Episode 3: Daddy? You Wish

Dog and Pony Episode 3 - Daddy? You Wish
1/23/09 - Episode 2 left out for respect of the Lost Session.

The Band: Highway Jackson
Kris: Vox and Guitar
Tyler: Guitar and backing vox
(not pictured)
Corey: Bass
Brandon: Guitar
Mike: Drums




The Scene:
The basement is oppressive. It's a mess, and as you come down the stairs, you see a couch that was built during the fashionably worst part of the Carter administration. And it's beat to hell, to boot.

Beyond the couch, bags of trash lie helter-skelter among empty cardboard boxes, ramshackle furniture decays in heaps, a menacing barrel sits on a homebrew sawhorse. It looks to be full of oil. Rags and boxes lead an incendiary trail to the oil burner. The oil tank stands across from that. The place is a tinder-keg. The slightest spark will send the whole building up like Pompeii.

And yet it still smells like someone smokes cigarettes here regularly.

The band sits at the far end of the basement in a pool of orange and white light. The walls around them shed bricks into piles on the floor. "The band" in this case is a loose interpretation. Two members of a five person band play acoustic guitars in a thoroughly dank basement. Generally the band, Highway Jackson, is absolutely plowing through some Classic Rock shit in a dingy bar. But when they do it, they positively blow it out. It's the garage band you wanted to hear in the Seventies. Highway Jackson brings back the oldest meaning of "Rock." The band is energetic and effective. Their music, while brutal, is finely rehearsed, well practiced. It's an effective weapon of localized intensity. The sonic wall strikes powerful and precise like a heavyweight's jab.

But tonight it's just Kris and Tyler, sitting in a fire hazard and playing acoustic music. To each other. It's like bringing a tyrannosaurus to a flower show. Completely emasculating.

But they still Rock. It's like trying to take away all that raw power just makes it stronger. Or maybe it's just that these guys just Rock.

And we're talking about Rock with a capital 'R' here. We're not talking about rock like the word has been bandied about lately. We're talking about the music that made your grandparents cringe. We're talking about the music that was burned in vinyl bonfires in front of Baptist churches.

We're talking about Rock.

And they say "Rock is dead." They say the scene has moved on. They say "Rock? Isn't that, like, so 1970s?"

Well... yes. In a way they're right. But Highway Jackson - these guys - these guys make you pine for when Rock wasn't a dirty word. These guys bleed Rock. When you hear this music, just about anyone can acknowledge a new desire... a desire to actually Rock.

Hearing the music over the radio your whole life, you associate the term "Rock" with your parents and what they listened to. You don't understand its hugeness. So when contemporary musicians re-examine it, Rock becomes so much more powerful. It's an epiphany. It's the mythology happening again. All those things you'd heard about... they're happening in front of you.

Highway Jackson brings back the meaning of rock. You can't help but think, "Yeah... I'm rocking." Don't hide it! It's nothing to be ashamed of! Highway Jackson can be that release you need. You don't have to restrain the Rock when you're listening to Highway. You just let this music take you to that raw, primal place.

Highway Jackson represents the past of rock and roll in a lot of ways. When you hear the covers, for instance, they're spot on. HJ gives a show where you can call for "Freebird!" unironically and where you can feel comfortable rocking out to it.

A True Story: Highway Jackson was playing a show I was attending. They started playing Freebird and the house went crazy. It was the driving power behind the song that infected everyone... foot stamping, wild thrashing, jumping and headbanging were reinvented in the living room that night. I was pounding away to the beat in the back of the room with a bottle against a counter. The bottle smashed and I was so into the crazy frenzy Highway had created in that living room, I kept pounding.

Highway Jackson makes music that will cut your knuckles.

And there's good news for those about to Rock. Highway Jackson has an album set to drop this winter. The Dirty Bar Campaign. The title is a tribute to how they raised the money to record the album. Highway Jackson played shitty, dirty bar after shitty, dirty bar to raise the funds.

Maybe that's why Tyler and Kris didn't look so out of place in that arsonist's paradise.

And now, what's more impressive is that they've vowed to never play a cover gig again. They are focusing now on their music, on Highway Jackson. This album is their Rubicon and they're crossing it. The phrase 'Point of No Return' is a bit cliche, but it's true in this case. If TDBC tanks, that's it. You won't get a chance to truly Rock again.

That's such a Rock statement, too. Paying tribute to their Dirty Bar Campaign... and promising to leave it.

