Clark County is home to a thriving folk music scene. Misty River, led by Vancouver’s Carol Harley, commands a regional fan base and routinely packs houses for its local concerts. Vancouver guitarist Doug Smith has a Grammy award to his credit and regularly performs in the area. Battle Ground folk singer Tom May hosts a national radio show and puts on a benefit concert each winter that attracts top-flight folk artists from around the country

But the glue that holds the scene together is Amboy’s Wayne Hoffman.

Hoffman’s contributions to the local folk scene are numerous. He performs with the Clark County Benign Band. He advertises upcoming concerts through a mailing list that he routinely sends to more than 200 musicians and fans. He hosts the North Clark Folk Festival every August.

“He’s just the soul of what this music is all about,” said May, longtime host of the radio program “River City Folk.”

Hoffman’s lasting and perhaps most well-known contribution to the local folk scene is a monthly open microphone session at the North Clark Historical Museum in Amboy. The event, which gives local musicians the chance to perform a few tunes for fans the first Friday of each month, celebrated its eighth anniversary at that location January.

The open microphone sessions date back to the early 1980s, shortly after Hoffman moved to Clark County. He attended sessions in the now-defunct Columbia Arts Center before starting his own session in the Academy in downtown Vancouver.

The sessions really took off in about 1998, when Hoffman moved them to the Old Liberty Theater in Ridgefield. The event drew 25 or more musicians to play each month, forcing Hoffman to extend it from three to four hours. “It was a great place,” he said, recalling that musicians and fans alike would line up before the theater doors ever opened.

Hoffman moved the open microphone sessions to the North Clark Historical Museum in January 2003. About 18 musicians performed that first night, with another 90 fans in the audience. The following week drew 110 fans and musicians.

The turnout isn’t usually that high. These days, Hoffman says that about 13 or 14 musicians show up each month, with another 35 to 40 fans of all ages in the audience.

“People are always looking for a place to go play and to showcase their talent” and test new material, Hoffman said. “That’s where open mics come in.”

Location, location

Location is likewise important, Hoffman said. In some bars musicians must compete with pool tables and dart boards. Without those distractions at the North Clark Historical Museum, “They know they’re getting listened to,” Hoffman said. “You’re going to get that attention span. It’s not going to fade. People know they can come here, play a song, and people are going to actually listen to what they’ve written.”

Hoffman, who performs a mix of original and cover tunes himself, gets a front-row seat to what he feels are the best musicians the county has to offer. “There are some jaw-droppers. You get people who come in on a whim or whatever, and they’ll just knock your socks off because they’re amazingly talented,” he said.

One of those musicians is guitarist Smith, who met Hoffman at one of the early open microphone sessions after moving to Clark County in the ’90s. “There was a ton of energy,” he said. “I still suffered from stage fright back then. Just getting onstage and being a part of this community was wonderful, and it really helped me become a better performer.”

The monthly sessions in Amboy give performers such as Smith a place to become comfortable onstage, perfect their craft, and even develop a following.

“People get to see them and go ‘Hey where are you playing?’” Hoffman said. “I think that opens up a lot.”

To that end, Hoffman is a champion for the Clark County folk scene and its acclaimed musicians. “Their talent is as good or better than anybody that’s in the spotlight,” he said.

The scene is about more than just the music. Musicians and fans alike routinely come together after each session at someone’s house — often Hoffman’s — where they talk, eat and play music until the early morning.

May, the national radio show host, is among those that Hoffman counts as a close friend. May appreciates Hoffman’s devotion to the sessions and agrees that there is untapped talent in Clark County. “It’s very affirming to me to see the enthusiasm of the amateur musicians who get up and play,” May said. “It reminds somebody like me why I started doing this in the first place.”

The scene, close as it is, isn’t without challenges. “I’d like to get an influx of new people to come and play, and younger people to come and get into the folk scene,” Hoffman said.

He’s been encouraged by some of the young musicians he’s talked to. “They’re actually interested in folk music and contemporary folk, and they want to get into that genre, which is nice,” he said.

Stereotypes aren’t helping in the effort to attract new fans. “Folk music is pigeonholed,” Hoffman said. “It’s not a mainstream thing anymore like it was in the ’60s.”

Hoffman hopes the genre’s history will allow it to succeed in the future. “Folk music endures. It’s always going to be there and gets handed down generation to generation. I think it’s always going to be around,” he said.

As long as there’s a scene, Hoffman figures to be a part of it. “I never really thought about ‘Is it going to end?’ But even if it did, I would just go look somewhere else for another one.”

As far as problems go, having a difficult-to-pronounce, scary or intimidating last name doesn’t rank up there with, say, global warming. It’s probably not even in the same realm as having a flat tire.

But that doesn’t mean that having a difficult last name doesn’t come with complications — as this reporter is willing to attest.

There are the well-meaning grocery store cashiers who insist on thanking by last name. There are teachers on the first day of class. There are hotel clerks who wish “Mr. Wastrowski” to have a nice stay and restaurant employees who call out for “Mr. Wastrada, party of four.”

