though, after just a handful of shows (I think), and the Flies buzzed on as a trio. Truth be told, I thought Pat made an excellent frontman. He certainly looked the part of 1970s-era New York punk, resembling a nerdy Ramone with his black-rimmed Buddy Holly glasses and requisite black leather jacket, black Converse All-Stars and blue denim jeans. He even played the part well—he was as animated as they come. The problem was, well, who knows what the problem was? Pat was simply dismissed and the remaining Flies took it upon themselves man the microphone.

Naturally, as is the case with just about every band, the Flies recorded some songs and circulated them amongst friends in the form of demo tape. However, as is not the case with just about every band, the Flies’ 12-song demo failed to suck. It was outstanding and merited a proper vinyl release. (See for yourself; download the original demo here.) Soon after securing my copy, I found myself interviewing the band for Spokane’s daily paper, The Spokesman-Review. That’s when I shook hands with Mr. Conflict of Interest: Following the interview and before the resulting article was published I asked the band if they would record a single for my label. I guess Jon, Brian and Dan didn’t hate the story I wrote (that or they didn’t read it) because they soon agreed to the project.

Months later, in the summer of 1994, the Flies convened at a friend’s home studio and knocked out an EP’s worth of material—a mixture of songs from their demo and recent staples of their live set. The result was six songs—six short exuberant bursts of punk rock bliss, clocking in at break-neck 10 minutes—just short enough that I could cram all six songs onto a 33-RPM 7-inch record. Sure, the mix was rough (perhaps even hastily done), and the fidelity low: Dan’s snare snaps and pops like popcorn, but the bass drum is muffled and barely makes a thud; the guitar sounds thin and spiny, and is often out-muscled by the bass; and the vocals all sound like first takes. Had the Flies used a decent studio, the songs might have come out better, but I can’t imagine this record any other way. It’s captures the band’s essence—spunk and spontaneity wrapped in guts and grit.

Titled Venus Man Trap, the Flies’ debut EP emerged in the fall of 1994. Five hundred copies of this record were pressed on burgundy red vinyl. The cover was screen printed by hand. One hundred copies went to the band in lieu of royalties, and within a couple years, the record had sold out (though I squirreled away a dozen copies—just in case someone offers me a suitcase of cash for them).

The Flies made a couple more records following Venus Man Trap, most notably Alternatoid, a full-length album on Too Many Records (1995), and Teen Challenge (1996), a 7-inch EP on Empty Records. A second full-length album was planned for Empty, but it never came to be.

Where are the Flies today? Pat Smick still haunts Spokane, presumably from the audience. Jon Swanstrom went on to form a fine band called Seawolf, and currently keeps time in Ze Krau. Brian Young plays in an insurgent country-rock combo called Burns Like Hellfire with his former Young Brians cohort Jamie Nebel (also of the Makers). Dan Ellis, meanwhile, is tapping on his high hat somewhere out there in the ether; sadly, he succumbed to brain cancer some years ago.

You can download Venus Man Trap, ripped from the actual vinyl, here.

Boycott vs. the Boys Club

History of Trench Records Part 2
1994

In the early 1990s, the DIY ethic spread like a virus. Everyone it seemed was starting a band or cobbling funds together to start a fledgling record label. You’d thumb through maximumrocknroll or Flipside and their pages would be overstuffed with ads and record reviews of hundreds of bands you never heard of (and likely wouldn’t hear again). In fact, Flipside derided Trench Records’ first release, the Mother Load album, praising the first song before going on to say that the rest failed to justify the CD’s existence, complaining that “There are just too many bands...,” or something to that effect. Back then, Flipside was still relevant—and scoring a good review could mean the sale of a dozen or so CDs, which with only a thousand out there was nothing to dismiss. Although I disagreed with the reviewer’s assessment of Mother Load’s music (as I still do now), he was right about one thing: There were too many bands, too many records, too many labels. I did not want Trench to be a one-off, anonymous endeavor. I wanted the imprint to continue and eventually become a self-sustaining enterprise. “Every label has its first release,” I used to say. But most would go defunct before issuing a second record.

