Andrew Ridgeley and Georgios Panayiotou were the very best of friends. They grew up about an hour northeast of London, in Bushey, the sons of English mothers and Semitic fathers. As teenagers, they formed Wham!, a band that — at least initially — was more an after school lark than to hobby, and more a hobby than profession. Wham! was a two piece boy band, who liked to dance and rap, who were called “New Wave” because they used synthesizers and cared about fashion, and who, in spite of their limited talent, became Pop stars within a year of their start.

Initially, both Ridgeley and Panayiotou — who by then had renamed himself “George Michael” — were equally unskilled. Michael could sing a bit and had a knack for melody. Ridgeley could play a little guitar and press some buttons on the synthesizer. Ridgeley was straight and confident, but not particularly driven. Michael, conversely, was (privately) gay and demure — and obsessed with getting better. Through a combination of good looks, great timing and, mostly, Michael’s obsessiveness, Wham! quickly became one of the best selling Pop acts on the planet. The leap from “Wham Rap! (Enjoy What You Do)” to “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” was incredible. But the leap from “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” to “Careless Whisper” was positively mind blowing.

In 1982 there was little evidence that George Michael would go on to become George Michael — generational talent, sex symbol and gay icon. Moreover, there was no evidence that he would go on to become a transcendent singer and songwriter. But that’s precisely what happened. And it happened faster than anyone — including Michael himself — could have ever imagined. Chris Smith’s 2023 documentary, simply entitled “Wham!” tells the story of two friends whose unlikely success was undone by the simple fact that one half of the duo evolved naturally and unexpectedly while the other half skyrocketed, unnaturally and exponentially. It was part that Andrew Ridgeley was in it for the fun and the friendship more than the work. But, mostly, it was that George Michael progressed at an unfathomable pace. The story of Wham! reads like the tale of two teenage athletes, one who peaks his senior year in high school and the other who becomes Michael Jordan.

Heatmiser was, in almost every way, the inverse of Wham! Born in Portland, Oregon in 1991, the real origin of the band dates back to the late Eighties when Neil Gust, from Iowa, and Elliott Smith, from Texas by way of Nebraska, met at Hampshire college in Massachusetts. When they arrived at Hampshire, both men could play guitar and sing. Both had been in high school bands. Both kind of, sort of wrote songs. And so, they spent their college years listening to music together, talking about music together and playing music together.

After college, the pair moved from Amherst to Portland, where Gust learned how to live as a fledgling musician, but also as an openly gay man, and where Smith was overcome with musical ideas, but also overwhelmed with depression. Soon after their Northwest arrival, they formed Heatmiser, with Brandt Peterson joining on bass and Tony Lash on drums. Eventually, Sam Coomes, of Quasi, would replace Peterson on bass. Despite Coomes’ and Lash’s considerable skill and future credentials, however, Heatmiser was Gust and Smith’s band.

Portland of the early Nineties was bubbling with potential just slightly more than it was strung out from fatigue. Housing was affordable, Nike and Addias were hiring and Sub Pop was a short drive away. At night, outside clubs like La Luna and Satyricon, you’d see a mix of the local punks, second generation Hippies, and a burgeoning Gen X creative class, alongside the junkies and tweakers — all living together in an uneasy, if big-hearted harmony. Off-beat Indie Rock bands like The Maroons and Sunset Valley filled the smaller rooms, while The Spinanes and The Dandy Warhols headlined the larger ones. Somewhere in the middle of those two classes stood Heatmiser. But unlike their peers, who were weird and warbly and sweet, Heatmiser were much harder to place. Heatmiser were kind of Hardcore, kind of quiet. They sounded like Helmet, if Helmet were fronted by Simon and Garfunkel

For most of their five year run, songwriting duties in Heatmiser were split pretty equally between Smith and Gust. Smith was the melodicist while Gust was the riff-maker, but, early on, it was not so easy to tell their songs apart. Their styles were both unformed and amorphous. Moreover, they shared a vocal style — singing as though they were tamping down secrets that they actually wanted to scream, but — for fear or for shame — could not. Two albums in, and regardless of whether they were written by Smith or Gust, most Heatmiser songs kind of sounded the same.

