Away with Murder

I rang in the first day of summer for 2013 by seeing Camera Obscura perform live. This is the fourth time I’ve been lucky enough to see them in person. Again, I am not one to write a lot about live music, though I just recently did (see Queen Elvis), but this is generally when something is strange or out of order about the night out - not specifically about the artist’s performance. This one is simply a case of silliness and what can happen inside one’s own mind when out at a concert alone.

In 1985, a handful of my friends and I went crazy over the synth-pop overproduced sounds of UK band Go West. We loved the oddly disjointed dance grooves of songs like “We Close Our Eyes,” “Call Me” (along with their many effects laden remixes), and the escapism and Rocky movie franchise worthy redemption song “Innocence.” So a bunch of us 14 year olds found a way to make the trek from the coast to Portland to see them live at the old Starry Night on an autumn night. We all spent loads of money on multiple cheaply made, but as expensive as all hell, T-shirts, sweatshirts, scarves, buttons and tour guides. There may have even been Go West shoelaces, sweatbands and sweatpants in the mix. It was a merchandiser’s wet dream. Opening the show that night, and not to be overlooked was Portland’s own Nu Shooz, who were huge in Oregon with their song “I Can’t Wait,” which was played 15 to 20 times a day on the ahead of its time (in a not so great way) pre-programmed, DJ-less, KSKD 105. This was about a year before the song was discovered by the Dutch and remixed by the Dutch using Madonna’s voice from “Into the Groove” as a synth melody line, turning the song into a world-wide hit. This was the night, when my good friend Eric decided that Nu Shooz singer Valerie Day had been “totally checking him out” during their set. None of us knew if he was kidding or serious, but we all were greatly entertained by the idea of a 25 year old front woman giving a 14 year old kid lost in a sea of faces the once and twice and maybe a thrice over. A similar instance occurred a year or so later, when a similar crowd gathered near the stage at the grand old basketball arena, the Memorial Coliseum, to see Eurythmics perform in Portland, riding high on their re-found chart success from the massive hit “Missionary Man” and their 1986 Revenge album. This time it was the two back up singers, who dressed, danced and swayed identically, that all 80s pop bands employed back then, who were checking Eric out from their platform to Annie Lennox’s left. Again, the rest of us were mystified, but highly entertained by this proclamation. I don’t mean to throw Eric under the bus here, because in retrospect, I admired Eric’s confidence and/or sense of humor, since I have always been incapable of believing that anyone could ever be ‘checking me out’ – especially from the stage. Plus, after having read Wendy Fonarow’s excellent ethnography Empire of Dirt – The Aesthetics and Rituals of British Indie Music, and her detailed description about the interactions between band and audience and the built in sexual energy that the environment creates, the entire thing makes some sense, whether these women were indeed checking him out or not. There can be a definite sexual charge that overcomes people derived from music and performance. Why else have there been so many groupies over the years for any demented old bloke with a guitar? Why else would teenage girls be reduced to tears and screaming uncontrollably when seeing their pop idols in person? Why else would I feel like proposing to Gwenno after seeing the Pipettes live? A simple ‘yes’ would be nice Gwenno.

What does any of this have to do with seeing Camera Obscura on Friday, June 21, 2013? Not much, but please bear with me. The first time I had the opportunity to see Camera Obscura was in the middle of an incredibly hot July 2006 weekend here in the northwest. They played at the Doug Fir Lounge on a Saturday night after a couple of plus 100 degree humid days and everyone I knew who might have been interested in going to the show was out of town due to the uncomfortable heat. Surprisingly, the basement and temperature controlled confines of the Fir found this to be the first concert I had ever attended that was cool and comfortable compared to the outside. At any rate, I stood awkwardly in the middle of the maybe half filled floor amongst a few younger couples who had worked their way in tight directly in front of my already staked out position. Paul Simon’s mid 70s hit “50 Ways to Leave Your Lover” was playing over the PA, which I not only had fond memories of, because my mom always loved Paul Simon’s music, but because it made me realize how fitting it was for an entrance song for the band. It was at this moment, when I overheard one young guy lean over to his young girl companion and tell her: “Hey, I just heard this song the other day; they’re a totally cool new band!”  Being alone during their set allowed my mind to take in every detail of the band’s carefully constructed music, but started to wander when I felt like lead singer and main songwriter Tracyanne Campbell would not stop looking at me. She would glance in my general direction throughout key lyrical moments of each song and seemingly be staring at me, in the sparse crowd, during her occasional between song banter. The constant looks my way actually made me feel a little nervous, because I couldn’t figure out if she was looking at me in particular, and if so, why? If she wasn’t “checking me out,” what or who was she looking at? Was it simply a case of looking to a blank spot in order to avoid eye contact with anyone directly (as is often instructed to maintain stage fright), and it turns out that my fat head made for a good blank spot or “back wall” so to speak? When they played the atmospheric “Country Mile,” a song that always sends chills down my spine, I slowly moved my position. I didn’t want to continue to be in sight in case my emotions got the best of me. It didn’t work. Tracyanne’s gaze continued to spy me during the entire set. After the show, when stepping back out into a wall of stifling heat outside, I felt giddy from the great performance and silly from remembering Eric’s proclamations from 20 years prior and knowing that what I had been thinking was all in my head.