Looking back, perhaps Trench should have folded after its inaugural release. The Mother Load album more or less broke even in that we were able to pay back all the money we borrowed, but there wasn’t much left for a second release. But I didn't let that stop me. I was young, naïve and ambitious; I would see Trench Records to its second release even if that meant sharing a cramped two-bedroom apartment with three guys and working three jobs (I wrote the local paper at night, made pizza in the afternoon and worked at a record store in between). Fortunately, Spokane was a cheap place to live. Anywhere else I might not have raised sufficient funds. By spring 1994 I had saved almost $1,200 to finance the next record.

Enter Boycott. I had seen this band a dozen times open for some of the more established local punks and I liked them. Composed of Heidi on guitar and vocals, Britni on drums and vocals and Barb on bass and vocals (she replaced original bassist/vocalist Kim Campbell), Boycott were tough, brandishing a raw punk-metal sound—and they held their own against the boys. I don’t quite remember how I came into contact with the band or how I managed to get my hands on a six-song tape they had recorded with a future roommate of mine, Patrick Par, but I did. I remember liking five of the six tunes. They wanted all six on the record, but there just wasn’t room—Boycott’s record was to be a 7-inch EP, and even at the slower speed of 33 RPM, six songs was one song too many. I do remember the band being somewhat annoyed that the song I declined to release was “Red Ants.” They liked it; I didn’t (you can find “Red Ants” here. The five songs that made the cut for the EP that would be titled Barbie included “Greed,” “Phonecaller,” “Barbie Doll Death,” “Ghost Town U.S.A.” and “Whine”—angry, raw metallic punk in all its primitive glory. I pressed 500 copies of the record, gave a little more than hundred pieces to the band (in lieu of royalties), sold some to K Records, and once again, consigned them at stores all over the Northwest. Fifteen years later, I still have about 20 copies. So if you really must have this artifact, contact me. Otherwise you can download the entire record—ripped from the original vinyl—right here.

Mining the Motherload Railroad

History of Trench Records Part 1 (1991-1993)

In 1991, I started volunteering at my campus radio station. My intention was to host a weekly reggae music program, sending a little-heard genre of music most foreign to station’s Spokane, Washington, listenership over the airwaves. Back then, the worldwide web hadn’t yet come of age, so even though reggae is ubiquitous, mainstream and can be heard on demand virtually anywhere, anytime, outside the tiny 100-watt radio station from whence I spun records, if you wanted to hear reggae in Spokane, you had to pin your hopes on the local college hippy band to incorporating a reggae riddim into their sociology 101-informed songs of injustice or on dog-eared copies of UB40’s Labour of Love or Bob Marley and the Wailers’ Legend washing up at one of the two music outlets that still sold vinyl.

But before I get too off-track, I should say that this article isn’t about reggae.

Although I was passionate to share my knowledge and my record collection with the one or two listeners who tuned into my “Reggae Revolution” show on Sunday nights (thank you, Ed and Dan!), my enthusiasm for the genre was on the wane. The reason? Suddenly, as a newly christened DJ at KAGU, I now had access to the station’s entire catalog, a fairly large collection of music that dwarfed mine. What’s more, hardly any of it was reggae. It was rock ’n’ roll, or what people once called “college rock”—very little of which had I ever heard, all kinds of records with all kinds of crazy covers containing all kinds of crazy sounds stamped on all kinds of crazy colors of vinyl. So while I was proselytizing the merits of dub to the Spokane public, I was immersing myself in this new world of independent and underground music—especially the pop, punk, garage and grunge sounds coming out of the Pacific Northwest—mind-blowing music for someone who listened mostly to roots reggae and ska. I was familiar with Soundgarden and Nirvana—and months later, Nevermind would be released and change the world. But I hadn’t heard of the Mono Men, Mudhoney, Tad, Beat Happening, Gas Huffer, Seaweed, the Young Fresh Fellows, Coffin Break or Cat Butt. Or record labels like Frontier, Estrus, Empty or K. Everywhere I looked were unfamiliar singers and songwriters and bands. What was hard to believe was the fact that most of the music was on vinyl—something that was supposedly obsolete.