A bungled last name happens often enough to those who aren’t in the spotlight.

But for someone like Vancouver’s Skip Enge, it’s another part of living life in the public eye.
The Vancouver artist is always amused when he hears his last name pronounced at events such as gallery receptions.

“It’s actually quite funny to see how people respond to that hot seat of pronunciation,” Enge said. “I wouldn’t want to deal with that.”

Enge isn’t alone. Other artists and musicians throughout Clark County empathize with those who try their hands at their last names.

Most employ a witty one-liner or clever joke in response to mispronounced names.
That’s part of the coping process, said Will Meek, psychologist at Washington State University Vancouver, who has helped people come to grips with difficult names.
Last names can become a burden, especially when people are teased, he said. “For something like that, their name becomes associated with so much pain.”

Some people never learn to cope, so they change them or come up with nicknames, Meek said.

His advice for those with difficult last names is to find a practical way to — in a friendly manner — correct others when they mispronounce it, by saying something like “Everybody gets my name wrong, but here’s how you actually say it.” He also encourages those with difficult last names to research the history of their name. “You can connect the name to someone bigger than yourself,” Meek said. “For a lot of people, that ends up bringing a source of meaning to it. It’s not just this funny thing; it’s something that has real significance and value.”

And for the people who pronounce those difficult last names? Meek advises those people to ask first and not make assumptions about pronunciation. Taking an interest in the name and valuing it, rather than making a flippant comment, is also a positive way to better the experience, Meek said.

But having a difficult last name doesn’t have to be a traumatic experience, as the following people have proved. Each has found ways to deal with mispronounced names, make light of the situation and accept that his or her name is — and always will be — distinctive.

Those are positive signs, Meek said. “Speaking as a therapist, the things that cause the most pain give us a wonderful opportunity to grow.”

Leslie ‘Skip’ Enge

57, Vancouver

Occupation: Artist.

Pronounced: En-gie, with a hard “g” sound, like in the word “gold”.

Nationality: Norwegian.

How have people mangled it?

“En-guh,” “En-gee” and “En-gah” are all pretty common, Enge said. “Only four letters, but lots of possibilities,” he said. “I’m fortunate that it’s only two syllables. It’s only four letters, but it’s amazing how variant it can be.”

How do you help them get it right?

“I ignore it. Do you really want to correct people?”

Does it get frustrating to hear it mispronounced?

“I just kind of smile,” he said. “I don’t take offense. I’m way past taking offense. I don’t think I ever did, actually, because I knew as a kid that I had an unusual last name.” “There’s no reason to be upset about something like that,” he said. “I’m endlessly entertained. People get creative.”

Kirby Swatosh

49, Brush Prairie

Occupation: Musician.

Pronounced: Swa-tosh. The first syllable is pronounced like “swat,” sans the “t”, and the second syllable is like “OshKosh B’Gosh”.

Nationality: Czechoslovakian. “Originally, it wasn’t spelled the way that it’s spelled now,” Swatosh said. “That was thanks to someone at Ellis Island, I guess.”

How have people mangled it?

“Swu-tosh” and “Swattish” are the most common mispronunciations, Swatosh said.

How do you help them get it right?

“I’ll kind of hesitate and let someone give it a shot,” he said. “I’m pretty forgiving and say ‘close enough,’ unless it’s really butchered, and then I’ll correct them.

“I tell them how I pronounce it, and I let them know that there’s a lot of room for how you want to say it, as far as I’m concerned. I’m not very militant on it.”

Does it get frustrating to hear it mispronounced?

“Oh no, not at all,” Swatosh said. “Having a wife who’s Brazilian, and having gone to Brazil and struggled with other people’s languages and pronunciations, I’m really forgiving on that kind of thing. I have empathy for people taking a stab at it.”

It’s not just his last name that gets lost in translation:

Swatosh leads the Kirby Swatosh Band. But he once considered renaming the band Swat’s Candy Kitchen, in honor of his great grandfather, who owned a candy kitchen in Iowa by the same name.

“I thought it’d be cool to carry and use it for music,” he said.

That idea lasted for one show.

“When me and my band mates came in, on the chalkboard it says ‘Swastika Kitchen,’” he said.

His first reaction was, “Wow, that’s really sending the wrong message,” he said. “It’s definitely not my style of music or my political viewpoint.”

Barbara Szkutnik

Battle Ground

Occupation: Artist.

Pronounced: Skut-nik.

Nationality: Polish. But Szkutnik said that some people have assured her it’s Ukrainian.

How have people mangled it?

“I’ve heard a couple of strange little sounds that come out of people in trying to deal with that extra letter,” she said. “And everyone says that they’d like to buy a vowel.”

How do you help them get it right?

“I usually just tell them to ignore the ‘z,’” Szkutnik said. “Just go from the ‘s’ to the ‘k.’ And even that, it’s as though they can’t make the connection in their heads to eliminate the Z.”

