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From the street, it was nothing—a run-down Old Town storefront, buttressed by sheets of plywood, scarred by graffiti, its modest sign smothered by rock posters. But when you swung open the door and stepped inside, you entered a fearsome new dimension—a gritty, cavernous, no man’s land pulsing with sweaty bodies, wreathed in nihilism and cigarette smoke. If you dropped something on the floor, you didn’t want to pick it up.
The club’s owner, George Touhouliotis, didn’t set out to start a punk club in 1984. At first it was more like a dive bar with a stage in back where people read poetry or played acoustic guitar. Then promoter Ed Jones booked a couple of New Wave bands, and suddenly Satyricon was a scene.
During its improbable 20-year run, Satyricon defined Portland’s punk scene.
“It was home to early incarnations of just about every important Northwest rock band,” wrote WW’s Casey Jarman in a 2010 retrospective. “From Seattle supergroups like Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden and Mudhoney to Portland’s own rock vanguard of bands like the Wipers, Dead Moon, Everclear, Nu Shooz, the Dandy Warhols, Heatmiser, Sleater-Kinney…and any other group that was worth its weight in flannel, leather or torn denim.”
Punk was never just about music. It was, in its own way, an ideology. Satyricon became the headquarters for an outlaw community of rascals, rebels, misfits, and dreamers, fueled by a high-octane mashup of sex, drugs, and power chords. Inevitably, the club closed and the era drifted into static like a radio signal on the drive to Spokane.
The building was torn down years ago, but that doesn’t mean Satyricon is dead. Want to channel its spirit? Find someone else who’s just as pissed off about the world as you are, and make music with them. Loud. Raw. Defiant.
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