In early spring of 2020, the certainty of a profound global pandemic was beginning to sink in. Lives, livelihoods and presumptions of security were upended. As the fallout ricocheted at light speed across the globe, one vulnerable group experienced an immediate shock to the system.
“The absolute floor fell out for musicians,” said Jeremy Wilson, lead singer and songwriter of Portland’s iconic band Dharma Bums and founder of the Jeremy Wilson Foundation. Wilson established the foundation in 2010 to help chronically underinsured musicians and their families navigate the health care system and cope with health emergencies from toothaches to hospice care. Wilson started the foundation after experiencing five heart surgeries for a rare condition. He attributed his survival to the financial and spiritual support he received from friends and family.
This past year, COVID-19 brought a whole new cluster of challenges to Portland musicians already living on the edge. “Musicians were stranded all over the country. They were in the middle of their spring tours. Every gig in the country got canceled indefinitely in one moment,” Wilson said.
STREET ROOTS NEWS: Gig workers in Portland’s music scene struggle to secure relief (from June 2020)
In response to the pandemic, Wilson’s already-busy foundation went into overdrive. Within days of the first documented case of the virus in Oregon, the board of the foundation registered with the state to alter its bylaws so it could fundraise through a different platform; it used a charity version of GoFundMe, which allowed it to hand out hard cash.
“We had to be nimble,” Wilson said. “We went from raising money for the foundation at live benefits and sending that money directly to landlords or PGE, to raising funds through GoFundMe and giving out cash. What people needed was cash in their hands so they could choose how they were going to spend that money, at the corner grocery store or whatever. We were trying to make things as simple for them as possible.”
The foundation raised and distributed about $70,000 through the Oregon Musicians 2020 COVID-19 Relief Fund, made possible through the donations of more than 1,000 people.
In recognition of his successful efforts to support Portland musicians in need, Wilson was awarded the Lowenstein Trust Award on Jan. 27. The award is presented annually to the person who demonstrated the greatest contribution, in the opinion of the trustees, to assisting the poor and underprivileged in Portland. Wilson joins such past recipients as Street Roots’ Executive Editor Joanne Zuhl, Sisters of the Road’s Genny Nelson, community art activist Bobby Fouther and the Youth Gangs Outreach Program’s Tonya Dickens.
One day after he was presented the award before the Portland City Council, Street Roots spoke with a bustling, hustling Wilson, who works up to 15 hours a day for the foundation. In his acceptance speech, he said, “Our relatively small (music) community has for years lit up the national music scene with its brilliance.”
Jeremy Wilson established the Jeremy Wilson Foundation in 2010 to help chronically underinsured musicians and their families navigate the health care system and cope with health emergencies.Photo by Adam Pierce
Helen Hill: You’ve been a working musician for decades, so you are in a unique position to understand how COVID has affected the lives of musicians. What’s it like out there?
Jeremy Wilson: We’ve been finding mental health issues are more prevalent this past year. I’ve been in tears this month, what do we do? We’re getting applications every day. Every time we think we have it all in place, something else comes up. Right now there are at least 136 stories of folks freaking out, having a mental breakdown, don’t know how they are going to pay the rent.
We definitely have been helping bridge that gap during COVID on a daily basis. We try to give them as much social navigation as they need. Nine times out of 10 there is something out there, but they just don’t know how to get those resources.
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Hill: I’m thinking of a lyric from one of your songs: “The greatest gift I’ve ever received came from the hardest bargain.” There is this persistent stereotype of the poor artist and musician. Can you talk about how poverty influences artists in both good and bad ways?
Wilson: I love Portland, even the 2021 version, but one reason why the art scene thrived in the ’80s and ’90s and even through the early years of 2000 was because you could live simply with little overhead; not everybody needs a two-car garage and all this stuff. I think the more of that stuff you acquire, the more time it takes up to deal with it. If you are an artist, that art comes from having time. There is something to be said for a little bit of poverty in life, at least in the beginning. I kept my overhead as basic as I could in order to have the freedom of that uninterrupted mental space to create. It’s vital, but at the same time, every 30 days the bills come due.
God bless America, but the capitalist system does not work for artists. The health care system alone will break you if you don’t play the game.
I wish our society could honor each of the parts we play. People need to pull their heads out of their butts and understand how much commerce and money and industry is produced by artists being in your city. There is a music union, but it’s mostly for big studios and the symphony. There’s no such thing as a minimum wage for working musicians, or a health safety net, and that independent contractor status means you are negotiating for every dime you receive.
And at the same time, all the cafes and coffeehouses all the way up to major concert halls, the aesthetic is enhanced by the creative people in the world. The economic impact is in the billions. There are a lot of people in government, land developers even, who don’t buy it or believe it, but even the migration of musicians that came from around the country was based on the grunge movement we were part of in Seattle. One reason people are attracted to Portland is the musicians.
But musicians have to fight for every scrap of bread. Why do we have to constantly justify our existence? Just like we need accountants, we also need artists, their beauty and goodwill. It’s a way to remember; I actually think it’s a way to get your synapses firing and feel better.