Does it get frustrating to hear it mispronounced?

“I don’t often give them a chance to mispronounce it anymore, because it was frustrating at one point, and it seemed as though everyone thought they were the first person to make the connection that it sounds like ‘Sputnik,’” she said. “And sometimes that would get old.”

It wasn’t always like this:

Szkutnik grew up in the Midwest, where Polish, Hungarian and Russian last names were common. “No one seemed to react to it like they do out here,” she said. “There were so many strange names.”

Bev Jozwiak

58, Vancouver

Occupation: Artist.

Pronounced: Jaws-wick.

Nationality: Polish.

How have people mangled it?

Hose-wee-ack and Ose-wee-ack (with a silent J) are common, Jozwiak said. “It’s always “wee-ack” at the very least,” she said. “It’s always amazing how people butcher it.”

How do you help them get it right?

“I’m a talker, so I say it’s ‘Jaws’ and ‘Wick,’” she said. “Then they seem to remember it.”

Does it get frustrating to hear it mispronounced?

“I don’t really care that much, as long as they like my art,” she said. “I don’t even correct them sometimes.

“Some names, if you really slow down and look at them, they should be pronounceable. But I don’t feel like mine really is.”

Getting her last name right doesn’t happen often:

Jozwiak guesses that “close to zero percent” of people who try her last name get it right. A cashier at Safeway once thanked her by her last name and correctly pronounced it, she said. “I said ‘Whoa, you got it right,’” Jozwiak said, before asking the cashier if they knew of any relatives in the area with that last name. “I really do remember it,” she said. “I don’t expect people to get it right.”

Her last name is helpful to sniff out telemarketers:

“When they’re so far off when they call, I usually assume they’re sales,” she said. “Then I can say, ‘Oh no, there’s nobody here by that name.’”

It didn’t take long for a post-show Shari’s stop to become a tradition for the Heritage High School drama department.

It began during the 2005-2006 school year, when cast and crew members met friends and family to unwind at the Shari’s restaurant in Orchards after the department’s production of “Oklahoma.”

That first outing drew about 40 people. “We’d be all across the restaurant,” said Chrissy Lewis, who was a freshman at the time. “There would be people all around the entire circle of the restaurant, and people would have to walk around the restaurant to talk to each other.”

Lewis, 20, knew it would be the first of many gatherings. “It was so fun, and we were like, ‘We have to do this next week,’” she said. “It became this unspoken tradition. We always went to Shari’s afterward.”

A sense of community had formed over mozzarella sticks, pie and milkshakes.

But the genesis of the tradition wasn’t the food. Early on, it was all about convenience. “At first, it was just because it was probably the only thing that was open 24 hours that was big enough to hold a whole bunch of people,“ Lewis said. “And it was really close — right next to the school.”

Shari’s is one of the few sit-down restaurants open late enough to accommodate restless 21-and-younger crowds in Clark County. The family-style restaurant dishes up breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert at all hours of night, and it’s gained traction with high-school students as a late-night gathering spot where friendships are formed and inside jokes are created.

The late-night scene is more than high-schoolers. On any given night, the staff might serve retirees, families, diners looking for food after a trip to the bar and working professionals, said Nadine Waldon, an assistant manager at the Orchards restaurant. It’s not unusual, even at 1:30 a.m. on a Saturday, for at least one-third of the restaurant’s booths and tables to be filled with diners of all ages and backgrounds.

But for all the diversity, young adults and high school students dominate the late-night scene at Shari’s.

And the drama students from Heritage High School are a mainstay at the restaurant, convening in groups that range from five or six to 40 or more.

The students might eat an appetizer or order a slice of pie, but for the most part, they’re there for the conversation, which can last until well after midnight.

‘Open our minds’

They flit from topic to topic. At around 11 p.m. on a recent Friday, a couple of friends started talking about “Harry Potter,” which led others to interrupt with rapid-fire tangents about the languages spoken in “Lord of the Rings” and a revelation that one of the group members has never seen “Star Wars.” That led to an aside in which one student admitted that, until recently, he didn’t know about the rivalry between the University of Oregon and Oregon State University. Meanwhile, the other group members carried on with their own conversations, some raising their voices to be heard over the other banter at the table.
The group tries to police itself but occasionally gets loud enough to prompt glances from nearby diners and a visit from a waitress. The reminder to quiet down usually works — for a few minutes, anyway.

It’s not all pop culture and inside jokes.

“Conversation leads to different mind-sets,” said Katie Dunne, 15, a sophomore at Heritage. “The easy-going, laid-back atmosphere gives us the chance to open our minds to talk more deeply and philosophically. We’re talking incessantly and nonstop about the most random things, and then these philosophical, theological and political viewpoints will pop up.”

Late nights at Shari’s were a tradition for Dunne long before high school. Growing up, she would make late-night trips to Shari’s with her father, where they would talk over slices of pie. “We’d sit, and we’d talk,” she said. “There’s no bridges or burdens, we’re just talking.”