The next time I saw Camera Obscura perform was on the second leg of what must’ve been an extensive and exhaustive tour for their third album Let’s Get Out of This Country. This time, they played on Valentine’s Day 2007 at Portland’s Wonder Ballroom – a decidedly much larger venue. I had purchased a pair of tickets, hoping that a woman I had been seeing at the time would join me, but at the last minute, she cancelled. So, there I was again, standing near the stage, in a half filled venue and again feeling as if Tracyanne was looking right at me throughout their set. At one point, she and keyboardist and back-up vocalist Carey Lander, spoke to each other privately between songs, while both looking my way, before Tracyanne announced that since it was Valentine’s Day, they would be setting up a kissing booth on the floor after the show. My face filled with blood. This is when I knew that attending concerts alone is not a good idea, because I was losing my mind!

“People have been traveling miles just to hear us sing

It’s a February night I don’t want to feel anything

To get away maybe I could sell kisses

In Portland I tried my pretty hand at fishing”

These words come from the penultimate verse of “Away with Murder” from Camera Obscura’s 2009 fourth album My Maudlin Career and I couldn’t believe my ears upon first listening to the new album that spring time. This was getting ridiculous! This would only feed my insanity further! This tour found them landing in Portland again during the summer and on the same night as a Portland Timbers match (USL Soccer club at the time). It was a “Thirsty Thursday,” when the stadium served beer for much cheaper, inviting us all to drink even more of the terrible swill than one could ever consider buying in any other situation. The match went well and I witnessed a win and then quickly found my way to the Wonder Ballroom again just in time to see Camera Obscura take the stage. This time, the crowd was much larger and there would be no way for me to reach the front of the stage without forcing my way into tight confines and disturbing the delicate balance of the audience. I did have friends that were there, but they would’ve already found their positions up front, so I decided to stay near the back mini bar, purchased another beer and attempted to take my evening dose of immune suppressants to keep my kidney transplant safe (I do see the irony of this scenario). Unfortunately, for me, my little pill bottle that I always carry with me (making me sound like a Tic Tac enthusiast, since I rattle with every movement I make) spilled all over the floor. Being in the back, it was especially dark, and I needed to get those pills! I was able to pinpoint where they were on the floor, but the next hurdle to clear was how to reach them. In my drunken state, I was only able to dive bomb towards the pills like a crow attempting to swoop down onto fresh road kill on a busy city street. Eventually, with help from a nearby Good Samaritan, I had my pills back in possession and was able to enjoy the show. It was a sad display that ended my imaginary eye contact connection with Tracyanne Campbell.

So, how was the most recent show? It was fantastic! They performed what is now a very strong and deep greatest hits collection of songs from their last 10 years worth of material and they sounded pristine in yet an even larger venue – this time at the Crystal Ballroom - again, keeping me from my usual place near the stage. Such is the dilemma of being an early fan of a band with a continuously growing fan base. I do, however, find it interesting that Camera Obscura chose to record their latest album, Desire Lines, right here in Portland. I feel bad for Tracyanne, spending so much time and effort trying to track me down. I’m certain that between sessions, she could be found wandering the streets aimlessly, hoping to run into me.  Maybe next time.

This Is Our Emergency

“When you've finally thrown up your hands
Poured your heart out, yet nothing stands
It seems our efforts are wasted
But yet it hasn't been in vain”


1991 was a terrible year. It started out with a three week intensive college course named “The Holocaust,” which was worse than it sounds. Then I had to drop out of school, because my mom’s horrific medical issues meant I was needed at home to help. Unfortunately, instead I spent nearly two months in the hospital after a surgery went poorly. The bulk of the year was spent working part time and driving my mom to and from her dialysis treatments out of town. It was all too late to help her though, because by September, she was gone. My friend, Wil, wasn’t having a great time of it either. He had been hospitalized for extended stretches and when home, found that he was so heavily medicated that about all he could do was sleep. Yet, out of all this darkness, something sparked between the two of us and we found a way to create something that helped inspire us and brought us closer together as friends. It was a little over 20 years ago we began a small ‘zine named This Wreckage. A project, which in many ways, got me through that terrible time and the reason why I still make half-hearted attempts at writing today via this site.

