Touch me I'm late.

Mudhoney @ Emo's. © Ryan Schierling

I never really had the opportunity to shoot Mudhoney when we lived in Seattle. I was ten years late on the grunge-fest, O.G. Charles Peterson-era, grainy, gritty Sub Pop love-in that spawned so many amazing photographs. I was shooting burgeoning indie-rock and figuratively, I figured I'd rather just let old dogs lie. Anyway, Charles already did those photos far more beautifully than anyone else could, fifty times over.

But it was always buried in the back of my brain.

My first experience with Mudhoney was in 1990 as a teen in Emporia, Kansas. My friend Gary had the self-titled Mudhoney cassette, and "Flat Out Fucked" ruptured the speakers in his beat-to-shit black Subaru on our way to school in the mornings. More than 20 years later, he'd never seen them either.

Last year, Gary was willing to fly all of us from Austin to Seattle to see Mudhoney play at The Crocodile, but it just didn't work out. So when I saw tour dates for late 2011 in Austin, I let him know, and I bought tickets.

The prominent "No Professional Photography without a Photo Pass" signs and big bouncers had me a little flummoxed at first (because I didn't even think to arrange for a photo pass), but a few beers and the realization that no one makes a professional living at live music photography anymore bolstered my spirits. I mean, I did this for a long, long time in Seattle, and if you want to throw me out for pointing a big camera at Mudhoney, then go right ahead – the Tacos El Rey truck is out there, so it's like tossing Brer Rabbit into the briar patch.

Mark Arm and Mudhoney put on an amazing show, and all I can say is... better late than never. 

Kane Hodder is Fucking Dead*

Kane Hodder @ Hell's Kitchen, Tacoma, WA. © Ryan Schierling

*from Kane Hodder

The first time I saw the band Kane Hodder was in 2004 at Graceland (now El Corazon) in Seattle. I was on assignment for The Stranger, and it was a weird, Wednesday night early show. The venue was empty. I'd never heard any of their music, and had no idea what to expect, but at least I had an uninterrupted run of the entire front of the stage to shoot from.

When lead singer Andrew Moore launched into "Aboard The Leper Colony" with the scraping staccato "I'm gonna give it to ya, I'm gonna give it to ya, I'm gonna give it to ya bang bang bang bang..." I lowered my camera and stood there front and centerstage, dumbfounded. Why hadn't I heard of these guys before? The next 30 minutes were – sonically – a three-way fistfight between a pretentious boys' school choir soprano channeling Queen, a melodic pop-punk boy band built for straight-up hit-radio and a baker's dozen metal guitarists (+1 furious pigeon-toed post-hardcore vocalist spewing napalm) driving a burning steamroller over everything you hold dear.

(Take a deep breath).

Visually, Kane Hodder were equally stunning.

That night, Moore, and everyone else in the band, played like the room was packed, lubricated and writhing. At subsequent shows, when the house really was jammed to the rafters with spastic, sweating, gyrating fans, they'd give that much more. It was utterly exhausting watching them, but always a pleasure to shoot over the years.

Sadly, after seven years together, Kane Hodder is calling it a day. Moore, Eric Christianson, Charley Potter, Jerome Sauer and Aaron Yost (along with KH1.0 members Jeremy White and Nick Cates) will play a final performance at El Corazon this Saturday night. Joining them are friends Schoolyard Heroes, who are also playing their last show. These Arms Are Snakes and Sirens Sister round out the bill.

If you're in Seattle, and can still get tickets, I can't recommend this show enough.

Kane Hodder. (L-R) Jerome Sauer, Charley Potter, Andrew Moore, Aaron Yost, Eric Christianson. © Ryan Schierling

Find what is important to you. Cultivate it.

Sunflower seed from the Ghetto Melrose garden. © Ryan Schierling

We've had the tiniest garden in downtown Seattle for a few years now. A four-foot by eight-foot patch of dirt has provided us with little tomatoes, little peppers, little cucumbers and little herbs. Surrounding the wee plot have been gargantuan sunflowers, originally seeds planted from D. Landreth Seed Company and followed up in subsequent years by volunteers and intentionally-sown next-gen seeds from the dinner-plate-sized heads of the 10-foot-tall beasts that pushed themselves out of the ground, imitating the Space Needle a few blocks over.