The restaurant — and the conversations that have taken place within its six-sided walls — has been instrumental to Dunne’s upbringing. “It seems like you’re going through the different stages of life. Not only are we growing up at Heritage or in our homes, but we’re growing up in Shari’s,” she said. “And it’s really become part of our life.”

Folks at all stages of their lives relax at the restaurant. “It’s nice to sit down and unwind here, just relax,” said Lowell Weiss, 71, of Vancouver.

Weiss spent a recent Friday evening enjoying dessert with his wife, Shirley, and their friends Donna and Jim Gratton after dancing at the nearby Clark County Square Dance Center. It would be almost midnight before the group went home for the evening.
It’s the familiarity and convenience that attracts Donna Gratton to Shari’s after a long night of dancing to big band music.

“They’re always there, there’s one on every corner, and they’re open 24 hours,” said Donna, 73, of Vancouver. “The waitresses are usually friendly.”

It’s that chance to bond that keeps the diners coming back, Waldon said. “I think this is their favorite restaurant, you know? When somebody’s got a favorite restaurant, it becomes more than just a place to eat. They could put together a club sandwich at home,” she said. “They come here not just for the food, not just for the friendliness, but there is an experience that they get here that’s real close to family.”

The Shari’s staff has seen the Heritage students grow closer together over the years.
The group might get boisterous at times, but the restaurant staff largely enjoys the camaraderie and fun-loving spirit of the students. “Everybody from the football team to the drama team, they just love it here,” Waldon said. “They get a little loud, but it’s happy loud. They’re not pouring the salt and pepper out of the shakers or anything. They’re no trouble at all.”

That group passed the Shari’s tradition to incoming students over the years. The gatherings have expanded beyond post-show gatherings to include stops after football games and other school events.

That communal feeling keeps Dunne coming back.

“The best part of Shari’s is the memories that have collected over the years,” Dunne said. “There, you just have the ability to open up. That’s what Shari’s is — a comfortable place. It’s almost like a second home.”

Trying to find the pulse of Clark County’s live music scene has always been tough. It became more difficult in September, when downtown Vancouver’s 15th Street Pub closed.

The pub, which was a month shy of celebrating its three-year anniversary, showcased up-and-coming acts for the 21-and-older crowd.

But Clark County’s burgeoning indie music scene has survived setbacks before and quietly kept its momentum because of the people behind it.

Dwayne Spence, Don Griswold and Ben Culley have each played a part in growing Clark County’s independent music scene.

These men don’t book the nationally known acts that headline The Amphitheater at Clark County or Cascade Bar and Grill. Instead, they shape the scene from the ground up by giving local artists a voice and the chance to build a fan base.

Why is a local indie music scene important?

Without it, Clark County artists wouldn’t have as many opportunities.

Live performances also inspire music-lovers to do more than just listen. “Maybe one kid decides ‘I’m not going to sit around and do nothing. I’m going to do something,’” said Spence, who books musicians to perform at gathering spots along Main Street in Vancouver’s Uptown Village.

Spence, Griswold and Culley are each shaping Clark County’s music scene today in different ways.

Spence showcases young bands in intimate settings such as Moxie’s on Main, a soda shop, and Mon Ami Crepes & Coffee. Griswold rounds up an eclectic mix of regional acts at Old Liberty Theater in Ridgefield. Once a year in August, Culley transforms a farm in east Clark County into the hub for a Christian music festival, attracting 3,000 to 5,000 fans to see more than 100 bands.

Spence, Griswold and Culley talked to The Columbian about how Clark County’s live music scene has grown and where it’s going. Their interviews have been edited for length and clarity.

Dwayne Spence, 32, booker, Moxie’s on Main and Mon Ami Crepes & Coffee, bassist, banjo and slide guitar player with folk rock group Lincoln’s Beard.

If there is a concentration of venues that help develop Clark County’s independent music scene, it’s along Main Street in Vancouver’s Uptown Village, where Spence has booked shows for three years. Currently, he lines up acts to perform at Moxie’s on Main and Mon Ami Crepes & Coffee. The smaller venues provide performance space where up-and-coming artists can build a fan base.

How did Clark County’s music scene arrive where it is today?

I think it’s due to the close proximity to Portland. I think people are inspired about what’s going on over there and want it to happen here.

Where do you see the scene five years from now?

It will just be bigger and bigger and bigger. No one will even know my name anymore, because everyone will be doing their own thing. They’ll be booking their own art shows, doing their own music and doing their own thing, because they saw it happen here. And that should be the role of these places as of now. It’s just getting everything going.

How has the scene changed since you moved to Vancouver four years ago?

More people have come out of their houses and started doing stuff in the small little area and all over. Once people saw stuff happening or they do see stuff happening, they start coming up with ideas.

I’m sure there are thousands of people in Portland who still laugh and call it Vantucky. But people have come over here and noticed it. They know.

Don Griswold, 47, co-owner, Old Liberty Theater.