Even more astonishing was that a few of the records were local releases. I was unaware that Spokane had itself a music scene. With all the attention that Seattle was getting, an impressive punk rock movement was bubbling up from the Spokane underground. There were 7-inch singles by the Young Brians, the Fumes, TFL, Waterstreet and a Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, band called Black Happy and a host of demos by bands like Nice World, Big Feeling, Huck and Waterman’s Hollow. The station’s most popular local release (and a high-charting record overall), was a funky pop-punk EP by a local band called Motherload. Songs titled “Liquor Store” and “My Sister” garnered several spins daily and constant requests. In terms of popularity, the songs were to KAGU what “Smells Like Teen Spirit” would soon become to MTV. Of course, that would come to haunt the band locally as they couldn’t seem to play a show without humoring their audience with a rendition of “Liquor Store” (and its catchy chorus: “Hope it’s not too late / To make another run to the liquor store/ We’re running out of time / So pick yourself up off the floor”). The record was good, but it undersold Motherload’s genius. Seeing the trio of guitarist/vocalist Scott Kellogg, bassist/vocalist Geof Templeton and drummer Brian Parnell from the stage of Henry’s Pub for the first time confirmed this. They were a monster—a prowling, growling beast of beer-fueled bliss characterized by herky-jerky syncopated rhythms, muscular melodies, uber-catchy choruses—a band influenced by the Minutemen and NoMeansNo but informed by a stronger pop sensibility typical of what was emerging from Northern California at the time. I was hooked—and I never missed a show. And when they took up practicing in the basement of the house next door to mine, I thought I’d gone to heaven (though I remember thinking that if there was a heaven, it sure wouldn't look like Spokane, Washington). Occasionally, the band invited me to watch them practice—an exclusive concert for one. Sometimes I’d even witness a new song take shape—and marvel how it would be completed and rendered perfect just one or two practices later. Other nights, I was happy just sit on my back steps, smoke cigarettes, sip cheap beer, and absorb to the sounds flooding from the non-insulated basement next door.

Indeed, Motherload captured my imagination, kindled a love for punk rock, and inspired me to be an evangelist for their cause. Meanwhile, we continued to spin Motherload’s one and only record at KAGU. The band eventually grew tired of hearing it, so Geof dropped off an eight-song tape of songs that would soon form part of their first album—which was due for release by the band’s Seattle label Empty Records. Naturally, we played the entire tape as soon as we got it—and it was amazing, containing songs already staples of the band’s live set. And all eight songs were superlative to their debut EP. This was spring 1992. By summer, the new record wasn’t out, and Motherload had left town on a three-month U.S. tour (evidently they hit the road before sending Empty the tapes). By the time they returned home, they endured a humbling marathon of payless nights, mechanical problems, couch surfing while racking up some serious debt. In late ’92, Motherload got word that Empty was no longer interested in releasing the batch of songs they’d recorded—it would hold out for new songs.

By then, my friend, radio station boss and fellow Motherload booster, Dan Cossette, and I toyed with starting a record label to give the recently orphaned songs a home on CD. Hell, all around us at the radio station were records on fledgling DIY labels—if they could do it, why couldn’t we? So in early 1993 we launched Trench Records (not sure how or why we settled on that name…). We had no money, no real plan, no idea how to make or distribute an album. But we knew we couldn’t move forward without first getting the band to agree to give us some songs for a CD. They were into it—they just wanted to get some new music out there even though they knew that an unknown label wouldn’t likely give them any more exposure. And since we couldn’t pay them any money, we offered the band 20 percent of the CDs we pressed, a little over 200 CDs, which they could sell at their shows.

So we cobbled up what little savings we had, asked a few friends for “investments” and I sold my stereo (which I wouldn’t be able to replace for five years—which made working as a rock critic a tad challenging). As soon as we had the money, Motherload gave us a DAT containing 11 songs—some familiar, some not. Brian created the artwork for the cover and CD, as well as our original logo. And we contacted some nice Canadians in Quebec to master the recordings, print the art and press it all onto CDs we could sell. In May of 1993, one thousand and fifty CDs were delivered to the door of the house Dan and I were renting, marking the arrival of Motherload’s longtime-coming Buck Toothed Dream on CD.

