Portland, Part III

One day, I answered a call from an unrecognized number. “Heeey, this is Jake Fennell. Remember me?” Of course I did. We had been both bandmates and roommates back in the 90’s. Last I knew, he had run off to Colorado with some chick named Jen. “I just got off the phone with Carl, and he says you live in Portland now. I’m moving there, too! Do you think you could maybe pick me up at the train station in two hours?” Of course I could. It was great to see him.

Jake moved into a nice little apartment near downtown, across the street from the Trader Joe’s Tyler worked at. Tyler had been a mainstay at Tuna Tuesdays. When Tyler’s friend Colin returned from Canada to get his things out of storage and move into an apartment, I was somehow summoned to help, presumably because I was the only person anyone knew who owned a truck. I hadn’t met Colin before, but when the first several boxes in his storage unit consisted of Philip K. Dick books, original screenplays and manuscripts for graphic novels, I knew we’d get along well.

I bought a used bicycle and began riding it on weekends, which sounds like a very Portland-y thing to do- except I bought an 18-speed mountain bike instead of a single-speed road bike with no brakes. A trail near my apartment went through a disc golf course, which is a game I’d enjoyed playing in the late ‘90’s. I bought three discs and went there to play, but gave up when the course became un-navigable. Fortunately, Jeremy knew the course and soon we would be playing a round or two almost every weekend.

By and large, Portlanders liked to stay active but didn’t follow sports, excepting the Trailblazers. There were several kickball leagues consisting of co-eds on a softball field, drinking cans of PBR and asking each other what the rules were. They passionately disdained baseball. Perhaps it was because they had never witnessed Tim Wakefield hurling a knuckler or Barry Bonds crushing a ball. Once I was living alone I started going to Portland Beavers Triple-A baseball games. I often went alone, but had a whole slew of friends and acquaintances, of which one or two would sometimes join me. Despite the nicely laid out stadium and respectable team, the stands remained mostly empty. Eventually, nearly every home game became a routine of filling a flask of whisky and taking the train to the ballpark. After doing some internet research, I taught myself how to keep score, probably as a way of keeping myself company.

I caught wind that a couple friends (or maybe it was just Jim) would be watching a soccer match at a soccer-themed tavern the morning of May 6th, 2009, which seemed as good a way as any to start my birthday. I was familiar with the bar but had only been there on quiet evenings. I doubt I had ever seen an entire soccer match before, but back when I lived in Oakland, I had taken to watching soccer highlight videos, and at that time the greatest showman in the sport was Ronaldinho playing for FC Barcelona in Spain. I was also aware of this specific team because my family had an exchange student from Spain live with us when I was in 11th grade. He had explained to me the politics of Spanish “futbal.” He went for the team that represented Spanish Nationalism and was against the one that strove for equal recognition of minority ethnicities in Spain. This was ingrained in my memory because it had been a fascinating experience of someone trying to convince me of something and succeeding in convincing me of the exact opposite.

As I had become convinced Portlanders hated watching all sports other than basketball, I was surprised by the scene of rabid Chelsea fans. But I secretly and silently rooted for FC Barcelona in this Champions League semi-final, whatever that was…. Unfortunately, Chelsea take an early lead. Barcelona seem to be kicking the ball a lot, but never at the net. After a Barcelona player is shown a red card, they have to play the rest of the match with one less player, but instead of giving up, as the match nears the end, it becomes more and more frenzied. Somehow, if Barcelona can score a tying goal, that would mean they would win. (Two-legged ties and away goals were useless jargon to me, especially since that “tie” doesn’t refer to a draw.) Adding to my confusion, the match keeps going after time is up, and then Andrés Iniesta unexpectedly launches a ball that flies into the net like a heat-seeking missile. I found myself jumping out of my seat with a cry, and then felt the collective glares of a sardine-packed bar upon me. It was akin to being introduced to boxing via “the rumble in the jungle” or hockey by “the miracle on ice.” Despite that fact that I understood even less of what had happened than the (horrible) referee in that match, at that moment, I became a culé. (FC Barcelona would go on to beat Manchester United in the finals.)

I’m pretty sure I spent the rest of that day, like many others that spring, applying reflective tape to a 15 foot diameter geodesic dome Jake had built for his MFA final project.