The secret that Neil Gust was quietly screaming on those first Heatmiser records was actually not a secret at all — at least not by then. It was that he is gay. As for Elliott Smith, his secret got out in 1994, with the release of his solo debut. And then, just a year later, on his self-titled second record, that secret became the headline: Elliott Smith was a genius. The secret was not simply that he was a musical genius, but also that he was a genius at writing complex, plaintive, folk adjacent, Indie pop songs. And that this was his music — and not what he was playing with Heatmiser. And the secret beneath those secrets — the one which proved to be the defining secret of Elliott Smith’s life — was that he was really, truly depressed.

By the time “Elliott Smith” was released in 1995, everything had changed. Smith had become the darling of Portland, and a cause célèbre on college radio and in fanzines everywhere. Heatmiser, mostly on account of Smith’s newfound fame, had attracted the attention of much larger record labels. Meanwhile Neil Gust, whose writing and playing had steadily progressed over the years, was forced to acknowledge that he was not progressing in the same way his bandmate was. Neil Gust was cutting seconds off of his mile times. Elliott Smith was cutting minutes off. Neil Gust was Andrew Ridgeley. Elliott Smith was George Michael.

“Mic City Sons,” from 1996, was Heatmiser’s swan song. Recorded for Caroline Records, a subsidiary of Virgin, it is — by great lengths, the band’s most accomplished and enduring record. At least four of the tracks — “Plainclothes Man,” “Pop in G,” “See You Later” and “Half Right” — rank admirably among Smith’s greatest achievements. And if Neil Gust’s songs — especially "Rest My Head Against the Wall,” “Cruel Reminder” and “Blue Highway” — lack any luster, it is only by comparison. Gust’s songs are, by almost any measure, tremendous creative feats. They’re hard-charging Rock songs, with the rage of Punk and the heart of Emo. “Mic City Sons” is a near flawless record — a minor masterpiece forsaken by its label and overshadowed by Smith’s solo career.

Before the release of “Mic City Sons,” in fact before the ink on the contract with Caroline was even dry, Heatmiser began to break up. And while the three surviving members' accounts vary in some ways, they are unanimous in their diagnosis of the root cause. Plain and simple, Elliott Smith wanted to be Elliott Smith more than he wanted to be one quarter — or even one half, or even sixty percent — of Heatmiser. At the same time, Gust, Lash and Coomes were constantly on eggshells with Smith, who could be petulant and uncommunicative. They were all eager to appease their star. But moreover, they were loathe to upset him. The fear of Smith’s depression was palpable. The depression itself, tragically, was terminal.

After Heatmiser, Neil Gust formed No. 2 with Portland veterans Gilly Ann Hanner on bass and Paul Pulvirenti on drums. The band picked up where Gust left off on “Mic City Sons.” But, it was too late and not enough. The break up of Heatmiser — watching his buddy surpass him and then losing that buddy to fame and drugs and the vortex — was dooming for No. 2. Even their name — No. 2 — which started as a placeholder, a reference to the fact that it was Gust’s second “real” band, implied that they were not “No. 1.” They were not first — not the best. They were number two and number two is shit. And while Gust never really said all that — and while No. 2 were far from shit — they were a band born into disappointment.

If Andrew Ridgeley was mostly content — happy even — to watch his friend soar past him, Neil Gust was crushed by it. It was not as though the two became enemies. Far from it — Elliott appears on two tracks from No. 2’s debut album and invited the band to open for him on tour. And it’s not as though Gust was creatively damaged by the break-up of Heatmiser. No. 2’s first albums — “No Memory,” from 1999, and “What Does Good Luck Bring?,” from 2002 — are excellent, full of sturdy riffs and those easily bruised melodies that bonded Gust and Smith in the first place. On the other hand, after Gust was dropped from Virgin and while he was recording for homespun indies, playing music in between odd jobs, Elliott Smith signed to Dreamworks, moved from Portland to Brooklyn and then from Brooklyn to Los Angeles, bought himself a white suit and performed “Miss Misery” at The Academy Awards for some the most famous people in the world.

Less than three years after he said goodbye to Heatmiser, Elliott Smith was an internationally renowned, critically adored songwriter. And less than five years after he appeared at the Academy Awards, he was dead. By that point, Neil Gust had moved to New York, leaving the struggle of Portland and the damage of Heatmiser behind. While in The Big Apple, Gust traded in his band for a three person domestic partnership and his guitar for a video editing suite. In no time at all, Neil Gust was a commercial video editor. It might not have been the life he expected, but it was the one that he ultimately chose. And that’s what mattered most.