In the proceeding weeks, Buck Toothed Dream drew some favorable reviews in publications like The Rocket (the magazine I would later edit) and Maximumrocknroll. Positive press, however, didn’t quite translate into sales. To make the CDs available, Dan and I had to physically walk them into records stores and consign them—he drove to Portland; I drove to Seattle. Some places would take five copies, most as little as one. We had two distributors, the largest being K Records in Olympia (the label now known for its Beck, Modest Mouse, Karp, Microphones and Halo Benders releases), which bought a whopping 40 CDs. Gradually the CDs sold, and even though we didn’t quite sell out of the entire run, we viewed it as a success. We didn’t make any money, but we were able to pay back our investors and we got about 900 CDs out there within two years. By then Motherload had ceased being a full-time interest for its members—Geof went fishing in Alaska for a couple years, Scotty hitched a ride to Portland and stayed there and Brian moved to Seattle. And because the CD had pretty much run its course, we wouldn’t issue a second pressing of the album. (I still have five copies; highest bidders can have them.)

As for what I now think of Buck Toothed Dream’s music, well, I’m biased. I always liked this Motherload, so I can’t be objective. And while the album they gave us didn’t quite capture their live personality, their unhinged tenacity, it’s a decent facsimile. Among the standouts are “Run for Your Life,” “Fur Coat, “Too Weird” and “Chicken Froth”—ah, hell, they’re all pretty good. Even the ones I remember the band not being fond of, “Will You Wait,” “My Selves” and “Perfection” hold up well.

Incidentally, in 1994, Motherload recorded another record for Empty Records, this time with the now famous producer Phil Ek (Modest Mouse, Built to Spill), but the label declined to release that album, too. The recordings were eventually issued posthumously in 1997 along with other songs from the Buck Toothed Dream sessions (a couple of which, “Who Gives a Shit” and “M.L.R.R. (Mother Load Railroad),” I really wanted for the Trench release) on a CD anthology titled From Hillyard—an inside joke referring to a miserable, blighted neighborhood in Spokane.

I’ll revisit Motherload in a future post. In the meantime, you can download Buck Toothed Dream here. I’m also including the aforementioned “Who Gives a Shit” and “M.L.R.R.” as bonuses.

Special thanks to Motherload, David Hayes and Dan Cossette.

Next post: History of Trench Records Part 2: Boycott!

Goodbye, P-I

Last week, The Seattle Post-Intelligencer rolled off the presses a final time, offering readers one last opportunity to savor the tactile experience of reading its printed newspaper, of getting newsprint on their fingertips, of following a jump that actually made the reader turn the page (not click a mouse). Then, for the 100,000-plus copies not kept for posterity, the final edition was consigned to the great trash heap of newspapers past. It marked a sudden and pathetic end.

The P-I’s demise was not unexpected. Nor is its story unique. Newspapers have been struggling for years. Circulations are dwindling and along with them precious ad revenues. The predicament of the P-I was particularly dire. It was one of two daily papers—the other being The Seattle Times—in a city that isn’t big like Chicago or New York, where it’s still possible for more than one daily to operate. Not in Seattle, though; there just isn’t enough ad money to go around. Or enough readers. And let’s be honest, were it not for a court-mandated joint operating agreement, one of Seattle’s two papers would have ceased publishing years ago.

Time is running out for the daily paper. Increasing demand for free, instant news and content, the rise of blogs, and the dominance of Craigslist over newspaper classifieds have made it hard for newspapers’ print editions to compete. Moreover, fewer and fewer people read the morning paper as part of their daily routine. Just as readers years ago abandoned evening papers in favor of the evening news TV broadcast, news readers today satisfy their appetite for headline news by clicking, touching, scrolling, browsing, tweeting on laptops and smartphones (never mind that they’re not getting the kind of depth and meaning that only a thick newspaper can offer).

Indeed, newspapers have lost relevance. So it goes. But you’re not reading this particular blog for an analysis of the decline of the daily paper. Let’s move on.

What I will tell you is that demise of the printed P-I has bummed me out in a big way. Part of my identity as a writer and a professional will forever be tied to its masthead. For it was the P-I that employed me at two crucial points in my career.

