April 29th, 2008
By the third day, we were knocked out, loaded. Hungover, weary, wandering the festival grounds like lethargic lemmings, queuing in lines off instinct, jostled, aggravated and in no mood for the weird Aramaic gibberish spouted by the kid seeing God underneath the Tesla Coil. Three days of this is too much to handle, unless you’re either steadily downing a diet of amphetamines, booze and hash; 16 years old, and/or Keith Richards at 16 years old.
To make matters worse, Sunday’s lineup had no chance in hell of topping Saturday’s Prince/Portishead extravaganza and everyone knew it. Scalpers couldn’t give tickets away and out of the five years I’ve been to Coachella, I’ve never seen fewer people on the field. It actually would’ve been nice, had my brain not felt it was composed out of hardened tapioca pudding and squelched grape fruit. The performance enhancing drugs, the miles of walking, and the dry desert heat have a way of sapping any and all energy you may have left after two days. Yeah, seeing Chromeo and Justice would’ve been nice, but the P.C.E. * levels would’ve been far too high. The followers of Vigo the Carpathian, scourge of Moldavia, were still out in masse, tucked away from the scrum, creeping their way through the VIP section. Even Carmen Electra was there and something told me that she and her ilk weren’t staying late to see Roger Waters.
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April 27th, 2008
I ran into a guy I knew from high school standing in line for the restrooms in the VIP area. I hadn’t seen him in a decade but was about four glasses of $7 wine deep and feeling good. No reason not to be friendly, after all, I no longer harbored a grudge from that time in the 11th grade when he tried to tell me that Magoo was a great rapper, a moment in which I knew that our friendship was well on its way to being up-jumps-the boogied.
“Hey Vargas,” I greeted him. (Names have been changed to protect the insolent)
“Hey Weiss,” he responded with a dazed, bovine look on his face. “I’m so wasted.”
“Cisco?”
“No. I didn’t see him here. But I think I just saw Mischa Barton and I definitely saw Paris Hilton.” he said,
“I meant…never mind…so have you seen anyone good today?”
“No, just some friends. We went to the Spin party, it was awesome.”
“I mean like bands. Have you seen any good music.”
“Ha…” he chucked drunkenly, leaning in towards me and spewing hot boozy breath all over me. “I don’t know anyone who’s playing. But they sound good from here!
“You can’t hear anything from here.”
He ignored the question.
“This place is an awesome party! Have you ever seen this many hot chicks?”
“Once, in an incubator.”
“You’ve still got the same sense of humor, huh Weiss?” he slapped himself on the forehead, doing my work for him.
“It’s not me, it’s the drugs,” I smirked and walked off, bobbing and weaving my way past the “hot chicks” re-intepreting Rihanna’s “Umbrella,” as “Coach-ella-ella-ella.” Needless to say, if one were ever to start recruiting a Fourth Reich, he would be wise to begin conscripting the thousands of ding-bats lurking past the velvet rope, er chain link fence.
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April 26th, 2008
I hate lines. They’re somewhere in the lower rungs of my own personal inferno along with club kids in fedoras, the Los Angeles Dodgers and the abstract concept of valet parking. Unfortunately, entering Coachella brings me into contact with three of those four food groups as quite often, while waiting in the Bataan Death march-like line to get in, you wind up next to a car full of trust-funders in fedoras maligning the Andruw Jones acquisition (seriously, you give the guy $40 million and he shows up to camp looking like Pop-N-Fresh?). It’s times like this, I like to play a game creatively entitled, “What Band Are They Hear to See.” As for the fedora fedayeen, I’d bet even money they were there to see Diplo. Or maybe Spank Rock. The guy strutting to the right of our car wearing a scarf in 100 degree weather? Vampire Weekend. The shirtless frat brahs tossing around a football? Jack Johnson. The girls to the left of us who wrote “Licking Windows all the Way to Coachella,” on the exterior of their Toyota Carolla. Slightly Stoopid. No questions asked.
But the lines. Good lord the lines. Two hours trying to leave, one trying to enter. An interminable snarl of scalpers hawking tickets and t-shirts, hazy beat-up brown dust, beads of sweat slipping slowly down your spine, dull heat-stroke headache, Lawrence of Arabia thirst, and that gnashed teeth silence where you ruminate on the simple fact that after nearly a decade of doing this, no one has been able to figure out how to get cars in and out of the Empire Polo Grounds faster than than 250 feet per hour. And all this while the palm trees tauntingly sway in the breeze, laughing, calmly, coolly, reminding you of all the wonderful things waiting to be seen. That is if you ever get in–chump.
