Scott Young @ New York Rifles Practice Space
Since just about everyone in Portland (except me) is in a band, it's fairly common to overhear musicians practicing in their homes. For instance, there's this weathered old Victorian home on SE 37th Ave that I pass by whenever I'm ambling over to Fred Meyer to buy groceries. It seems like every time I walk by this dilapidated two-story, the tenants are inside rocking the fuck out. Cranked up guitars clamor at the peeling windows, screaming strung out melodies into the street, while drums and bass rattle the walls like the jackhammers that tore up CBGBs. Every once in awhile, I'd stop for a second and listen, wondering who these rockers were and if I'd ever come across their band in the local listings.
One evening on my usual sojourn to the food farm, I walked by the house and it was eerily silent. The cellar door, however, was open and white light/white heat was leaking onto the asphalt. Amps were piled up by the door, slightly obscured by the motorcycle parked in the driveway. A shadowy figure was lugging gear out of the practice space. I stopped for a second and thought about introducing myself, but hesitated and continued walking. A few paces toward the store, I thought better of the whole situation and decided to man up and go for it. I returned to the dungeon, knocked on the door, and shook hands with the vampire. Scott was really busy loading up for a gig, his band New York Rifles, was playing at the Ash Street Saloon and he needed to get down there for soundcheck. Nonetheless, he was rock star enough to get a quick tarot reading and pose in front of his lyrics for a photograph.
One evening on my usual sojourn to the food farm, I walked by the house and it was eerily silent. The cellar door, however, was open and white light/white heat was leaking onto the asphalt. Amps were piled up by the door, slightly obscured by the motorcycle parked in the driveway. A shadowy figure was lugging gear out of the practice space. I stopped for a second and thought about introducing myself, but hesitated and continued walking. A few paces toward the store, I thought better of the whole situation and decided to man up and go for it. I returned to the dungeon, knocked on the door, and shook hands with the vampire. Scott was really busy loading up for a gig, his band New York Rifles, was playing at the Ash Street Saloon and he needed to get down there for soundcheck. Nonetheless, he was rock star enough to get a quick tarot reading and pose in front of his lyrics for a photograph.
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