Don Griswold hosts a concert series each year, bringing local, regional and national acts to the 200-seat movie-theater-turned-concert-hall on Ridgefield’s North Main Avenue. The series’ performers, many of whom call Clark County or Portland home, perform chamber music, classic, folk, bluegrass, blues and Celtic music. Between the series’ shows, Griswold has gained a reputation for booking a variety of acts that give fans diverse live music choices. In April, the theater hosted Fishtank Ensemble, a Bay Area group that blends opera, folk, gypsy, jazz, Balken and flamenco influences. Later that month, Astra Heights of Los Angeles performed a mix of pop and punk tunes.

What role does the Old Liberty Theater play in Clark County’s music scene?

I want to be one of the premier little venues. We’ve taken an old theater that was boarded up and hidden back here and brought it back to life. It’s got historic value.

Who are some local or regional musicians you’re excited about?

3 Leg Torso is very unique and original. I’m really excited about Portland Cello Project, because I love instrumental music. Terry Robb always excites me. He’s a great guy. Three Together with Doug Smith — he’s in the concert series. They’re awesome, and he is just so fabulous with the guitar, it’s just ridiculous. He’s world class.

How has Clark County’s music scene arrived where it is today?

Has it arrived? It’s a constant state of arriving. From my perspective, I’m seeing people that were kids who were just looking at an instrument who are now playing. It’s a state of arriving.

When you’ve got MySpace, YouTube and access to all these different things, that has affected almost everything, especially the music. Almost anybody can produce some level of CD and figure out a way to get it out there. That’s quite a bit different.

How is the scene different than it was five years ago?

The roots of the theater are in a little deeper. There are more people who know that we’re out here. There are some national acts from the East Coast that have played here.

How is the scene different than when you purchased the theater in 1995?

There’s a mixture of genres.

With the tuning up of Esther Short Park, that’s brought in bigger names. The Amphitheater at Clark County has brought in bigger names. Hopefully that will continue to happen.

Ben Culley, 24, director, TomFest Christian music festival.

TomFest brings together more than 100 alternative Christian acts for several days of shows at the Lacamas Conference Center in Camas each August. The festival’s roots are in the Skamania County Fairgrounds in Stevenson where it started 13 years ago, but Culley helped relaunch the festival in Camas in 2005. In 2008, Culley took over as festival director. Today, TomFest is the largest Christian music festival within 200 miles; the nearest festivals that are comparable in size are the Creation Festival in George and the Freedom Fest in Snohomish. The most recent festival drew artists with Clark County connections, such as Ruth and Enation, as well as nationally known acts, including MxPx.

How has TomFest evolved over the past four years?

The first three years were much more open to Christian and non-Christian bands. It didn’t work.

This year was the first year we really got strict. We decided that we were going to require pastoral recommendations for each band. It ruled out a pretty big number of bands, and it put the spiritual emphasis of the festival more in the spotlight.

What role does TomFest play in the Clark County music scene?

We’re the alternative to what contemporary Christian markets are doing. The role that we play in Clark County is, we’re the only Christian music festival within 200 miles. We’re the alternative to the festivals that you used to have to take your kids across the state or down into California to get to.

Does TomFest play a larger role in the Clark County music scene?

It does, in the same way as The Amphitheater at Clark County. They’re going to start drawing larger acts. Anytime something like that happens, it grows Clark County’s music scene.

It creates a venue where the Smashing Pumpkins are coming to town. It definitely helps grow it.

We’re helping grow it by drawing in hundreds of bands that maybe would not have come through the area. They might have come through and played Portland.

Where do you see the scene in another five years?

Kids are starting to listen to stuff with melodies, rather than being so narrow-minded. I don’t know. That’s kind of a wait-and-see. That’s the question I’m asking. Where are things going to be at in five years? I don’t know.

After about six months and a handful of shows together, the pop-punk quartet Emerson Hope is about to get its big break.

The band, made up of four Evergreen High School students, won the MusicFest competition in mid-April, securing an invitation to perform at the Rose Festival’s Waterfront Village in late May and early June.

It’s been a meteoric rise for a band that didn’t exist seven months ago.

D.J. Unlayao, 18, and his brother Christian Unlayao, 16, have written music together for about three years. But little came of it until the brothers invited 18-year-old drummer Mychal Schneider to join their band in late November. A month later, bassist Casey Burgess, 17, was added to the mix. Emerson Hope was formed.

About a week after the quartet got together, it played its first show at a church in Oregon City. Going into the show, Christian Unlayao remembered thinking, “I’m not going to be able to do this. I’m going to mess up.” Whereas most bands need months of rehearsal and practice before performing for audiences, Emerson Hope was on stage in less than a week.

But the band powered through its set. None of the band members interacted with the crowd or moved around the stage. Afterward, D.J. Unlayao said, “I can’t imagine how people thought it rocked. We had no stage presence.”

