The five members of the Goddamn Gentlemen--Mark Gastar (vocals, guitar),
David Rives (lead guitar), Kyle Huth (drums), James Winters (bass), and Jason
Flemming (keys)--are squeezed into the second-story backroom of a Northeast
tavern known for its pastel wall murals and 22-oz. draft barrels of PBR. As
we assemble ourselves in this cramped, interrogation room-like space, I am reasonably
sure that I'm manageably buzzed. The Gents, to varying degrees, are all full-on
hammered. The difference will matter little as a mysterious band supporter keeps
entering the room to ensure all mugs brim with cut-rate amber, fast reducing
our exchanges to a muddled riot of attempted dialogue.
For over three years now, these Goddamn Gentlemen have kicked out a mess of
shameless garage-riff thievery with workmanlike, off-the-clock abandon, sporting
their sturdy, outdated formal wear in sordid clubs across Portland and beyond.
Theirs is a teetering brand of out-of-control rock n roll, and they play it
with a sense of heart outstripped only by the processing powers of their Herculean
livers.
But only when I inquire about the band's penchant for looking nice onstage
do things really boil over.
"I don't think we wear the suits that much any more," says David.
Kyle is quick to disagree, but speaks slowly and deliberately. "We sometimes
put the suits on because it's going to be a good night." Pause. "Of having fun."
Pause. "But it's basically a prop. All of us here are archetypes to begin with."
Mark hisses in unbelieving amusement.
"Archetypes?!?" he explodes, but others rally to Kyle's aid and insist he be
allowed to continue.
"You know," says Mark when Kyle finishes restating himself a moment later,
"I've actually thought about this question, because I know there are a lot of
dumbasses in the world out there who are like, 'Hey, what's with the suits?'
The suit is the fucking uniform of the rock n roller. The fact of the matter
is, we're paid entertainers and we should dress for the occasion."
"And," Kyle begins, "we appropriate enough--"
"--archetypes?" I gamely suggest.
"Suits," corrects Kyle. "To make it feel like a classy rock n roll show."
Amidst the ensuing cacophony of ensemble yelling, David obscurely offers, "And
we're all gainfully employed."
This registers as immediately relevant to Mark: "We never even thought about
wearing suits until my old boss said, 'Hey Mark, do you want six suits?' And
he gave them to me and I was like, goddamn, yeah! And we said, 'Let's wear suits.'
And we wore 'em and we liked it. It worked. If you're in a band, you go and
play a goddamn show, it should be a fucking event. Dress up for it. Care about
it. Nobody else does."
"Exactly," chimes David.
"I told you I had thought about it, man."
Yeah. But do the members of this rowdy crew consider themselves true gentlemen?
"This is what I think about the band name," James outlays. "You picture a fucking
60-year-old salesman sitting at the bar and his life's a mess. And they want
to throw him out, and he turns around and he goes, 'You can't 86 me--I'm a goddamned
gentleman.' That pretty much sums it up."
Of course, not all the band members can be in agreement on this. Kyle says
something about the name being a paradoxical combination of the sublime and
the profane, commentary that only serves to ratchet up the chaos in the room.
Within this vocal storm, Jason, the quietest Gent of the evening, leans over
conspiratorially and whispers: "Subliminal profanity."
In 20 minutes' time he will have two bandmates and the bartender attempting
to talk him down from standing on a barstool.
Typically, it is Mark who has the last word: "I think all five of us are decent
human beings that wouldn't fuck anybody over. As far as the name goes, we sat
down in a bar, drank a lot of beer, and it turned out that the Goddamn Gentlemen
was a better name than the Mexicans. Which we were that close to going with."
Elogie al dios y pase la cerveza, hijo.