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May 4th, 2007
Pharoahe Monch-Coachella Stage (1:30-2:15)
I was depressed when I found out that Pharoahe Monch, a 13 year veteran of the rap world was slotted to play the main stage at 1:30 smack dab in the middle of the searing desert heat, a time typically given to rookies playing their first festival ever, and certainly not
fitting for one of the greatest MC’s ever. Had the Coachella organizers never heard Internal Affairs, or Stress: The Extinction Level Agenda? Obviously not, because anyone who has ever heard Pharoahe and his unmatched lyrical skills, soulful cadence and mad preacher charisma would’ve known better than to let him languish in the dregs of the day.
But what I saw was anything but depressing. Braving the sweltering weather, a large and rowdy crowd of die-hard hip-hop heads turned out to watch Pharoahe turn in the best hip-hop set of the festival. Backed by a two guitarists, a keyboardist, two back-up singers and a drummer delivering massive snare hits, Pharoahe’s set wildly exceeded my already high expectations, as he brilliantly ran through cuts from his long-awaited Desire, Internal Affairs and singles like “Agent Orange” and a Mos Def-less “Oh No.” Closing with the Godzilla stomp of “Simon Says,” the crowd went ape-shit and Pharoahe proved once again that he really does blow shows like afros.
Download:
MP3: Pharoahe Monch-”Desire”
Roky Erickson & The Explosives-Gobi Tent (3:50-4:40)
Chances are if you aren’t a huge music dork you don’t know who Roky Erickson is. But that’s not entirely your fault, because at some point in the late 60s, Erickson, the man who practically invented American psychedelia with the trippy guitar freak-outs of 13th Floor Elevators, went crazy. Oft-compared to Syd Barret, Erickson was America’s premiere acid casualty and sadly, his subsequent work never reached the brilliance of Easter Everywhere and Psychedelic Sounds of the 13th Floor Elevators.
So watching Erickson deliver intensely gorgeous bursts of psychedelic guitar into the hot afternoon sun in the year 2007, felt a little bit like watching a ghost. Albeit a ghost that was rocking the fuck out. With new band, The Explosives in tow, Erickson was flat-out fantastic, rivaling Neil Young and CSNY as America’s premiere grandpa rock n’ rool band. In fact, the 60-year old Erickson sort of reminded me of Neil Young’s weird younger brother, with a similar falsetto voice, unmatched guitar skills and wispy gray hair. If you get the opportunity, see Roky Erickson live while you have the chance. You won’t regret it. I’d planned 0n catching just the first 20 minutes of his set before wandering over to Hot Chip, but he was so impressive that I had to stay for its entirety.
Download:
MP3: 13th Floor Elevators-”You’re Gonna’ Miss Me”
Hot Chip-Mojave Tent (4:10-5:00)
Hot Chip really didn’t have a right to turn in as good of a set as they did. The picture above pretty much accurately captured their performance. The dudes are practically frozen on-stage, hiding behind a bunch of keyboards, electronic gizmos and one guy with a guitar. Somehow, their live set was awesome. I’m still not sure how exactly. They sounded great and by time they played the last song of the set, “Over and Over,” the crowd was in a frenzy, dancing like maniacs, flailing every which way. It once again proved my theory that British people are just way more funky than Americans. Between Fujiya & Miyagi and Hot Chip, Great Britain has it on lock down for funky white boys. Plus, on their forthcoming DJ Kicks mixtape, Hot Chip included Positive K’s “I Got a Man.” How can you not like these guys?
Download:
MP3: Hot Chip-”And I Was A Boy From School”
The New Pornographers-Outdoor Theater (5:05-5:55)
The New Pornographers are one of the most consistent acts in indie rock. You’ll never get a brilliant, I just-saw Jesus type of set from AC Newman and the gang but every time I see them, I walk away with a smile on my face. They just don’t have a bad song in their catalogue and while it might be a little lame that they have a full-time Neko Case stand-in (Newman’s sister), they are guaranteed to be a fun time. However, I only saw about 20 minutes of their set because Peter, Bjorn & John were on simultaneously and….