I began going to Portland Timbers soccer matches, primarily with Colin. The Timbers played in the same stadium as the Beavers baseball team, but it was a completely different scene. Fans packed the place, screaming chants, banging drums and throwing streamers and smoke bombs when they scored. A lumberjack in the midst of the crowd wielded an actual chainsaw which he used to cut discs from a log to pass around the crowd. I also began going to watch women’s soccer matches at the University of Portland, one of the best female teams in the country, with Mike and Janaé. In 2010, I watched the entirety of every single World Cup match, thanks to espn3.com. Iniesta scored the winning goal in that one, too.

Incidentally, soccer would indirectly mean that 2010 would prove to be the last year for the Beavers AAA baseball team. The following year, the Timbers would become part of MLS’s primary division (an honor you have to earn on the pitch in Europe). A condition of that promotion is they needed their own stadium, but instead of building one they decided to try and move the Beavers somewhere else. The public made sure this “waste of money” would not occur. I, on the other hand, wrote the mayor stating I would move out of town if the Beavers weren’t there. That last season was special, because I met and beginning sitting with Geri and Sheila, who had been regularly attending games for years and years. Away players would say “hi” to them on their way to the batter’s box, which we sat right behind and could talk to them as they stretched.

I became involved with a Scotch tasting group that met once a month in the suburbs and began hosting various types of cocktail samplers at my place. But, for the most part, baseball and soccer away games or off-nights were spent experimenting with cocktails while watching Japanese movies and anime, especially after Jake moved to Seattle. I did remain friends with a girl he had dated named Janine, and we would occasionally cook dinner, go out to eat or watching movies with her son. Looking back, I’m realizing those evenings were perhaps the only times I wasn’t drinking. This was a direct result of me having been drinking too much the first few times we had met.

Those that were there will be chuckling that I have left out all of the dumb stuff that I did during my last couple years in Portland. (Well, that’s assuming the things I’ve written about aren’t dumb, which reminds me of a time someone attempted to insult both Portland and me by saying, “If you like drinking whisky at baseball games I can see why you like it here.”) But even while I was still somewhat hurt and angry about Rachel leaving, I was learning to embrace and discover the opportunities within the unforeseen and even unwanted randomness life sometimes forces upon us. Things not working out as desired make it possible for things to work out better than imagined, and only requires a willingness to adapt. This concept is perfectly illustrated by the Chinese game called Mahjong, which I had been introduced to in the Bay Area and had been teaching anybody willing to learn during my five years in Portland. This was why I had local artist Peter Archer tattoo my left upper arm with 18 random Mahjong tiles blowing in the wind. In August of 2010, I got rid of whatever didn’t fit into a rental SUV and moved away.

Portland, Part II

Carl and Ann, Jeremy and Sandy and Rachel and I started meeting up at the Hedge House every Tuesday night to take advantage of the weekly $2.50 pint special offered by all of the Lompoc Brewery destinations. I liked their Sockeye Cream Stout, especially on nitro, but their popular beer was C-Note IPA. The Hedge House was a small, clean place with a nice outdoor area in easy walking distance from where I was living.

Carl and I had met playing hacky-sack and then had been in a couple bands together back in the ‘90’s. The two of us had a great rapport and could riff together effortlessly for hours, both musically and comically. When Jeremy’s dry, understated observations were added to the mix, the shit got over-the-top. Carl would alternate between trying to make Ann laugh and gross her out. It was easy for anybody to make Sandy laugh. I was constantly trying to make Rachel laugh, and was usually successful. She had a boisterous, infectious cackle that softened the cloud of sadness that usually hung over her, especially when she was in Portland. She didn’t want to be in Portland. I think that’s why we went on camping trips as often as we could.

I enjoyed these regular social engagements precisely because I am not a sociable person. A major reason for, or perhaps result of this is that I’ve never gotten the hang of the unwritten rule that you’re generally supposed to do little more than amuse, indulge and placate others in group settings. Once I had a set of friends who understood that whatever I said was probably going to be inappropriate, I didn’t want to waver from them.

That is why it would be sometime before I went to “Tuna Tuesday,” which one of my co-workers, a genuinely quirky girl named Molly, persistently invited me to. Although I’ve heard her explain it several times, I don’t exactly recall the origins of Tuna Tuesday, but think it was a tradition Ted and Molly had inherited several years prior. Molly culled Portland’s art studios and super markets, looking for overly-educated, underpaid 20-somethings to invite over to this BYOB gathering, and Ted and Molly made and served Tuna sandwiches. That was pretty much it.

