Oct. 6, 2020
A million years ago – in 1981, to be precise – I was in a rock band. Several of them, in fact. Those were the early days of (post-) punk in the Northwest, before Sub Pop and K and Kill Rock Stars put our little town of Olympia, WA on the map. There were more bands than venues, and everyone played with everyone. We took inspiration from the music we were hearing on KAOS-FM, the local college radio station where many of us were DJs, and via OP Magazine, the independent music networking zine started by John Foster, where many of us wrote reviews.
Most of us had played together in other configurations before this one happened. First there was Conch, a very earnest prog band that lived in a compound out in the woods and rehearsed in a barn there. Steve Fisk had played with them and they co-released a 45 under the name Anonymous. One side was Fisk’s solo song, Snake Attack. The other was Conch’s send-up of punk, Corporate Food. Oddly enough, the latter wound up on a legit punk compilation produced by Jello Biafra, but by that time Conch was more or less kaput.
In order to start gigging to promote the 45, Fisk invited me to form a quirky electronic new wave duo (sometimes joined by singer Heidi Drucker) called Customer Service. This was my first experience in an actual gigging band. Our first show was in Seattle opening for Gang of Four, along with our friends the Beakers. Fisk and I also occasionally backed up singer John Foster as the Pop Philosophers.
I had done some aimless guitar jamming at home with another KAOS DJ, Bruce Pavitt, who then joined Fisk and I for a four-track recording session in the barn. We recorded two or three spontaneous songs that day, one of which was later released under the name Professional Ethics. This group never performed, but we were soon joined by Conch’s killer rhythm section of jazz-trained drummer Phil Hertz and monster bassist Paul Tison. Something with this bunch clicked, and Tiny Holes was born.
There are conflicting stories as to how we got our name. I used to be sure that my version was the correct one, but now I doubt it. We rehearsed in a cold, drafty shed behind a house in west Olympia that all but one of us lived in at some point. During our six months-or-so of existence we played a handful of gigs in Olympia and Portland. I don’t think we ever made it to Seattle. Our final show was a KAOS benefit at a bar in Oly called Popeye’s, and was recorded by our friend Peter Randlette with a mobile 8-track studio. We all got a rough cassette mix and then the tape went in a closet. The band broke up, and we all moved on to other projects. (Fisk, Phil, and I later backed up visiting weirdo Gary Wilson for a pair of Northwest gigs. Bruce went on to found the Sub Pop label.) Nobody thought much more about that tape, except for Peter and Phil, who would mention it every couple of years.
Fast forward to 2013. Phil started really pushing for us to release this tape as an album. Fisk and I were somewhat ambivalent. Bruce made it clear he wanted nothing to do with such a project. Tison had given up music, moved to Arizona, and nobody had heard from him in years. But Phil kept the conversation going, and Fisk and I were pulled along in the wake of his enthusiasm. Slowly but surely, progress was made. The original tape was baked. Legendary Seattle producer Jack Endino agreed to mix and master it. Comics artist Peter Bagge made the front cover art. Phil had moved to Mexico to care for his aging mother, and was keen to start a crowd-funding campaign to raise money and release it on one of his labels. But then a terrible thing happened: Phil got terminal brain cancer.
This changed the dynamic considerably. Phil’s brain tumor made it difficult for him to speak, read, or write, so his fundraising plan wasn’t going to happen, and none of us felt prepared to take it on. This setback was countered by a renewed sense of urgency to get it done as soon as possible. Our buddy Calvin Johnson stepped up and agreed to release it as an LP on his K label, and made a production deal with his distributor to fund it. Old photos and gig posters were rounded up, and Bob Beerman (ex-drummer of Portland band Pell Mell) did the graphic design. Paul Tison was tracked down and gave us his blessing. We all worked our butts off to get it done before Phil left his body. He got to hear the mastered recordings and see the final design, but sadly he never got to hold the finished product in his hands.
I said goodbye to Phil on Skype. He died the next day, November 5, 2018. I miss him. We all miss him.
The record eventually came out in May 2019, to almost universal neglect. It can be heard and downloaded on BandCamp. And you can buy the LP directly from K Records. A much longer version of this story can be heard in this documentary that was made after Phil passed.