Episode 1: The Horse's Ass Fits The Horse

[dog] And [pony] Episode One - Dead End Armory
1/20/09

The Band: Dead End Armory
Wes: Vox and Guitar
Chris: Drums and Backing Vocals
Mike: Guitar
Matthew: Bass




The Scene:
Nick and I are driving to the practice space, a house near outer Washington Avenue. We've got the street it's on but the directions given to Nick were "I think it's number 25."

We pass a jeep and a motorcycle parked in the street by the snowbank. I don't know if the motorcycle has been driven lately... but it is the middle of January and the road isn't all that well plowed.

"That's probably the house," I say. Nick calls.

It is.

As we unload our equipment someone pokes his head out, "Just come on in and down into the basement!"

We walk down dark stairs to a dark and scattered basement practice area. The whole place is an incredible testament to some mad, DIY architect. Makeshift walls abound, some wooden, some curtains, one tarp. I spent three hours down there and I'm not sure I saw everything.

The bassist, Matthew, is setting up his equipment against the wall. "There's another band that practices on Nevada Street, you know."

"Oh? Who?" asks Nick as I take in the room.

"The Rattlesnakes," says Wes.

As Nick and Wes rattle on about what they sound like, I try and take in the room. It's not small - it's not big either - but it's cramped by a low ceiling that hangs at odd angles. There's foam egg crate patches stapled pell mell on the walls.

"Sound Baffling?" I ask.

"Yeah," says Matt, "They never finished the sound proofing."

Wes, Matthew and Mike are setting up while Chris drags his extra drum kit out of the space.

Wes tries to explain why the basement looks like it does, "That's Brent. He's the architect."

He's stooped over cables, yells, "BRENT!"

No response.

I'm directed out of the practice room, across the stair landing and into a sort of waiting room. Couches, ash trays, empty cans of bali shag. A leaking furnace. One of the walls is tarp, the other is curtains.

"You gotta sorta go through the curtains... you'll see it."

I pass under the curtains but I can't really see anything. It's dark. There's what looks like a wide door with a light behind it. As my eyes adjust I see various and sundry electronic bits lying around. There's an anatomical poster hanging up. I see the room extends back a bit.

I hear bubbling.

Matthew sticks his head in and points at the door. "It's a swinging trap door. Brent sleeps back there, under the stairs."

I never did meet Brent.

Back in the practice room the band is ready. I'm directed to the back to a small booth with a computer and several mixing boards in it. Dead End Armory likes to record their practices. A lot of published material is generated from just tooling around at practice. They've learned that good things happen in practices... but they can't always be replicated even a cigarette later.

Dead End Armory started in 2005. They called themselves The Easterlies for about a month, then another band in West Coast Portland (it's always the other fucking Portland) challenged their name. They've been Dead End Armory ever since.

The lineup has changed over the years, although Wes, Mike and Chris have been the core. As they break into their first song you can tell they're used to each other. Wes, Chris and Mike all know what the others will be doing. Matthew watches for cues, trying to read the rest of the band.

He's only been playing with them for three weeks or so now, though.

We all chat and joke. Every now and then Wes will stand up to open the basement window and vent the room of smoke.

It's Mike's house. And Brent's, I assume, although he might've come with the house for all I know. Another guy who lives there used to play bass for the band, Chris tells me.

Chris also says Wes is a resident. "I'm on the couch," he clarifies.

We go back to playing for a bit. The band's sound is pretty good. Unique. Wes's voice is unique. Nasal and grating in just the right way. He can't sing in a way that just works. He hits the notes and makes the growls. He screams right.

Wes says he can pick melodies out of Chris's drumming. I believe it. He slams away even between songs.

From observation over the years, I think every drummer does this. Pay attention the next time you're at a gig.

And as Mike explores the chord progressions... emphasizing and plucking along... it all just... gels. It's nice. It's energetic. It's got a wild focus.

Matthew's basswork is simple and fills the sound out... but the ad requesting a bassist was tailored to get just that. It's what they need. A simple line to anchor on to as vox, guitar and drums swing wildly about.

The band and the space they play in are in synch. They're home there. The music is wild and unpolished and the basement's labyrinthine, unfinished rooms reflect that.

That might sound a bit negative, I don't mean it to be. Both basement and music are purposed. Both resonate. Both are ultimately cool. It's a place you want to experience and it's music you should hear. Even if it doesn't suit your particular style of music, it's worth experiencing at least once.

Much like it's worth at least one trip to a basement on outer Washington.