Hill: You say musicians and artists need time to create. Has COVID at least given them that?
Wilson: I have to say I am deeply suited for long-term quarantine. I like to write, contemplate and have quiet space for that. Everything people project on musicians — drugs, sex and rock ’n’ roll — maybe for a second there’s that Bohemian thing, but if you are going to be a longevity artist, you have to have time to work and contemplate. And I do think there’s been that aspect, the traffic slowing down, everything calming down. Yes, we are stressed about money, but I think there’s something that could be potentially good for musicians. It hasn’t been an easy time, but I’ve heard some beautiful songs.
Hill: I’d like to hear you talk about that essential dynamic between musicians and a live audience, since that’s what’s been lost and what we may not get back for some time.
STREET ROOTS NEWS: In an era of social distancing, Portland musicians find alternatives to performing live
Wilson: One of the few payoffs I think most artists and performers get in lieu of actual cash money in their pockets is the vibe and the experience, the communal experience, making music and dancing, being joyful. I know I’ve suffered from depression over the years, and one of the main things that kept me going was being able to process things through music and that connection to people.
I’ll tell you, the real working musician, the one out there gigging every night in Portland or throughout the state, I know that musical community is their family. One thing they have in common, from the R&B scene, heavy metal, punk, Americana: There is the same loving community vibe in every one of those scenes, no difference.
And when the ecosystem of the music scene broke down like it did this year, I never imagined this happening; I was really naïve. I miss the heck out of performing all the time.
I love the idea of vibration, that there are sine waves and sound waves that are pulsing through the universe. When I was a young man, I really did believe that it was a legitimate thing to do to play as loud as The Who so your vibrations would go out there and counter bombs and things. That was a legitimate thing going on in my brain and heart. I wanted to counter all the negative vibrations. I love rock ’n’ roll and Pete Townshend smashing his guitar in front of an audience.
Hill: Speaking of Pete Townshend, there’s a story out there that you actually sat on his knee when you were a little boy.
Wilson: I remember it like it was yesterday. It was the early ‘70s when he was touring Who’s Next, one of his most famous tours. He came to the Meher Baba Spiritual Center in Myrtle Beach, North Carolina, with his wife for a break. My family was at the center at the time, too, but everyone at the center was like, “Don’t gush over them, give them space, let them relax.” So they show up, and my mom had tea with them, and a few days into his stay, he complained to someone, “What the hell’s going on? Why hasn’t anyone asked me to play guitar?” So literally from the moment he said that, the phone started ringing, and those of us lucky enough to be in on the phone chain, we went to a screened-in kitchen by the lagoon, and everyone gathered, maybe 40 or 50 of us. Since I was a little kid, 6 or 7, I got to sit right at his feet, and then I guess I sat on his knee. He played for hours. He played his famous orange guitar.
Hill: There was a time when Nirvana regularly opened for your band, Dharma Bums. They went on to eclipse you, but instead of being embittered, you doubled down on a very different mission and dedicated yourself to establishing a safety net for musicians. To date, over $850,000 has been raised through JWF to directly enhance the well-being of over 300 Oregon musicians. Where does this altruism and intention come from?
Wilson: It’s hard to divorce the over-arcing spirituality I grew up in. My mom had an insane influence on me, coming out of Detroit, out of the civil rights era. I was marching on Washington with her when I was a kid. I was influenced by Meher Baba, Wendell Berry, E.E. Cummings and Cat Stevens, artists and writers that talked about the mystical journey.
It’s always been about that journey of the self. And I can’t divorce the fact that having grown up pretty isolated in Scotts Mills (the Wilson family moved to Scotts Mills, Oregon, when Jeremy was young), I was this artistic kid, and I had a lot of adversity. Lots of kids were threatened by a ballet-dancing, Meher Baba-loving Buddhist freak. I got a lot of punches for it, a lot of abuse for it. That affected me and made me want to stand up for artists.
Hill: Where is the Jeremy Wilson Foundation headed?
Wilson: Lofty hopes! I’d like to see an endowment-level fund established. If we put 3 million in the bank, for the rest of eternity it could generate $100,000 annually to help out Portland musicians.
We could follow the steps of an organization in Shreveport, Louisiana, that has an actual musician’s health clinic. We could potentially have a clinic three times a week for artists and musicians to see a doctor.
Right now, we are just looking forward to the pandemic being over so we can assess and take away. I am depending on the excellent professional people on the board to help find the future. We want to be that big community hug.
Hill: What does this award mean to you?
Wilson: I mentioned Street Roots in my speech to City Hall yesterday. I said it was an honor to be included in the company of Street Roots, p:ear, Sisters of the Road and the Oregon Food Bank.
Who doesn’t love Street Roots? It’s a wonderful part of the city. Everything about Street Roots is Portland. And Sisters of the Road. As an 18-year-old playing Satyricon all the time, I found myself eating there every once in a while.
So I’m honored and humbled to be in that company. And inspired to keep going. I’ve wanted to throw in the towel sometimes, to be honest. Ten years, 15-hour days. Our board has gone from meeting once every three months to literally meeting every week this past year.
So yeah, I feel refreshed.