Just received this e-mail from David Klopfenstein and wanted to share…

Hello,

I truly love your idea. There are scores of under-appreciated folks in the pantheon of our regional music scene. History may never recognize independent publishers like Kathy Malloy of Snipehunt, folks who helped new talents record a demo like Justin Stark, pop pioneers who still toil away in obscurity like Jim Basnight, longtime projects marginalized by the taste makers like Smegma, and unknowns that were copied with great success like the New Tweedy Brothers.

At the same time, even recognition cannot change the sadder facets of local history. Nods in hindsight to people like the late John Fahey — who was widely regarded as a genius of guitar — do not change the fact that at one point he was penniless and had to live in his car behind a grocery store. Posthumous fame does not erase the suffering of those who were taken for granted in life.

To end on a positive note, I really do appreciate what you are trying to do. Being someone who is focused on preserving and sharing the stories of our region in song, I am painfully aware of how quickly history can disappear into the margins. I hope my humble contribution helps save another piece or two for the future. Thank you for indulging me on this trip down memory lane.

Sincerely,
David Klopfenstein

(Who are David’s picks? Read on after the jump)…

1. Billy Kennedy — I think I first met Billy at Oasis Cafe on Hawthorne in ’86. I write that somewhat tentatively because he was so instantly familiar to me. It may have been even earlier. We always seemed to run into one another and he always found the time to engage me in a conversation. Never one to toot his own horn, he would describe his talents in the most self-deprecating terms.

After talking with him a few dozen times, we developed a friendship. In those days, I was only a skiffle drummer, basement recorder and KBPS deejay, but he treated me just like any other peer. Before long, Billy invited me to sneak into a nearby pub one evening to watch him play. I was not quite 17 and had a baby face, but he had a totally foolproof plan. I’ll try to paraphrase:

“Borrow a guitar case. I’ll have an open table right down front. Walk in like you know exactly what you are doing. Make a beeline for that table. Act like we are old friends. Keep the case out of the way, but in plain sight. Order a coffee or a Coke and leave a good sized tip. If you stay cool and relaxed, it will be just fine.” Billy was right. He was also a revelation.

The shy man with the well-worn guitar told hilarious stories under his breath between songs. He brought a unique and fresh perspective to old standards. His own tunes were full of humorous twists, local references, unique characters and odd chord progressions. He expressed himself with a self-conscious quirkiness and accepted every clap, cheer and comment with utter humility.

Billy Kennedy created much more than a niche for himself. He gave life to what was known — at times derisively — as the East Side Sound. In a town full of people trying to be louder and louder in downtown clubs, he was never afraid of being quiet or intimate. Billy knew his audience was his neighbors. He sang traditional tunes and shared originals about Portland like a modern bard.

I recall a heavy yet uplifting conversation we had in the projection booth at the Clinton Street in ’91. It was one of my earliest solo shows and Billy was the first person to really challenge me as a singer-songwriter. He  loved my songs, but insisted that my words were being wasted. He felt the lyrics should not be buried by my louder and louder band. I resisted at first, but he was right again.

Not everything was a storybook. One day he consigned his old Les Paul Recording at Artichoke to help pay for an ill-fated move to Austin. I remember the sad goodbyes a few weeks later when he started up his heavily laden old VW 412 and headed south. Portland was not sustaining her own. Rents kept climbing and even steady gigs weren’t enough. He was forced to chase the money.

Lucky for all of us, Billy soon came back from Texas and settled into a barn on Freak Mountain. These days, he is a reclusive fellow who can be found in small intimate places around town doing what he does best with the finest talents in roots music. What is not always readily apparent is how damn important Billy Kennedy was to an entire generation of local songwriters.

In recent years, it has become chic and profitable for a number of transplanted acts to write quirky tunes with fictional local characters delivered with a contrived gentle spirit and forced sense of humor. Acclaim has been heaped on this handful of folks whose storyteller shtick is not only
insincere and saccharine, but amounts to brazen appropriation from Billy and his proteges.

2. Greg Sage — I have only met Greg in passing, but his songs are etched into my soul. I could wax poetic about the sheer sonic power of his music. I could ramble on about how he made a Gibson SG the coolest guitar in Portland. I could explain the myriad ways he has been denied the recognition and cheated out of the fame and fortune he so rightly and justly deserves.

Instead, I’ll start this off by saying that The Wipers spawned the greatest graffiti in all of local history. Sure, there was the infamous “Trust Jesus” guy. I can also volunteer that a friend of mine in high school put Bob Dobbs and Tom Peterson in all corners of the city. Still, none of that even came close to the ubiquitous peace symbol with the word “Wipers” integrated into the geometry.

I first encountered the graffiti in my early teens. I was instantly curious, but unfamiliar with the band. As urban art it bordered on the absurd. In the saber rattling cold war environment of the 80s, contrasting an unfashionable hippie symbol with an oblique local reference to everlasting rainfall was subtle and surreal genius. Once I discovered the music in high school, I was hooked.

Without a doubt, hearing the album “Over the Edge” changed how I thought of rock music forever. It was the kind of record that perfectly captured a time and place. Instead of that place being Los Angeles through the eyes of X, or London from the standpoint of the Clash, it was my home. It had a universal feeling of dread and sorrow, but it was all Portland. I was growing up in Doomtown.

One of my fondest memories of playing the X-Ray was seeing the smiles of recognition and hearing people sing along with abandon when we tore through a cover of “So Young” as an encore. The Wipers were more than just an incredible local band with a totally unique sound. The music of Greg Sage bound together the young people of this city in an enduring and powerful way.