Download:
MP3: The New Pornographers-”Use It”
Peter, Bjorn & John-Mojave Tent (5:25-6:15)
When I arrived at Peter, Bjorn and John, the Mojave Tent was swarmed in a crush of people sweating in the blistering heat. No fun. Further compounding our misery was PB&J, who for reasons known only to themselves decided to go acoustic mid-set. Numbers like “Amsterdam” and “Paris 2004″ that sounded crisp and perfect on the album, wilted dead in the inferno. It was pretty awful, though it did give me time to think of the possibilities of a sketch called Peter, Bjorn & John Candy. Uncle Buck meets the Swedish chef. Golden.
Then something clicked and the band decided to jettison the acoustic approach. Bringing Shout Out Louds keyboardist Bebban Stenborg on-stage to perform “Young Folks” the crowd lost it, erupting into deafening applause. You could almost see the Grey’s Anatomy producers smiling. And then one of the lamest things in Coachella history occurred, something that spoke volumes about the new Hollywood nature of Coachella, as “Young Folks’” conclusion brought a mass exodus from the tent. Five minutes earlier, I’d had my head plastered to its white walls, barely able to see the stage. Suddenly, I was 15 feet from the Swedish trio, watching Peter, Bjorn & John finally loosen up to deliver blisteringly brilliant psychedelic versions of “Up Against the Wall” and “Objects of my Affection,” as though to punish the festival-goers for having the gall to desert them for Kings of Fucking Leon who were about to begin a typically mediocre set on the main stage.
Download:
MP3: Peter, Bjorn & John-”Let’s Call it Off”
Ghostface Killah-Outdoor Theater (7:30-8:20)
Somebody really needs to tell Ghost that the whole ending your set with a dance party thing is getting old. Honestly, he’s been doing this since before Sun God was born and quite frankly it looks a little lame. At least, he could change the last song of his set or something. Fuck ending things with “Cherchez La Ghost,” he needs to throw a dance party to “Wildflower” or maybe “It’s Over.” If the girls still want to dance after Ghost delivers the line, “Yo bitch, I fucked your friend, yeah yo stank ho, I seen her on the elevator honey grabbed my kangol,” then those are some real ride or die chicks. Respect.
Either way, despite the fact that Ghost delivered an abbreviated version of the set that he delivered in February, any time that I can hear live versions of “The Forrest,” “The Juks”"Biscuits” “Run” and Ghost’s verse from “4th Chamber” is a good time. Plus, he played “Fish,” a nod to the old school heads. Even better? Shawn Wiggs was nowhere to be found. Stellar.
Download:
MP3: Ghostface Killah-”The Forrest”
The Arcade Fire-Coachella Stage (7:30-8:40)
I have a confession to make. I’ve been thinking it for a long time and well, it’s not the easiest thing in the world to say, because quite frankly, you might think differently of me. But it’s who I am and I have to be honest with myself. But the truth is…. I really don’t like The Arcade Fire. Yeah, sure I loved Funeral. Everyone loved Funeral. But I really don’t care for the pretentions and smug self-righteousness of Neon Bible. Sure, has it has its moments, “Ocean of Noise” is a pretty great song and I can’t deny that they’re a talented objectively “good” band, but there’s just something about Win Butler’s lyrics that rub me the wrong way.
I couldn’t exactly put my finger on it before watching them live at Coachella this year, but it all become clear during his funereal, dead-serious performance, where Butler reminded me all too much of famed wrestling manager, Paul Bearer. Is it too much to crack a smile? Make a joke? Avoid dropping lines like “when I was your age, I was working for minimum wage.” Yup, just like the rest of Exeter and Sarah Lawrence, Butler’s alma maters. Fight the powers that be, yo! Certainly their bombastic live set has power, but it felt so forced. And when at the end of the set, Butler rushed into the crowd, it feel contrived, just like that silly guitar smashing on SNL, as though Butler only did it because he was supposed to to be a “rock star.” As though he did, what would Bono do, tatted on his wrist. I don’t begrudge anyone liking The Arcade Fire. But they aren’t the best band of this generation, they’re its most overrated.
Download:
MP3: Arcade Fire: “No Cars Go”
LCD Soundsystem-Sahara Tent (9:30-10:20)
Hands down the set of the festival. Proof positive that hipsters might have something right after all, James Murphy absolutely positively destroyed the competition. To quote Deck: he left the mic in body bags. And all this despite looking like Francis from Pee Wee’s Big Adventure. The moment the set began, the entire Sahara Tent erupted into a crazy dance party. You had no choice, it was either get move or get out.
