Sarre-Chasm
That’s When I Reach For My Wallet: The North-By-Northwest Festival ’97
by Jon Sarre
illustration by Ans
Yeacchh! So where’s the nearest shower? I wanna purge myself of the feeling that I rubbed elbows with a few too many who spend half their time ears deep in bullshit (for a living, no less). I wanna find a wire brush so I can scrub out that Camel Filter stench, I wanna wash that free microbrew outta my hair! Then I wanna get some sleep, cuz I spent an entire weekend subjectin’ my soul to mercilessly hype-heavy, music-lite, profit-margin jumpin’, photo-op-yer-picture-here-this-is-my-demo-where-can-I-get-another-beer-but-hold-on-cuz-this-could-be-the-next-best-thing-or-maybe-it’s-playin’-down-the-street festival. Y’know, like Woodstock, but it’s playin’ at twenty different places and most of the bands you’ve never heard of and besides, there’s no acid. (Semi) officially, the moniker was the Third Annual North-by-Northwest Conference and Minor Media Event, sponsored in part by Doc Marten, Spin Magazine, Bacardi, the local yuppie freebie weekly and two Alt-Rock radio stations (both, coincidentally, divisions of American Radio Systems (a division of CBS Radio (a division of Westinghouse Corporation (a division of some fiendish alien conspiracy to enslave us, I swear!).
The Austinites who run the South-by-Southwest Festival (which, to be fair, always has a pretty good crop of low-rent marquee-type bands) had a hell of a concept when they franchised the rights to SXSW’s ugly kid brother, North-by-Northwest, to the local hip set up here in Portland. The club owners jumped on it like a coupla collies in heat, cuz the smell is all bucks, easy money, unless you fall into the category of “talent,” that is.
Likewise, the local press falls over themselves since yer wonderfully self-important rock scribes love it when they can push the dismal scene up here on the national level (visions of bein’ the Bangs of the “new Seattle” dance a drunken stagger-step-stagger-crawl in their heads – and wouldn’t I’ve given a pounda flesh to feature the Dandy Warhols three years ago – hah, hah, hah, hah, hah! Maybe there’s still room on the bandwagon? Hello, Ticketmaster?). In the bitter end what ya get is a nice, big bowla hype, about as nutritously substantial as a baga Cheez Doodles smothered with a generous helpin’ a Cool Whip.
About now seems as good a time as any to mention that many bands did play all weekend (or so rumor has it). Hundreds, excepting fraud and a gigantic mass-hallucination. I can’t be sure cuz I can only be in one place at a time (my split personality was home nursing a bad case of the d.t.s, ya see). What I can say is that I caught mosta local punk-popsters Junior High, who were like Elvis Costello on speed, so all was good until a coupla ballads sent me scramblin’ for a drink. Unfortunately, too much demon whiskey on someone else’s nickel made me miss alla The Pinehurst Kids who, I hear, are sensitive alt-rock-punk-pop in some manner or fashion.
Anyhow, I didn’t have much time to fret cuz I needed to drunkenly pedal my reflectorless black bike across town to get bored half to death by White Trash Debutantes (hey guys, put on some pants!). Sluts For Hire, though, who followed the Debs, made avoidin’ traffic worth it with some motherfuckin’ fun and, you know, happy, punk rock.
The next day, I quelled my hangover (and the bruises from two spills on the way home) with black coffee and a breakfast burrito (ah, nutrition) and then geared back up by crashin’ the Rocket Magazine staff party. The pencil pushers there (much more restrained in their drinkin’ than the pencil pushers down Lollipop way – I don’t even think they stole anything) gave me dirty looks as I slumped in a corner, drinkin’ their beer and wishin’ they’d all come down with writer’s block or mezatunnel carpal syndrome, or whatever it’s called. Plus I got to sit in on an unscheduled conference panel entitled “Five Drunk People Attempting To Direct John Doe to the Freeway.” I hope he made it.
Later on, mandated to the custody of Viva Las Vegas, one of Portland’s premiere performance artists, I missed whatever we were supposed to see at the Lookout! showcase. When I made the dweeby-lookin’ guys settin’ up out to be Vancover B.C.’s The Smugglers (by that point, NXNW’s ultra-organized 40 minute set-scheduling system coulda been written in Braille for all I could decipher it), we beat a hasty retreat across the street to a divebar that was hostin’ surprise sets from local rockstars Popewyrm (indust-metal-Vamp-gloom-glammers who got kinda reamed with a crappy NXNW slot a couple nights earlier) and Black Jack (Misfits soundalikes who’d blow away today’s re-formed “real thing.” I think they punkrocked themselves outta the fest altogether). The place was tiny (but not full), drinks were cheap and I figure the finger-pointers who upchuck conspiracy theories like last night’s vodka maya had somethin’ when they charged that the so-called random schedulin’ of acts and venues was fixed (I swear I saw three A&R reps on that grassy knoll!). One thing was for sure: Two of the best bands in town were playin’ for 100 people in a cleared out corner of a bar, while pap like The American Girls and Friends of Dean Martinez to name only two) probably got a stage and everything! A cryin’ shame!
End of night, end of the third night of the fest, end of NXNW, found me at an out-of-the-way converted warehouse aptly dubbed “Suburbia.” Some ruthless maniac who manages his pre-teen kids in an Old Skull-style pube-punk band called Minor Effects talked my ear off about ’em over a beer he paid for. I ditched him soon as I could put away the brew so I could catch Spectator Pump, locals who’re real hard to pin down, but Cheap Trick fronted by Polly Jean Harvey might suffice in a pinch. Needless to say, it’s not my cup o’ poison, but they filled the place up pretty good (there was like five people for the previous band whose name escapes me). Spectator Pump played a good long set and the crowd was responsive, so who knows? Appropriately, the dying squall of feedback (and the keyboard player losin’ her shirt) closed the 1997 North-by-Northwest Festival. It was nice to walk out with my ears ringin’ and know that the next day scores of people would be headin’ back to Frisco, L.A., Seattle, Austin, wherever and the bartenders would be friendly again.
Postscript: Oddly enough, musical events for the following week included Eugene Chadbourne, The Drags, The Demolition Doll Rods, Guitar Wolf, The Cramps and, uh… Aerosmith. So what was the buzz about, anyway?