I came to Seattle in 1997 with few prospects—I had just left another newspaper, Spokane’s Spokesman-Review (which itself is in a world of hurt), but I never imagined I’d write for one of Seattle’s major dailies. Good writers and journalists work there. Hacks like me don’t. But a connection got me in the door and an interview. The P-I’s Features department was looking for a substitute calendar editor, which meant that I would be an on-call employee. Hey, it was something, a way in, and I thought I could supplement my income by contributing music features or concert reviews. The gentleman who interviewed me was the entertainment editor. Dusty was his name. He was a peculiar fellow and was quite terse. He had a poof of graying brown hair and funny little mustache to match. He came outfitted in a tie and neatly pressed dress shirt and slacks, which suggested a corporate bearing more suited for the business desk than the entertainment section of a daily paper in Seattle. As soon as I arrived at the reception area, Dusty pulled me into the break room to interview me. But it wasn’t much an interview—he merely thumbed through my clips. I remember homing in on his furrowed brow, which I took as a bad sign. After a couple of silent minutes, he offered, “Well, we’re not looking for any writers.” Gulp.

Dusty was only partly right, however. Sure enough, I wouldn’t be writing about music, but I would get to perform the tedious task of rewriting press releases for the paper’s various calendar sections. Which was fine, if moderately soul-depleting—I needed the work. And even though I only worked about two weeks a month, the pay was decent, enough to pay the rent on my 200-square-foot box of a studio apartment.

Most people were friendly enough in my department, the Features dept., but they were friendly in a way that was kind of stand-offish, if you know what I mean. I felt like they saw me as more of an administrative assistant: I wasn’t one of them, an editor or a reporter with a byline. But at least they were nice. That's not to say the rest of P-I’s editorial staff was unwelcoming—they just didn’t give me the time of day; I was merely another ghost walking among the cubes. I was accustomed to being ignored. I encountered similar treatment from the majority of The Spokesman-Review’s newsroom. (The Spokesman-Review may not have been The New York Times, but you wouldn’t know it from the egos.) If I had to guess why, I’d say it was simply because I was a features and entertainment writer, not a true reporter. In their estimation, very little of what I wrote mattered; I wrote fluff and was therefore unworthy of their attention. In fact, it wasn’t unusual for me to say hello to someone and not receive as much as a look of acknowledgment in return. So by the time I got to the P-I I was used to being snubbed. No big deal. I put my head down and got to work.

But respect would soon be gained. One Monday morning as I was sorting a fresh stack of press releases, faxes and mail, my editor, Dusty, walked over and said, “Saw your name in the paper yesterday. Congratulations.” My name was in the joint Seattle P-I/Seattle Times Sunday edition, in an article that listed winners of the annual Society of Professional Journalists awards. A story I’d written about the garage rock band The Makers for The Spokesman-Review the previous fall had garnered two SPJs. What’s more, not a single P-I writer was recognized in the two categories in which I received awards. Suddenly, everyone in the department knew who I was. The recognition didn’t net me any writing assignments, though. Then a week later The Rocket came calling and offered me a job as a senior editor. I seem to remember Dusty expressing disappointment, but I wasn’t certain over what. Did I inconvenience him in that he’d now have to find another replacement replacement (yes, I intended the double “replacement”)? Or did he finally regret not letting me write? (If it was the latter, I can certainly understand why I never got any assignments. Even when the economy wasn’t so dire, newspapers’ editorial budgets were tight; space even tighter. Even if Dusty could get me to do some writing, there wouldn’t have been much space since two writers already covered music more or less full time. More likely, however, it was the former.)

So ended my brief first stint at The Seattle Post-Intelligencer.

Three-and-a-half years later, while still at The Rocket, I got a call from the P-I's Peter Blackstock, also co-editor of the recently shuttered alt-country magazine No Depression, who asked if I’d be interested in taking over his weekly music column at the paper. Days later, I found myself back in the P-I’s breakroom with Dusty, the mustachioed entertainment editor, for an interview and a cursory look at my clips (which he reviewed with the same furrowed brow). This time, however, the outcome was better: I would get to write for the P-I, though it would be as a freelancer. Which was fine, I thought; at least I’d have a regular column and a steady paycheck. Plus I wouldn’t have to endure the ambivalence of the P-I’s writers and editors as I walked among them. The timing was perfect, too: The day Dusty offered me the column was the same day The Rocket went bankrupt and closed down (which is a story for another time).

