Go inside the world of Oregon’s home grown music scene
Story by Jordan Bentz
Photos by Jason Bernert

Aging scenesters regard the commercial dimension of the music industry with the same heavy-hearted disdain normally reserved for an adulterous ex-lover or former best friend. With vague recollections of “how things used to be,” they view the commoditization of the art form as the proverbial “end of the affair.” It’s true, these days, it seems many musicians are cashing in on selling out. Still, there are those who haven’t lost faith.
“Music that’s popular right now, I feel personally, is trash … I feel like it’s just a repetition of what has come before,” says Pence Stanton, an ardent music enthusiast, art student, and resident of the north Portland community dubbed the “Failing House.”
According to Stanton and her roommates, today’s popular music is a commercial wasteland of imitation acts, cheap gimmicks, and uninspired compositions. Yet their faith in the local, homegrown music scene counters this pessimism.
Stanton and her roommates are continuing a time-honored tradition by opening their doors and sponsoring musical performances in their basement. At a recent house show, nearly fifty people attended a two-hour jam with five local bands, all in a 25-by-15 foot space.
While many musicians don’t find these small venues worthwhile, history proves that some of America’s celebrated artists performed their best work in the comfort of their homes. In the summer of 1966, folk legend Bob Dylan went on a hiatus from a frenetic tour following a traumatic motorcycle accident. During his long convalescence, Dylan recorded a series of demos with The Band at Big Pink, the venerated retreat of Dylan’s band mates. The demos would later become his seminal album The Basement Tapes.  When asked about the production of the album in a 1969 interview with Rolling Stone, Dylan waxed poetic: “That’s really the way to do a recording—in a peaceful, relaxed setting, in somebody’s basement with the windows open and a dog lying on the floor.”
Ever since Dylan extolled the virtues of crafting homespun rock’n’roll, countless other bands have followed suit. Post-punk greats Fugazi gained notoriety in the early ’90s for their insistence on playing free, all-ages shows in basements across the Washington, D.C. area. Lead singer Ian MacKaye even ran a record label from his living room, releasing music from local bands and promoting a musical aesthetic based on self-reliance and anti-commercialism.
“I guess that’s what’s so cool about house shows … You get to hear the bands that are making good stuff and trying new things,” says Stanton, who considers Fugazi among her favorite bands.
Across the Portland cityscape, another house opens its door for musical performances.
Located in the hills of southeast Portland, the Canby House is a haven for musicians and music-lovers alike. Long-term resident Candice Theissen says that everybody who lives in the house is either a musician or close to one.
The Canby House possesses a whimsical air. In the study, a tired banjo gathers dust alongside copies of classic literary works. Behind the house, a makeshift chicken coop stands beside a well-manicured vegetable garden, and the living room serves as the unassuming setting for impromptu house shows.
Theissen says that musicians often feel more comfortable performing in the Canby House opposed to larger, more established venues where artists sometimes struggle to reach their audience. By playing in homes and other humble settings, bands connect and interact with their fans on an intimate level, and occasionally, attendees can catch a glimpse of the creative process that sculpts musical composition.
“I’ve noticed that musicians have a tendency to talk more about their songs or about themselves during house shows because it’s not so much about the performance as it is about sharing a moment,” Theissen explains.
A past Noah Gunderson performance exemplifies this intimacy. The Seattle-based folk artist interwove reflections from a trip to Palestine with music and poetry readings about his travels overseas.
On a sunny summer afternoon, the Canby roommates have gathered in the breakfast nook to discuss their favorite musical moments, recalling intimate candlelit sets by acoustic balladeers and lighthearted bluegrass jam sessions marked by audience participation and the informality of campfire sing-alongs. At a recent show, the roommates assembled makeshift percussion instruments using loose change and mason jars to accompany a local bluegrass artist.
The list of former guests and past performers reads like a who’s who of Northwest folk musicians, (Garage Voice and Seth Martin & the Menders!, to name a couple). While Canby House residents are always willing to provide bands a place to perform—and crash if necessary—their hospitality stems from more than just a love of music.
As a self-proclaimed “intentional community,” the Canby House strives to be all-inclusive, rebuking myths of urbane musical elitism. In an intentional community, unlike most other neighborhoods, residents purposely choose to live with each other, typically on the basis of common values. The residents of the Canby House are also united by a shared belief in Christianity.
“It’s kind of this movement to resist individualism [and] to come together with like-minded people to live together in a community,” Theissen says. “We became a place for people looking for community—a place to belong,”
Although the Canby House provides a platform for acoustic artists to share their music with listeners, the proximity of the house to other residences sometimes prevents electric bands from playing their music at full volume.
For The Blimp, a Eugene-based rock ’n’ roll band with a penchant for loud guitars and raucous house shows, their basement is simply the most suitable venue for sharing their music.
“We’re banned from a lot of places, so we just play here, in our house,” lead guitarist Mikhail Swanson says.
It’s two o’clock on a Friday afternoon and band members have congregated in the living room of the house they share.
Fading posters of rock icons adorn the wall, and a spare trumpet sits atop the coffee table. In the corner of the room, an antiquated record player rests alongside a crate of old vinyl.
The group looks charmingly disheveled and surprisingly taciturn for a band that plays at such a high volume. Mention the current state of rock music, however, and they become agitated.
“It seems like every time we play somewhere, they tell us to turn our guitars down. Here, we can play as loud as we want,” lead singer Lucas Gunn says.
Known locally as The Basement, the house has served as a performance venue for nearly three decades. Legend says innovative punk band Black Flag even played a show there in the late 1980s. Today, the stage belongs to The Blimp.
As the band begins to play, it is evident that this is where they belong. The music is loud, but no one seems to care—many of the neighbors are in fact fans of the band. Although the tiny basement may not be the ideal rock venue, certain stylistic additions—a piecemeal collection of oddities from the past twenty-five years or so—have added considerable charm to the dingy space. Years of spray paint and art deco castaways lend character to the space, and several mod mannequins provide The Blimp with an attentive audience for every practice.
An anonymous partygoer has issued a call-to-arms before the stage: the word “DANCE” emblazoned in black paint on the basement floor. The word and the house serve as a reminder that great musical moments aren’t inspired by the dream of cashing royalty checks or making the Top 40, they’re born from the energy of live sound and the simple pleasure of sharing a song and dance with a room full of strangers.

Gallery • 2 Photos

Local rockers “The Blimp” practice for a show at their home-turned-performance venue dubbed “The Basement” in Eugene, Oregon.