Something often forgotten about Sage was his unorthodox approach to recording. While it is currently fashionable for local folks to crow about their home set-ups, Sage stands alone as the greatest home recorder in Portland history. He certainly influenced me to try it at home. He was also among the very first independent artists anywhere to press and distribute his own material.

Sage embodied the local pioneer spirit, but was not widely regarded as a local treasure. Like many of his peers, he became disillusioned when the music scene was overrun by outsiders and developers chased the artists out of affordable neighborhoods. He lives in the Arizona desert now, has his own successful recording studio and does not visit his old hometown very often anymore.

3. Bruno — He was a revered fixture on the Portland scene for quite a long time. I remember first meeting him at the Pine Street Theatre in ’88. He was there to greet everyone at the door with an infectious warmth that could not be ignored nor resisted. Bruno was someone who protected the kids in the audience like an archangel and helped establish new acts like a godfather.

Winter and rainy days found him decked out in a Tom Baker scarf with a knit hat taming his long hair. He was a very large man, but he was fleet and could navigate easily through a crowd. I never once saw him resort to violence. Instead, he would do his best to diffuse a situation with gentle grace. If all else failed, he would bear hug the out of control person and deposit them outside.

Bruno and I kept in touch. He was there a couple years later when Nimitz Freeway needed gigs at Satyricon. Over the course of our relationship I learned that he was equal parts bouncer, scene  ambassador, talent scout, booking agent, advocate and psychologist. We were never close friends, but I could always count on a kind word and heartfelt encouragement. He was a genuine person.

Bruno welcomed tens of thousands of people into our local clubs and helped thousands of musicians along the way. He was there to comfort you when the crowd was thin and psyche you up when the place was packed to the rafters. He had a sharp eye on your gear and did his best to keep everyone safe. He always put the interests of both the audience and the performer first.

For one reason or another — like so many other Portlanders involved in that seminal era — he was discarded and largely forgotten. Last time I saw Bruno was about ten years ago. He was out of the music business, driving a taxi and looked to be in really poor health. My mind tells me that he is probably gone to the nightclub in the sky, but my heart truly hopes he is alive and well.

4. Jennifer Dahl. She was a kind soul who worked at a wonderful little record store called Bird’s Suite. It was located on Hawthorne where Fabulous Jackpot is today. Beginning in my teens, I shopped there almost every week. Some of the staff became a bit like extended family.

One day, I came to the counter with my usual stack of vinyl and Jennifer was very animated. She told me about a recently formed musical project she was taking under her wing. The band was led by a recovering addict with a troubled life who had moved here from the Tenderloin. She was determined to do all that she could to help him get a fresh start in our music scene.

Over the course of the next year or so, Jennifer managed the band and used her many local connections to help them rise to the top. She put all of her spare time and a fair amount of her own money into the effort. They became very popular and eventually scored a major label contract. In the wake of their success, an age of parasitic opportunism dawned in Portland.

Everclear became synonymous with a scene that Art neither created nor nurtured. After he assaulted his wife in public, the music press swooped in like vultures. Instead of an incredible talent like Pete Krebs getting a piece in Rolling Stone for his many musical contributions, he was reduced to a yokel having a vitriolic feud with Art Alexakis about spousal abuse.

Once Art was in the money, he made a sick game out of ostracizing and undermining the local scene. He dumped on Portland and everyone who helped him along the way. When I attended a NXNW panel discussion in ’96, he had the audacity to parade his manager out and give him every shred of credit. The locals gritted their teeth, rolled their eyes and shuffled papers.

Alexakis’ smarmy blend of falsehoods and well-worn cliches was almost unbearable. During a brief pause in his rambling, the tension gave way to nervous laughter when a woman in the back of the room asked innocently, “What about Jennifer?” Art had no answer. As the hushed snickers subsided into silent expectation, he acted as if he didn’t even hear her say a word.

In the wake of Everclear, this scene was purged of the individuality and eccentricity that made it special. Honest self-expression was largely tossed aside as our city filled with like minded people seeking quantitative success. Instead of being a playground for a wildly diverse group of working class artists, we were homogenized and gentrified by waves of affluent dabblers.

I remember Portland as a nurturing environment where everyone could find a niche. Mayor’s Ball and the AIM festival brought out big crowds. The Church of Northwest Music on KBOO exposed generations to homegrown sounds. We had a record store called Locals Only. Our scene was never perfect and often squabbled, but it was vibrant and belonged to us.

Folks like Billy, Greg, Bruno, Jennifer, Pete and scores of others deserved much better. It pains me to see members of  the legendary Dharma Bums known solely for being sidemen to Steve Malkmus. Off the record, I was utterly mortified when my friends pointed out that a number of Decemberists songs were casual rewrites of my own material.

To be fair, I have had the privilege of knowing relative newcomers like Ross Beach, Jake Anderson, Alex Dickey, Josh Mayer, Andy Giegerich, and many others who love and nurture this city. They might not be household names outside of Portland, but they also weren’t motivated to move here by blind ambition or thoughts of fame and fortune.

I have learned to accept the fact that I may always be the most obscure songwriter in Portland, but to be honest, it used to bug the hell out of me. Now, I find it morbidly amusing that someone could put out so much material with a local focus and still remain largely ignored. I guess that once a fellow gets buried, he learns to love the underground.