So for the next three years, from 2000 to 2003, I filed about 150 weekly columns and an assortment of other stories for The Seattle Post-Intelligencer. During my second stint, I had little contact with my editor and copyeditor, and the chief pop music writer, Gene Stout (who, I should say, is one of the nicest guys with whom I’ve ever had the pleasure of working) since I did all my work at home. By law, only official employees, not contractors like me, could work from the P-I's offices. So my second interview with Dusty was the last time I actually set foot in the newspaper’s building. My printed byline mingled with more writers than I did.

In assessing the work I did the P-I, I can’t say that I'm particularly proud of much. By the time I was done with a piece, I hated it, especially during this particular period of my life. I had grown tired of writing and writing on deadline. Eleven years of constant deadlines necessitated a break. So while I might not have enjoyed writing them, a few stories come to mind which came out fairly good: a decent review of a Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds concert, a Big Star story I liked, an interview with Jawbox alum J. Robbins for his new band Burning Airlines (the story was slated to run the Friday after 9/11; it got killed), interviews with legends Wanda Jackson and Ike Turner (yes, I asked him if he abused Tina. He denied it), a profile of the White Stripes (Meg White wasn’t the best interview, but she was nice) and interviews with heroes Nick Cave, the Melvins and Stephen Malkmus. Maybe I’ll link to some of these columns in a future post (after all, an abridged online P-I lives on) or present the unedited originals (which weren’t all that different—one thing I loved about my editors is that they left my copy alone). We’ll see…

Farewell, Seattle P-I. You were very good to me.

Minding My Junk Heap

I've been attempting a novel for several years now and have thus far been unsuccessful. It's hard to find the time, even harder to make the time. All the reading I do is only hindering any progress. The more I read, the less I want to write--so many have done are are doing it better than I can ever hope to. Which is true and bullshit at the same time. I know that. And while I'm not sure I'm ready to commit to seeing a novel-size work through to its completed end, I'm still pondering plot lines, dreaming up characters, and sketching out scenes. What follows is a short scene I had planned for story about a music journalist whose life was about to be unraveled by crisis and death. But after writing about 10 pages, I lost enthusiasm for the protagonist and his story. I recently rediscovered the aborted novel during a recent purge of electronic files, and decided it was worth saving a few scraps for my virtual dumping ground. What follows is 1,200 words that was written in one hour-long burst with no editing. Yes, I'm being self-indulgent by posting it, but what are blogs for?.

And so it goes:

I had no candles to blow out. For my thirty-fifth birthday, there would be no cake. There wasn’t even a special birthday dinner. Just a miserable meal that I thought had been wiped from culinary existence: rubbery Salisbury steak, wilted iceberg lettuce salad with French dressing from a plastic packet, bland au-gratin potatoes. Served up with on plastic tray, with plastic flatware no less (The airlines still considered the butter knife a deadly weapon. If you ask me, the hard plastic chopsticks—which passengers lucky enough to have pre-ordered the sushi were using—were just as dangerous). Evidently the airlines never got the memo. You couldn’t even find this shit in a hospital cafeteria. And you especially shouldn’t find this microwaved crap on a flight to Japan. What about sushi? I don’t care for it, but the taste of raw—and since we’re on a plane—most unsavory sushi actually sounded appetizing. No wonder American airlines are all going bust, they’re still living in the iceberg salad days of the 1960s—when the jet was coming of age. Salisbury steak. It was the butt of the South Park joke ten years ago. Eradicate it like the plague. And while you’re at it, do something about meat loaf, too.

But that’s just like me—misplaced anger. I’m getting all worked about the dinner menu of Flight 187, just so I don’t have to think about my birthday.

This suited me fine. I didn’t mind so much about turning 35. It sure beats being 25 again. I regard my mid-20s-era life with same esteem I reserve for post-1967 Beach Boys or post John Cale Velvet Underground, or Side 2 of Love’s Da Capo, for that matter—disappointing, uninspired, flagging, not as bold as the first half. Then again, at least it’s not 85, where death would most certainly be moving into one of my spare bedrooms for an imminent rendezvous, whereby I’d be stalling death recanting my accomplishments or glory days to the surrounding walls. Maybe I could lull it to sleep and by a few more uneventful years doing the equivalent of whatever the hell passes for TV some 50 years from now.