Emerson Hope refined its sound, which blends pop sensibilities with a harder, guitar-driven punk sound, through twice-a-week practices over the next four months. The group experimented with harmonies and melodies. It added sing-along sections and hand claps to its songs to encourage audience participation.

D.J. Unlayao worked to improve his song-writing skills. His songs touched on topics familiar to high school students – relationships, namely. “This Feeling” describes a girl who likes a guy oblivious to her advances. Another, “Don’t Let Yourself Go,” follows a girl who moves from boyfriend to boyfriend.

Emerson Hope didn’t hone its skills through live shows, though.

Since forming, the group has performed only seven shows together, including a pair of acoustic sets at Fusion Bubble Tea in Vancouver, an Evergreen High School talent show and a concert at Portland’s Hawthorne Theatre.

Despite the relative lack of live show experience, the group felt good going into its mid-April performance at MusicFest. “We came in there with confidence, like ‘We’re going to rock this,’” D.J. Unlayao said.

But during the competition, a series of mishaps eroded that confidence. Early in the set, Schneider’s bass drum pedal fell apart, and the drum’s microphone stopped working. During one song, D.J. Unlayao’s voice squeaked. “I think we fooled ourselves, in a way. We didn’t think we gave a good performance,” ­Schneider said.

But it was good enough to beat 11 21-and-younger acts, including three bands and one singer from Clark County. A variety of factors contributed to the win, said MusicFest emcee and Waterfront Village manager Peter Mott. “I think it was the connection they had with the audience, the energy they exuded, the cohesiveness and the passion,” Mott said. “They owned that stage.”

Following the Waterfront Village performance, which will be the group’s biggest to date, D.J. Unlayao and Schneider will graduate from Evergreen High School and enroll at Clark College in the fall. The group hopes to record a demo CD and play local shows throughout the summer.

Through it all, the group expects to grow closer together. “We’re all best friends,” Christian Unlayao said. “We can hang out, and it doesn’t have to be about music.”

To know Washougal’s Kelly Ritter is to know that she is proud of her alma mater, Washington State University.

Her laptop is emblazoned with the Cougar logo. She proudly displays an 8-foot inflatable Butch — the Cougars’ mascot — in her front yard. Her cell phone ring tone is the WSU fight song. The Washougal High School teacher hangs a stuffed husky — the mascot for WSU’s biggest rival, the University of Washington — from a noose in her classroom during the week leading up to the football game between the teams each year.

Then there is Ritter’s Cougar room. One of the spare bedrooms in Ritter’s home has been converted to a shrine in honor of WSU.

“When people come over and see my Cougar room and all my Cougar stuff, I think they get this realization of what a huge thing this is to me,” she said. “They start to think I’m loony.” Crimson and gray — WSU’s official colors — fill up Ritter’s room, literally from ceiling to floor. Hand-painted Cougar logos make up a border along the top of the room’s walls, and a Cougars doormat sits at the foot of the bed, itself adorned with WSU blankets and pillows.
“It’s become a hobby in some ways,” she said. “Some people collect model cars or whatever. I collect Cougar stuff.”

And she’s not alone. Sports fanatics around the globe take their passions to levels that most casual fans don’t always comprehend. They chant at games, spend hours debating lineups and trades on online message boards and, yes, devote entire rooms to their favorite team.
With the NFL’s Super Bowl a week away, we wanted to know what makes a diehard fan so different.

“‘Fan’ is a shortened version of ‘fanatic,’ and that’s where it comes from,” said Lee Brand, who studied sports psychology at the University of Utah and is a professor of health and physical education at Clark College. “Once you find something you’re passionate about, you go above and beyond the call of duty.”

The feeling of belonging to something bigger and believing that they can help the team are powerful motivators for the most diehard fans, he said. “It’s a social element that some people really thrive on,” Brand said. “It’s a way of showing what they’re passionate about. And some people, based on their personalities, take it to the extreme a little bit.”

We put out a call to readers to find those fans who have taken it to the extreme. Out of nearly 20 confessions of fandom received, three in particular stood out. They have devoted portions of their homes to their favorite team, traveled to see them play, and have stuck with their teams through the good times and bad.

Kelly Ritter

32, Washougal

Team: Washington State University Cougars.

Fan credentials: Ritter attended Washington State University in Pullman and has remained devoted ever since. Ritter and her father hold season tickets to Cougars football games, and she has outfitted her home’s spare bedroom with dozens of items of Cougar memorabilia. But Ritter takes her fandom everywhere she goes. The Washougal High School teacher has adorned her classroom with Cougars gear, and she has the Cougar logo tattooed on her ankle. “When you tattoo their logo on your body, there’s no going back,” she said.

What need does your fandom fill?
I’ve always been a sports fan, and I am competitive. I think, to a point, it’s probably a sense of belonging to something.

My allegiance to it goes far beyond the athletic side of it. It’s not just about the sports.

What’s the tipping point, where your fandom transforms from casually following the team to setting up your Cougar room?

