Review: Ween Plays an Epic Return for Portland’s Die-Hard Fans
The enigmatic rock band from the past three decades returned to Oregon during Musicfest NW Presents Project Pabst to find a fan-base that had not forgotten about them. Ween was booked to play downtown Portland’s biggest music festival, and proved to be more than suited for the bill. This was the first year in which two events, Musicfest NW and Project Pabst merged to make two extremely similar festivals one of a kind. This made an gigantic lineup possible, specifically day two of the event, with bands like Unknown Mortal Orchestra, Drive Like Jehu, Tame Impala, and Ween, a band that needs no introduction, filling out a day of music.
The booking of Ween was a bit of a surprise, since the years past of both events consisted mainly of Internet blogger-approved bands and cliché 1980s artists no one remembers liking (Blondie, Duran Duran). Never has there been any musicians so closely affiliated with the jam scene at either festival. Ween is in a category all on their own, however, and some fans would chop my head off for trying to categorize them.
Admittedly, I don’t know a whole lot about this band. I’ve never disliked them by any means, it’s just that their fan-base operates a bit differently than any other. I’m hesitant to say “cult following” because that term is so played out by this point it doesn’t do their dedication justice; it’s more of a religion. Their fans are blindly devout and say words no one else understands like “boognish.”
To give their fans credit, Ween is anything but an average rock band. The variety within their discography is wider than a rainbow, but somehow their voice consistently pulls all their different sounds together. It’s impossible to imagine anyone other than Ween taking stage in the ultra-politically correct city of Portland and playing songs like “Touch My Tooter” and “Mister Richard Smoker,” but they did, and the audience ate it up. I spent the first three songs in the photo pit getting my shots, and I exited to a crowd that reached back several city blocks as well as crowds outside the gates and above the Morrison Bridge who didn’t buy their tickets before they sold out.
The audience remained throughout their eighteen-song set, many too sucked in to take their eyes off the stage. I moved my way to the back for more oxygen, only to notice the dancing got more intense the further I moved back. Ween started playing the funky riffs of “Roses Are Free” and the dancers moved even faster. They then showed more variety by playing one of their earliest songs, “You Fucked Up,” which predictably involves them screaming “You fucked up!” over heavily-distorted guitar. Things slowed down for a dramatic closing of “Fluffy,” the beloved ballad about a dog. The crowd stood still, hoping Ween would rush back on stage and play another. Eventually, the realization that Tame Impala was almost ready to take stage settled over.
What I learned, was what I already knew. Ween had cultivated a massive following throughout their career, and these things rarely happen without reason. This band’s music is a distinct representation of themselves. It’s hard to argue Ween is anything but pure artists, doing precisely what they were born to do.