Neither Rachel nor I knew how to cook, so we worked together figuring it out. We made a lot of pasta dishes, which we paired with every red wine sold at Trader Joe’s. Then we started getting wines, breads and cheeses from a nearby Italian specialty shop, but that quickly got expensive, so we switched to sampling bourbons. Instead of finishing off one bourbon before moving on to the next, we saved the last few ounces until we had five or six that we would drink together with Rachel’s roommates in a blind tasting. On the second such tasting, we were surprised by the winner, so we tried the same bourbons again and a different one was the best- but it was in the same glass that had contained the winner the first time. (We were just using random shot glasses.) So finally, I put the same bourbon in both the winning glass and another, and was quite blown away by the difference the glass made.

Rachel had a roommate who worked as a bartender in a Peruvian restaurant. He spent his days sullying their kitchen with fruity rum-based cocktail combinations. They were too sweet for my palate, but he had several cocktail books lying around, and one day I read one in which each chapter explored both the life of an author and a beverage they are connected with, and it piqued my interest. I ordered a martini at a restaurant, since I’d never tried one before, and it was absolutely disgusting. I intuited that cocktail-making might be a lost art which had led to a public preference for drinks that tasted like Kool-Aid, and began buying and experimenting with cocktail-making ingredients, apparatus and glassware, reading cocktail books and seeking out competent bartenders to order drinks from.

In the autumn of 2007, Rachel and I moved into the Tuna Tuesday house with Molly, which was not far from both Carl and Ann and Jeremy and Sandy. But while Rachel and I now stayed home to be part of the household festivities on Tuesdays, they went to Fifth Quadrant, which was now the closest, but much less cozy, Lompoc location. Rachel and I began going out to eat every Friday evening.

On one summer Friday in 2008, Rachel didn’t return home from work. I called and asked if we were still planning on going out to eat that night, and she said, “No.” She stopped answering the phone after that. A few weeks later, I moved from the Tuna Tuesday home into my first ever solely occupied apartment, bought a pickup truck (with money granted from my mom) and switched from bourbon to Scotch. Looking back, I think the most important thing I lost when Rachel disappeared was an incentive to be funny.

Portland, Part I

My reasons for moving to Portland, Oregon on Halloween of 2005 were fairly simple: I knew people there, it was on the west coast and I needed to get out of the San Francisco Bay Area rat race. My primary goal upon arriving in Portland was to entrench myself in the local experimental music scene. I was both excited and confident in the development of my personal musical vision that had been formed over five years of intensive listening, practice and performance while in the Bay Area, which offered an atmosphere of many talented, educated and/or veteran musicians hungry to discover sonic potentialities, both improvised and compositional. Upwards of a hundred of us bounced between several underground clubs, aggressively pushing boundaries and challenging conventions. We intentionally tortured our instruments with alternate tunings, techniques and all manner of objects. We liked things fractured, microtonal and transitory.

Among the first people I met in Portland, at a competent music performance I attended the Friday after my arrival, was a welcoming girl named Whitney. She was taking money at the door. I paid in loose change representing, very literally, the last of my life’s savings. When I mentioned I was a drummer and new in town, she invited me to play along as atmospheric accompaniment for a contact dance group on Monday night. I didn’t know what contact dance was, but it proved an interesting opportunity to explore percussive textures and ambiences. Afterwards, Whitney invited me to join a housewarming party at the yurt she was moving into on the outskirts of town. Yep- a yurt. It was actually in a sheep pasture, and you had to be wary of the ram on the walk in.

Whitney had said she was going to spend that day hiking a trail near her novel dwelling and anyone was free to join her, but I was the only person that showed up for that. We talked about our somewhat sympathetic, somewhat divergent plans for the future as we walked. Whitney was never shy about voicing her views but also listened respectfully to my overly-opinionated opinions. She was focused, but didn’t take herself seriously. I never worried about offending her and vice versa. After the walk, a group of around a dozen or so gathered in the yurt and we spent the evening eating snacks, stoking the wood fire and playing the card game “Mafia.” It was one of the best nights I would ever spend in Portland, and it was my second weekend there….