Our growing season is historically short. Plants that have survived have done so because they had to, there was no other choice. There have been disappointments, withered runts, plants twisted and dying in the limited two months of summer heat that Seattle offers. But the sunflowers have always thrived, from April to September, which never fails to surprise me.

(L) Sunflower head, 16" across. (R) Harvesting seeds to plant next year in Austin. © Ryan Schierling

In less than a month, we move across the country to Austin, Texas. In my pocket are keys to a little house with a big yard, big enough for a proper garden and a tall row of sunflowers along the fenceline. The long, sere summers are hotter and certainly less forgiving.

But I have no doubt these seeds from Seattle – from the Ghetto Melrose garden – will thrive, thrusting out of the ground with their leaves, and eventually, their giant faces toward the bright light and summer heat, producing seeds and propagating for years to come.

A deeper shade of Blue.

From Seattle Weekly, art © 2009 Adam Garcia

I got a nice email from Philadelphia artist Adam Garcia last week, after he was commissioned to do an illustration of local hip hop group Blue Scholars. He chose to base the image on a photograph I took of Geo and Sabzi in 2005, and wanted to make sure I knew about it, and if I'd like to be credited for the source material. I was a little shocked, and completely delighted, because I've had images appropriated and altered in the past with no contact or permissions given. Needless to say, I gave him two big thumbs up, and the art turned out fantastic.

Blue Scholars, 2005. © Ryan Schierling

I never really did like the word capture.

Photograph © William Anthony. Tearsheet via Seattle Metropolitan.

I was cleaning out my desk and found this section cut from the contributor pages of Seattle Metropolitan magazine last year. The gaff tape mustache shot was when I was assisting WmA on an Alaska Airlines shoot, the text (at least the portion in quotations) comes from reading too many serious contributor columns with too many serious photographers who are far too serious about pushing the button.

The 2008 article chronicled the history of Sub Pop Records. The below photographs of Jimmy and Ben were unpublished outtakes from the aforementioned 2005 SubPop shoot when they picked up their gold album for Give Up.

Jimmy Tamborello and Ben Gibbard - April 2005. © Ryan Schierling

Gibbard, protective. 2005 © Ryan Schierling

Lazy brown dog not pictured.

Robin Pecknold, Fleet Foxes. Sub Pop, Seattle. © Ryan Schierling

Space Needle (13)

From the front window, home. © Ryan Schierling

Space Needle (12)

Day 2 of snow. © Ryan Schierling

You can't blame me. I already told you the story.

The Op ShOp.

Jane Horowitz brings in the last of the items on the sidewalk outside of the OpShOp. © Ryan Schierling

Seattle P-I columnist Robert Jamieson, Jr. penned an article last Thursday that broke my heart. The OpShOp, a Lower Queen Anne establishment for the last seven years, was being pushed out. It pains me to see any small business in my neighborhood struggling, but Jane Horowitz's OpShOp was not your ordinary small business.

Jane took over for a consignment shop seven years ago, and has since become a neighborhood hub of generosity, of charity, and of help for those who need it most. Her mantra of "pay with your head or with your heart" benefitted everyone, including the John Hay Elementary School, who received donations above and beyond the rent payment. Jane was also a savior for those without many means. She'd get homeless folks in and out of her shop, and she knew them by name, providing shoes or coats or sometimes just a hug and the assurance that things would be better eventually. But with budgets and wallets tightening lately, apparently charity has taken a bit of a hit. And the landlord's letter asked Jane to leave because "the shop invites 'a different element.'" To which Jane replied, "huge blessings to that element."

Julie met Jane about six years ago, shortly after Julie moved to the neighborhood. I met Jane through Julie a few years later. As far as we're concerned, she and her husband Elliott and their kids are family. Which is why this story is so important.

There will be more opportunities. There will be more OpShops. But there's only one Jane Horowitz. And we are very thankful for her.

(L) Jane sweeps out the store before leaving for good Wednesday night. (R) Jane Horowitz. © Ryan Schierling

Vote.

It's time for change. © Ryan Schierling

10-57.

(L) 3rd Ave. and Pike, the day after the hit and run. (R) 1st Ave. N and Harrison. ©Ryan Schierling

Nine things I photographed today with a point-and-shoot camera, and one thing I didn't.