I’m not sure where exactly it happened for me. It’s almost like an addiction. Somewhere in there, it would be similar to somebody almost saying, ‘I can stop whenever I want to,’ and that’s exactly the problem. I can’t.

How do you explain your passion to nonfans?

I can’t, really, too well. Most people just don’t understand. They can’t understand why I would get so worked up and spend so much money and time and effort and energy on something like a football team from a university or the university itself.

You try to liken it to something else, but there really isn’t any good way to do it. My colors at my wedding were crimson and gray. I own no purple clothing. (Purple is one of the official colors of the University of Washington, WSU’s arch rival.)

Athletes and sports fans can be superstitious. Do you have any superstitions

I have this Cougar sweatshirt. For some reason, every time I wore that sweatshirt to watch a game, we lost.

A couple of times, I actually had the experience where we got part way through the game, and I got disgusted and blamed the sweatshirt. I kept trying to tell myself, ‘No, it’s not the sweatshirt.’

There were a couple of times where I took it off, and we ended up winning, and I was like, ‘OK, that’s it.’

This is terrible of me, but I burned the sweatshirt. I said, ‘This is not happening anymore. There is something cursed about this sweatshirt.’

Jay Altenhofen

50, Vancouver

Team: University of Oregon Ducks.

Fan credentials: Altenhofen attended the University of Oregon between 1977 and 1981. He lived in Seattle for a decade after graduating and would drive to the highest point he could find to get radio reception to listen to football games. Since moving to Vancouver in 1991, Altenhofen has missed one home football game in person. Altenhofen’s friend was getting married that day, but Altenhofen — one of the groomsmen — listened to the game through a pair of headphones during the service. “That didn’t go over very well with my wife,” he said.

How did you become a die-hard fan?

My family was all huge Ducks fans. It’s one of those things where you grow up, and your parents love one team and can’t stand the other, and it gets embedded in you at a young age.

What need does your fandom fill?

Sports is kind of an escapism. It’s your release. When I’m doing that, I’m probably as happy as I ever am. It’s being part of a bigger purpose.

In the hours leading up to the Civil War (the annual football game between the University of Oregon and its chief rival, Oregon State University), what was going through your mind?
We’re on pins and needles, and we’re carrying rosary beads and Bibles. We’ll resort to prayer if we have to.

I try to protect myself to say, ‘It’s just a game. If we lose, it’s not the end of the world.’
But when you sink your heart and soul into something, and you give so much, there’s so much to lose. All kinds of emotions.

You often tell yourself, ‘Why do I put myself in this situation all the time? Why do I put so much into this?’ But you know you can’t help it.

How do you explain your passion to nonfans?

It’s hard. I use humor as much as anything. People say, ‘It’s just a game,’ and I’ll say, ‘No, it’s not. It’s not just a game.’ Most people think I blow it out of perspective, unless they have a team of their own and feel the same way.

I don’t try to explain it, because I don’t know that anybody that isn’t as passionate about their own team can understand it.

As I get older, I overcome the losses a lot easier. It’s just a game.

You once listened to a game through a long-distance telephone call. Tell me about that.

It was a huge game. I lived in Seattle, and I didn’t get radio reception really good, so I would drive to the top of the highest point and tune into the game in Eugene.

For some reason, there was a game I couldn’t get to come in — it was some huge game — so I just called my mom and said, ‘Put the phone up to the radio,’ and I just got caught up in the game.

She went away, and she could come back and ask, ‘Do you want me to hang up now?’ I go, ‘No, no, no. It’s really close.’

It ended up being like two hours.

Bergen Peterson

50, Vancouver

Team: Green Bay Packers.

Fan credentials: Bergen Peterson of Vancouver grew up a fan of the Pittsburgh Steelers, but her husband, Jim, grew up in Green Bay, Wis., so the Green Bay Packers have become their family’s favorite team. In January 2008, Bergen and Jim gave up their 25th wedding anniversary vacation to Phoenix, deciding instead to attend two Packers playoff games. “It really sums up our family,” Bergen said. “We’re spending our anniversary at a football game.”

What need does your fandom fill?

It’s family. It’s something we do. Every Sunday, we watch football. It’s just that time you have and the moments you always remember, like the quiet of the stadium when Brett (Favre) threw an interception at the end of the (NFC Championship) game. I don’t think anyone can understand that, unless you’re physically there, how quiet the stadium was. And when we left the stadium, the streets were quiet. It’s an experience you never forget.

What impact has fandom had on your life?

Some people go to a ski vacation, or they go to Sun River, and that brings their family together. Ours is centered around a three-hour game. It gives us an opportunity to see each other.

What is it like to be a diehard sports fan in Clark County, even when your own team is far away?

It’s probably one of the better places to be, because you’re not the odd man out.

This community has always been receptive to all sports. Even Oregon and Oregon State or Washington and Washington State, it’s a friendly rivalry. It’s not a negative rivalry. That’s really special. It allows you to follow your teams and be proud of your teams, whoever they are.