However, just as Gust disbanded No. 2 and settled into his new life, the real tragedy of Heatmiser came into focus. It was not that Gust had been lapped and left behind by his friend. In retrospect, Elliott Smith was not racing towards anything. He was running away from something. From everything. It was a fear of feeling too much that propelled Elliott Smith’s ascent. It was what left Neil Gust in the dust. And it was also why Neil Gust stopped making music. In 2004, after one last tour with Quasi and one final, demo session in L.A. with Elliott Smith himself, Neil Gust stopped making music.

Well, not entirely. He had a guitar that he’d pick up from time to time. But he never formed a band. Never made an album. Never really talked about Elliott or the good ole days or the terrible ole days. One year became five. Five became ten. And then fifteen. But then, while back in Portland for his (surprise) fiftieth birthday party, something totally unexpected but completely necessary, happened. No. 2 got back together. Initially, it was just a conversation — Neil, Gilly and Paul, reminiscing. Then it was a lark — a “how funny would it be if we got back together” And, just like that, in a matter of months, No. 2 was back in the studio, making a record with Rebecca Cole (ex-The Minders, Pavement) on keyboards and Joanna Bolme (ex-Calamity Jane, The Jicks) working the dials, recording for Jealous Butcher Records. It was Portlandia in the best way possible.

Though it was their first album in nearly twenty years, “First Love” picks up where its predecessors left off. It’s solid Power Pop that is well aware of Punk and Hardcore. But whereas Elliott Smith was more interested in The Beatles and Nick Drake, Neil Gust is more interested in Boston and AC/DC. Which is not to suggest that “First Love” is loud or anthemic, but rather that it’s built around tightly assembled, electric guitar riffs. The record is economical in almost every sense. Only one song — the title track — stretches past four minutes, and that just barely does. Its lead guitar frequently doubles as its rhythm guitar, its bass it never flashy and its drums stay away from fills and flair. When Rebecca Cole’s keyboards appear, they are subtle — mixed back. And Neil Gust still sounds exactly like Neil Gust — hushed and hurt, but tuneful. In the rare interview, Gust talked about the influence of “Album Oriented Rock” on this record. In fact, the fourth track on the album is entitled “A.O.R.” But, riffs and nostalgia notwithstanding, “First Love” lands somewhere between Power Pop and Indie Pop, and closer to the latter.

Two songs into the record, through “I’m on a Mission” and “Ravers In The Sky,” No. 2, in 2022, sound almost exactly like No. 2, in 1999, which sounds forty percent like “Mic City Sons'' era Heatmiser. It’s tidy. It’s sturdy. There are well built lead riffs and clever counter hooks right behind them. Gust’s vocal affect, like Smith’s, is quiet and icy. But there’s also excitement below the surface — an urgency and honesty of personal disclosures, like things you write in a journal when the feelings are fresh.

Throughout the record, Gust's methods do not stray much. Some songs are slightly faster, some slightly slower. “Night After Night” tries out the formula in waltz time. “You Might Be Right” breaks up the formula with sudden fits and starts. The lovely closer, “No One Needs to Know,” strips the formula down to its most basic elements. There is some variation, of course. There are moments when Hanner’s backing vocals play like Kim Deal alongside Gust’s less excitable Frank Black. Elsewhere, Rebecca Cole’s keys sound like Jone Stebbins’ in Imperial Teen. But, on the whole, No. 2’s third album fits neatly alongside their much older predecessors.

And that’s a very good thing — I think. It’s most definitely a good thing for Gust, Hanner and Pulvirenti, who got to reunite and make music together again. And it’s a good thing for No. 2 fans and Heatmiser completists. But, “First Love” is not a reclamation. It’s not a triumphant return. “First Love” was barely reviewed. Surely, it didn’t sell or stream a whole lot. And while it confirmed Gust’s undeniable competence, it also confirmed that he is not, was not and never will be Elliott Smith. As a songwriter, the man who was surpassed by his dear friend is much closer to Nineties fare, like Matthew Sweet or Tony Scalzo, of Fastball, or Matthew Caws from Nada Surf. And — you know what? That is excellent company. So, while he’ll never catch back up to his old friend, we can hope that he’ll never run away either.

by Matty Wishnow