©Ryan Schierling

I had to run an errand downtown this afternoon, and I chose to drive instead of walk, like I normally would. My ankles were hurting like crazy from a run and there was no way I was going to make it to 4th and Pike as a pedestrian. So, I left the house in the car, fretting that I was going to never find a parking spot or that someone would do something stupid and wreck themselves into me, or me into them. I've gotten a bit automobile paranoid in my late 30s, and I blame that on living in a city with horrible traffic, horrible drivers, and the fact that most cars now are like your living room – comfortable, street-noise free vessels that have your phone, your DVD player, your stereo, your comfortable leather recliner (heated, of course), your GPS system, your Big Gulp in one of six cup holders, et al, and that most people drive their cars accordingly, like the completely oblivious and distracted morons they are.

Once downtown, I circled the block I needed to park on for a good 30 minutes. Then I circled the eight blocks outside of the block I needed to park on for another 30 minutes. Frustrated, I decided to drive home and take care of the errand in the morning, when I was feeling better about the walk, at least from the monorail. Heading north, at 3rd Ave. and Pike, the light turned yellow. The car in front of me accelerated, as most cars do at a yellow light, and sped through the intersection.

The next thing I saw was a man, wearing khaki cargo shorts and a white shirt, being ragdolled backwards over the right-front corner and top of the car that ran the intersection, his shoes flying in different directions and his shorts coming halfway off. Blood, flowing from his head after he hit the street, saturated his white t-shirt and began to pool around him. The car that hit him slowed a bit – I remember brake lights – and then sped off up the street. I felt sick, like my stomach was jolting up out of my body in slow motion, spinning a bit and dropping back in. The light was still red. People on the corner were bringing their hands to their faces and calling 911 on their cell phones and gathering around this man who had just been thrown through the air by an automobile. 

I don't remember if he stepped into the crosswalk while the light was yellow. I don't remember if the light was red when the car sped through the intersection. I don't remember anything other than the stilted, bloody, ragdoll-like spin of a man momentarily in the air before hitting the pavement. 

Subterranean Pop.

Sub Pop cofounder Jonathan Poneman, for Seattle Metropolitan magazine, July 2008. 

©Ryan Schierling

I remember listening to Mudhoney's self-titled album (on cassette), in Emporia, Kansas, in late '89, thanks to my friend Gary and his definitively progressive taste in music. Everyone else was listening to Guns N' Roses, Tone Loc and whatever Whitesnake / White Lion / Great White song was popular at the moment. Little did I know that nearly 20 years later, I'd be living in Seattle, Sub Pop would be going stronger than ever, and Mudhoney would still be touring.

Go figure.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Edith's home; the Mirabella retirement community. ©Ryan Schierling

(L) Edith Macefield has lived in this little house in Ballard since 1966. When developers approached the 86-year-old with a one million dollar buyout for her property and the 108-year-old house, she refused. "I don't want to move. I don't need the money. Money doesn't mean anything," said Macefield. The five-story project, which is being built around her house, will include a parking garage, fitness club and a grocery store, just like every other new development in Seattle.

(R) The high-end, exclusive Mirabella retirement community, currently being developed in the South Lake Union district, is touted as the retirement community of the future. There will be a saline swimming pool, four restaurants, an arts studio and a 300-seat theater, and, according to the New York Times, a none-too-cheap pricetag for warehouse oldster living. "David Rensvold, a 69-year-old retired pilot, and his wife, Sandy, have reserved a $691,000 two-bedroom independent-living apartment at the Mirabella. Their monthly charges will be about $4,200."

Going, gone.

Pamela and Bill. ©Ryan Schierling

Bill and Pamela stopped by this morning before leaving Seattle for good. I took a few photos with the old Polaroid, but it didn't really hit me until this afternoon, when I put these two pictures together. One moment you're here, enjoying the grill smoke and PBRs, the next, you're eating Rubio's fish tacos and basking in the sunshine.

Julie and I, and Ghetto Melrose, are truly going to miss you both.

Bon voyage, bonne chance, friends.

No Such Thing vs. Econ 101.

©Ryan Schierling

Heaven is being a memory to others.

For the Frye Art Museum. ©Ryan Schierling

Boeing Field Apts.

©Ryan Schierling

Space Needle (11)

Firefighter training. ©Ryan Schierling

Space Needle (10)

July sunshine. ©Ryan Schierling