You canceled your wedding anniversary vacation and made impromptu plans to see two Packers playoff games in a row. What compelled you to do that?

The odds of going to two games in a row like that with so much impact and emphasis, when will that ever happen again?

The other part of that was, we really thought, ‘This may or may not be Brett Favre’s last game.’

We knew, if we left, we wouldn’t come back. So we said, ‘What the heck? Let’s try this and see what happens.’

The Packers lost that second playoff game in the final moments. Were you glad you stayed for the game?

Absolutely. I wouldn’t have traded any of that. I know the kids will never forget that game, and we won’t forget that. It’s those memories that carry you forward and help pass on that love of the game through generations. It doesn’t mean having to go to every game. You have those special moments like we did. Even though they didn’t win, we’ll always remember it. 

Fans Speak

We heard from more passionate fans than we could fit into our story. Here are snippets from some of their stories:

Bruce Wollam

63, Ridgefield.

Team: Chicago Cubs.

Wollam has an entire room in his Sun City West, Ariz., condo dedicated to the Cubs. He became a fan in 1984 while living in Goldendale and has followed the team ever since. It’s been more than 100 years since the Cubs won the World Series. “Cubs fans like to think that any team can have a bad century, but after 101 years, that joke doesn’t even work anymore,” he wrote in an e-mail. Still, Wollam remains optimistic. “I tell people that next year is the year of the Cub. I say this every year, and one of these years I’ll be right. Go Cubs!”

Stacey Monahan

33, Vancouver.

Team: Pittsburgh Steelers.

Monahan doesn’t take it well when the Steelers lose. “My family has learned to not talk to me after a loss, and my employees have called in sick the day after a loss just to avoid me,” she wrote in an e-mail. On the other hand, her family has learned to take advantage of wins. “My kids have learned to ask me for anything when my team wins because they know I will say yes. My husband has also learned the same rules.”

Brandi Bazurto

45, Vancouver.

Team: Seattle Seahawks.

During the mid-1990s, Bazurto and a friend were on their way to a Seahawks game and made it to Tacoma before realizing that they had forgotten the tickets at home. Instead of coming home and missing the game, her friend called a former co-worker at Horizon Air, who went to Bazurto’s apartment, picked up the tickets and put them on a plane headed for Sea-Tac International Airport. Bazurto made it to the game in time for the second quarter. “I can’t even remember if the Seahawks won that day or not, but the whole experience was worth it just to see them play,” she wrote in an e-mail. “I have been a season ticket holder for 10 years now, and I never have to worry about forgetting my tickets again because for a small fee I can get replacement tickets at the stadium.”

Portland artist Steven Beatty — a California transplant — was walking around downtown Portland in January 2006, looking for inspiration and bemoaning the Pacific Northwest’s dreary winter.

“I need something with color,” Beatty thought. He wasn’t finding it in the gray Portland skies.

Soon, a bright red Odwalla juice bottle cap floated by in the gutter.

“It was the brightest thing on the street at the time,” he said. “It seemed cartoonish bright.”

The bright red cap, coupled with Beatty’s concerns for the environment, inspired him to begin creating works with bottle caps. Beatty, 43, teamed with fellow Portland artist Laurel Kurtz, 36, for a series of bottle cap exhibits, the latest of which opened this week at Clark College’s Archer Gallery.

A variety of bottle caps, including caps from soda bottles, cat-litter jugs, margarine tubs and laundry-detergent containers, will cover most of the gallery’s 1,650 square feet, said Blake Shell, Archer Gallery curator. Rocks will form a spiral path three feet wide.

“We’re going to put all of our bottle caps there,” Kurtz said. “If they cover the whole floor, awesome. If they don’t, they will still have a huge impact.”

None of the artists could estimate how many caps were used in the latest exhibit. “Thousands” was as close as Beatty or Kurtz could get to a definite answer. But both expect the exhibit to be the largest since they began working with caps in 2006. Beatty and Kurtz’s first bottle cap sculpture used between 5,000 and 8,000 caps.

Beatty and Kurtz, who worked with fellow Portland artists David Posz and Mark Jondahl for the exhibit, have covered the gallery floor with bottle caps of all shapes and sizes to raise awareness about recycling and the impact that stray bottle caps can have on the environment. The artists hope to use the concept of a sea of caps to illustrate how easily caps can wind up in oceans.

“We’re just trying to spread awareness,” Kurtz said. “People can make their own decisions about how they want to approach that. We’re not trying to be preachy.”

The bottle caps typically outlast the products they are attached to and aren’t easily recycled, Beatty said.

“Most people, once they’ve interacted with one of our pieces, they think of bottle caps differently,” he added.

Visitors will be able to add to Beatty and Kurtz’s growing collection by tossing caps into a bin at the exhibit. The artists appreciate the donations but have advice for anyone who wants to lend a hand.

“Always rinse them,” Beatty said. “We spend hours and hours washing. We’ve handled every cap and washed them in bleach. It took a long, long time.”