Coastlands.

 

 

Henry Butler

photo by winch

Davila 666

photo by winch

Pure Country Gold

photo by winch

Good Shit XXIII: Fire Nuns

 

 

EJ’S

my KODACHROME capturing THE last days of e.j.’S (portland, Oregon) circa ’99 or ’00…Where the stage was lower than the dance floor.  At least that’s how I remember it.  If it wasn’t, it shoulda been.  Some people are nostalgic about the days of E.J.’s, the glory days of portland, but that’s nonsense, girls talked like valley girls back then, it was always just a bunch of white people playing crappy music, kicking out the jams, charge forward like there’s no tomorrow, rockin’ and rollin’ like a freight train on a tight schedule…portland’s always had a few places to see some fun shows, they come and go, like E.J.’s.  They had signage SAYING “screw art, let’s dance!”  AND “please don’t eat out of dumpster (garbage is not food).”    maybe someone can identify this band but really I don’t give a rats ass.

Bad Sports

bad sports     photo by winch

Dennis Coffey

the legendary guitarist dennis coffey, the man from motown (actually born in the UP, Copper City, Michigan) the man who offered his guitar to many of those Whitfield-era Motown classics, later the first white man to play on Soul Train…Older now but he’s still got it, launches into his classics “Theme from Black Belt Jones” and “Scorpio.”  That’s all I need to hear, that alone worth the trip to the club.

 

      dennis  coffey                   photos by winch 

Dead Moon

Scanned from a black & white negative…one of my shots from a Portland show…late 90s circa.

Mr. Fred Cole (Dead Moon)               photo by winch

Davila 666

                 Davila 666  (puerto rico) 

Davila came all the way from puerto rico, a garage band from the west indies, can’t miss that, make my way to the front.  The stage is crowded for a three-piece band, but these guys brought along twice that, crowd together so close I can reach out and pat them on the backs.  I don’t think they speak english but they get my drift, launch into the jams.  This woman links her arm with mine, and we push the boring people to the back.  Pretty soon, I’m sardined with about a devil dozen dancing dames, having ourselves the times of our lives, my disease just making me feel dizzy and happy, sweating it out on the floor, the place baking with summer heat, the band cooking with gas.

      davila 666      

 

 

When it’s done, I thank the band for coming all that way, make my way out down the sidewalk, find myself sleeping in my car the next morning.