For those unfamiliar with ‘zines, they were in some sense a precursor to so many of the millions of blogs out there on the web now, but instead we used paper, typewriters, scissors, paste and photocopiers to get our message to an audience. The term ‘zine, which we hated with a passion, came from “fanzine.” Fanzines were homemade, self-published tomes, generally about one particular subject. We named our ‘zine after the 1980 Gary Numan song and produced seven issues over about a two year span. Along the way, we destroyed Mike’s photocopier (Mike, the owner of Driftwood Mac, Lincoln City’s record store, in a sense, was our benefactor), gave L.M. Tomiself a place to seemingly incite fury in anyone who read his writings, we wrote about the L.A riots, religion, and music, and Wil’s demented cartoons always adorned several pages. At one point, a naïve culture paper named Perpetua, published in Seal Rock, gave us a page in their much bigger paper (they had ads and a staff!) for a couple of months. We bit that hand by publishing a rant about the hypocrisy of hippies at a Kenny Loggins environmental rally, featured a questionable cartoon about Somalia and wrote negative reviews of all the promo CDs Perpetua wanted us to write about. That relationship ended after we were chased down by security at the Galleria for leaving Perpetua all over the mall without permission. It all ended in the fall of 1993 with an issue printed on newsprint instead of a photocopier (the pinnacle of ‘zinedom!). Unfortunately, by this point, we had become discouraged by the lack of real response from anyone, besides a few of our friends who submitted art and writing along the way. Plus the expense of printing it entirely out of our pockets became frivolous, because we now had rent and food to cover. The ultimate slap in the face came months after we printed that final issue, when another ‘zine that reviewed ‘zines gave us a glowing review for content, but in the end gave us poor marks, because there was no price included on our cover (it was always free), so the writer assumed that it would be too expensive to recommend to his readers.

Sometimes that same feeling of discouragement overcomes me when I post entries onto this new single minded version of This Wreckage. There’s a need inside anyone who creates art of any type for an audience. When there’s little or no sign of an audience, that artist inevitably questions the point of creating in the first place. It’s only natural. Don’t get me wrong, I am not calling what I’m doing here “art,” but I do find myself wondering why I bother to share these things, because there’s no audience for it. I wonder where the motivation comes from.

“Unfulfillment is killing you
Seems like no one shares the same view

We may have never met but

It might you who pulls me through”

Music has always been my motivation. My love of music and inherent need to share the new music I love with my friends has always been a part of who I am. It is undeniable, so I just go with it. When Wil and I first started doing This Wreckage a little over 20 years ago, music was the driving force for me. It was never featured particularly (every issue ended with music reviews), but it was always there. To be frank, I was hoping to get a bunch of demos and promos for free, so I wouldn’t have to keep spending all of my money on new music. Looking back now, after all these years, what I realize is that the importance of the work we did then was not what we thought we were seeking (an audience, free music, new friends and contacts, and in our most grandiose moments, a dream of earning a living by doing cool stuff and revolution!), instead it was the work itself. Rarely have I felt so inspired and driven as I did when we put those old ‘zines together, plus I don’t think Wil and I were ever closer as friends then when we were collaborating. We had so much fun making those issues that we still talk about recreating it in some form to this day, mainly so we have an excuse to hang out with a purpose and recruit our other friends to join us.

“Don't forget that when you doubt

That anyone will care about

A thing you do and when you're lost

Someone else is always found”

This Wreckage’s final issue may have gotten screwed by a misinformed review back in the day, but its epitaph came along nearly a year after it had been distributed. A small trickle of letters started to appear in the PO Box from mostly High School and college kids who liked what they saw and wanted to let us know that our work impacted and inspired them. We received our first paid advertisement (which was reluctantly returned rather than making a new issue simply because we finally had an ad), and along the way, we met some really cool people who have become long time friends. We met people we may not have otherwise (like when I found myself asking advice from Tsunami’s Jenny Toomey over the phone!), and we did indeed receive some pretty cool demos along the way from various bands such as Versus, Tugboat Annie, and 17 Relics.

Speaking of which, my recent posting of 2011’s best music shockingly has garnered some new music from a band looking for a feature on this very blog. This is the sort of thing I daydreamed about when we started the ‘zine, and now I’m not sure what to do, so I’ll review it and continue to enjoy the process of writing and communicating, no matter who is or isn’t paying attention.

Tremor Low
Kingmaker EP
(self-released)

Here we have a 5 track EP that harkens back to the goth-tinged romance bands of the early 80s like The Cure. This Bay Area four piece has tapped into some nice energy here. An early 80s post-punk vibe is clearly a touchstone here, as the first track is named “Peter Murphy’s Dead” and musically fires on all upbeat raincoat rock cylinders. Actually, their sound reminds me of a nice matching of L.A. band The Autumns and the UK’s Ray (see their Death in Fiction from a few years back). It’s amazing how these sorts of sounds make their way back into the consciousness of each new generation, since so much of this was under heard at the time. But, if the sound is done right and with passion, it is always welcome in my book. The driving title track “Kingmaker” is the highlight here with it’s sing along “Who are you?” chorus, delicate chiming guitars and splashy drumming make for a nice listen. The other big favorite is the closing “2003,” which evokes the aforementioned Peter Murphy’s dreamy solo work. This is a very consistent and enjoyable collection of songs. If any of the touchstones I mentioned are of interest, chances are you will find something to like here.
(facebook.com/tremorlow)




lyrics and title from Pretty Girls Makes Graves