Still, I had plenty of time to contemplate the ramifications turning 35—we were barely two hours into a marathon 12-hour flight to Tokyo. It was 8 p.m. by my watch—or, who the fuck knows Tokyo local time? It was going to be long, hot flight. The airline, derogatorily slanged Northwerst, must have thought Japanese people still come in tiny packages because on this 747—the biggest one the fleet, the 747-800—the seats were no more than limp dick’s length apart. I’m not reading, though into the pocket of the seat in front of me I’ve stuffed some old issues The New Yorker, a Spin (just for Chuck Eddy’s column), and the punk rock oral history Please Kill Me, to get me in the mood for my next few weeks of work. But I can’t read on planes. Whatever it is, the thin, recycled air, the subtle yawing or rocking of the plane, or the intense lack of open space, when I crack a book mid-flight, the yawns command the eyelids close. And there’s nothing more uncomfortable than dozing off on a plane. That miserable half-sleep, half-dream state where every couple minutes your body starts joking around with you, twitching you awake and then dozing you off. Twitch. Doze. Drool. Snore-snort. Twitch! Excuse me, you say to your seatmate. Forgive my foot, and my hands—they misbehave when their owner is out to lunch.

My ears only complicate things further. As a baby, toddler, child, adolescent, I was prone to recurring ear infections. Something about my ears manufacturing too much fluid—wax—for my too tiny drainage tubes. Think of it as grease clog in your sink. The result in the short-term was constant earaches and strawberry-flavored antibiotics. My parents wouldn’t spring for the corrective surgery or the insertion of ear tubes, which could have compensated for my biological shortcomings until my body could catch up and grow bigger drain pipes. But for some reason my ears never improved. You can imagine then what it’s like to be flying with an ear infection, or double ear infection, something I’ve routinely experienced. The pain comes primarily during landing, though takeoff is no pleasure. As soon as the pilot announces the plane’s descent, you notice you can’t hear him/her loud-and-clear in the cabin anymore. Congratulations, your ears have begun to plug. You soon deafen to any sounds outside your head. Try talking to yourself—it feels like your voice is actually in your head. It’s muffled, but you know it to be yours. Think of the shock you’d feel if it wasn’t—going deaf and crazy at the same time—like Beethoven! As your inner ears fill with fluid and plug shut, the pressure builds…and builds…and FUCKING BUILDS until you’re going OW!!! THIS FUCKING KILLS while writhing in the most excruciating pain. You feel like you’re head is going to burst off your neck like a champagne cork. And twice, I’ve ruptured my eardrums. You know you’ve ruptured an eardrum when blood comes dripping out of your ear hole. And the deafness you experience—or I should say the hearing impairment—especially if your ear’s already infected will last many days to come. Of all the pain I’ve experienced in the first half of my life—and I’ve broken bones, dislocated joints, lacerated lots of body parts—nothing compares to the pain of bursting an eardrum. Incidentally, your eardrums are actually made to rupture, and they eventually repair themselves. But until they do, it’s no fun.

I now wear specially made earplugs that regulate the pressure on flights. They’re not like those you find in the airport gift shops; no I had my ENT doc (that’s lazy speak, which is what I call it when people speak in initialisms or acronyms, for ear, nose and throat doctor) make custom, flesh-colored plugs. Meaning: they look ridiculous, especially since the skin-tone coloring actually better resembles a hue of pantyhose. Is it control top 20? Nevertheless, they work. And for them to perform at their optimum best, the wearer must don them the entire flight—not just a takeoff and landing. And so I wear them, imagining me to look like some douche bag suit with two Bluetooth ear phones grafted onto each side of my skull. But I can’t afford not to wear them. My trip would be pointless if I couldn’t hear. I’m the lucky writer who’s been chosen to tag along with the Texas neo-psychedelic band Holy Three and chart their international ascent across the Land of the Rising Sun.

Anyway, I can’t read, I can’t sleep, and with these large gobs of rubber in my ears I can’t listen to my iPod. Even the movie headphones are useless. Which is a mighty shame: Northwerst has a trio of Jennifer Aniston movies lined up for tonight—and you can hear the audio in Japanese or English! I’m praying for severe turbulence, if only to impart a little variety during the drone to Japan. Hey, it’s not like a bumpy ride will send the plane spiraling down toward the almighty drink—most crashes occur on takeoff and landing. I should know, I follow plane crashes with the same enthusiasm I devote to music. Some terrific jolts would at least make this a birthday worth remembering.