Not long after, I attended a gathering in a warehouse featuring a cast of musicians and dancers in a continuous 12 hour performance, perhaps to celebrate the winter solstice, although I don’t exactly recall. The possibilities in exploration and experimentation over such a long period promised to bring out the best in what Portland musicians had to offer. Instead, they just spent the seven hours I was there playing un-interactive atmospheric whole tones. My approach would have been to drain all of my energy into the music and then find a way to keep going; theirs was to conserve as much energy as possible. I suppose they were envisioning a meditation on understatement and simplicity, but I found it absolutely appalling.

The bulk of the “fringe” musicians in Portland were either into contemporary hip-hop like Kanye West or late 19th and 20th Century French Classical composers such as Messiaen and Saint-Saens. (There was also a strong interest in Indian Classical music, which I adore, but the pretentiousness of those who attended such events was through the roof.) Portlanders preferred pure tones, rustic melodies and soothing harmonies. It soon became evident that nobody was interested in my musical vision, which was heavily influenced by mid 20th century European improv., spearheaded by the likes of Peter Brotzmann, Evan Parker and Alexander von Schlippenbach. To the uninitiated, it sounds like noise, and indeed the musicians I encountered who attempted pure improv. did so by simply making noise, which I found infuriating and they observed to be pointless.

I decided to take things into my own hands and developed a monthly class introducing improvisational music concepts, expanding on a project I had curated at a venue in Oakland before it got turned into a parking lot. I held these workshops, thanks to Noah Mickens, in one of the surprisingly few performance venues in town. It lasted for about four sessions, and then Noah was fired as the promoter for that club.

I was invited to participate as part of a series of duet performances organized by Tim DuRoche, who was essentially the only jazz drummer in town and also someone familiar with the Bay Area scene. I had continued to join and play along with Whitney and the other contact dancers every Monday, and chose one of them to be the other half of my duet. I think Whitney was a bit miffed I didn’t choose her, but her dancing style was hip, elegant and suave, whereas the girl I wanted to work with was intense, abrupt and somewhat bipolar. Because Music and Dance by Derek Bailey and Min Tanaka is one of those pieces that had profoundly affected me about five years prior, I was very keen on the prospect, and indeed I thought our performance was fantastic.

Playing music is controlling an avalanche of moments in time. I endeavored to pour my entire being into each one of those moments. There were times when I felt this task had been successful to the point that I’d feel as I’d become detached from my body or begin seeing the music as colors or creatures, and whenever that occurred, I sort of had this anticipation, when the music finally stopped, that the entire universe would have been somehow radically changed. Perhaps the audience would be so alight with epiphanies they’d begin floating toward the ceiling or something. Instead, in California anyway, these moments would be met with polite applause. In Portland, they were met with the audience politely asking each other if there was any way to politely remove themselves from earshot as quickly as possible.

After the duet performance, the dancer said she was not interested in doing any other work together. I contacted and played with every musician whose name and number I could get a hold of, but nothing developed. I played several times with a girl who sang with an almost-absurd child-like voice, and finally she explained she was looking for a drummer like the one that played for Neutral Milk Hotel. After listening to one of their albums, I suggested she should find a young, inexperienced drummer enthusiastic about showing off the one lick they had learned, and she did.

In the meanwhile, I had quickly acquired a job a few blocks from the room-share where I lived, at a UPS Store. It was a really dumb job and I had to work weekend. Despite that, I kept a busy social life that first winter in Portland, due to Whitney always including me on various group excursions. I would not realize how novel being sociable during the winter was in Portland until later. Also, the weekend work was relatively fun because the managers weren’t there and my co-workers were often just Rachel and Cole, and the three of us got along famously.

Whitney was originally from Illinois, and I don’t even think she had been in Portland very long, but because she was the first person I met there, she had completely skewed my perception of the so-called City of Roses. In the spring, she moved away and joined a successful dance troupe based in New York City. I stopped going to the Monday night contact dance thing and gave up looking for musicians to play with. I finished up a manual on drumming insights that I had begun shortly after moving to the Bay Area back in 2000. For many years now, music had been more important to me than life itself. It seemed now that all music was good for was making me delusional. It was time to change that paradigm, and learn to enjoy living.

Rachel and I decided we should get jobs where we had the weekends free. After doing so, we spent the summer camping in the various environments offered throughout Oregon and Washington. It was sublime.