And backed by a full band, it was nearly impossible not to get down to Murphy’s wry, impossibly rhythmic jams, like “Us and Them,” “Daft Punk is Playing at My House,” and “North American Scum.” Unlike most electronic kingpins, Murphy’s music isn’t tailor-made for the rave set, his music is equally at home for the stoners in the back of the tent, nodding along to his propulsive skittering beats. Closing with anti Frank Sinatra ballad, “New York I Love You,” Murphy made a strong case for Sound of Silver being the album of 2007, and Murphy, one of the most important artists to emerge in this century.
Download:
MP3: LCD Soundsystem-”North American Scum” (left-click)
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May 3rd, 2007
Of Montreal-Outdoor Theater (4:55-5:45) width=”425″>But after watching her live show (and watching her stretch the phrase “Hello Coachella” into 34 syllables, I’ve concluded that the ever-evolving Bjork is music’s “Rain Man.” She probably can’t tie her Icelandic Walrus galoshes, but she’s clearly tapped into a higher musical plane than the rest of us. Call her an idiot savant and you’d probably be right. But there’s no denying that her critical adulation is deserved. Backed by a mini-orchestra, tunning through tracks from Homogenic, Post and her new record, Volta, Bjork, delivered a shockingly powerful (and obviously weird) performance, partially redeeming a sub-par opening day of the festival. And I wasn’t alone. Judging from the crowd’s enthusiastic reception, we all got Bjorked.
Download
MP3: Bjork-”Earth Intruders”
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May 1st, 2007
Sadly, Vigo the Carpathian was not there. But he may have been the only celebrity not sweltering in the desert this weekend mingling gleefully with the Los Angeles cluberati: 27 year-old trust funders, scattering shirt-less from bar to bar, tatted up and bandanna’d, scheming on 18-year old girls giggling noxiously in Marc Jacobs sun-dresses. This was the scene inside the sprawling VIP grounds at Coachella last weekend, where by hook or crook, I finagled my way into the epicenter of the madness. After all, I am a journalist, a hired geek and one of the five members of the LA Times Buzz Blog team, (who somehow covered practically every single act in three days).
Throughout throughout the duration of the weekend, the only thought that manifested inside my head when asked whether I was enjoying the festival, was to point to the circus going on inside the closed-to-the-public circus tents and start babbling about Ghostbusters II and how I was reasonably sure that there was a river of molasses-thick evil pink sludge bubbling directly underneath the VIP area.
You’re probably thinking to yourself, but what about the music? Surely, the greater majority of festival-goers weren’t VIP. Of course, that’s true. But Coachella in the year 2007 isn’t about the music. It’s become a celebrity sideshow, another excuse for bold-faced names and the rich kids who love them to rent outlandish homes in the desert, booze endlessly and sneer at burly black-clad Rage fans and the endless plebe lines for port-a-potties. It’s the sort of place where living legends like Willie Nelson would drop one of the five best sets of the festival and a large percentage of the crowd could’ve cared less, more interested in rubber-necking at the sight of Cameron Diaz eating a Spicy Tuna Roll while sipping on a Cosmo.
Jesus and the Very Lame
Coachella 2007 was the Jesus and Mary Chain finally re-uniting, delivering a scorched-earth set with apocalyptic fury then squandering their goodwill just minutes later, by towing a screeching Scarlett Johannson on-stage, to coo a few painfully bad backing vocals on “Just Like Honey,” deer-in-the-headlights expression frozen shut on her face.
Coachella 2007 was Girl Talk pressing the space bar and turning a tiny tent into a massive dance party, with everyone having the time of their lives. Then at the apex of the set, Paris Hilton trolls on-stage, leaving a trail of pink sludge behind her, dancing along to the beat, doing her best to look “fabulous,” while disgusted on-lookers did their best to stop from retching. Coachella 2007 was Hilton and even lamer cohort, Lindsay Lohan gawking from the side of the stage at Arcade Fire, doing their best to try to pretend like they’re all hip and with it, because omg!!! Arcade Fire are like so totally awesome, right?
Expect belated write-ups on all the acts in the coming days and maybe even a surprise concert review or two). Either way, after three days of insane traffic jams, $6 slices of pizza, and doing my best not to start screaming at the VIP cabal that LCD Soundsystem was about to drop the set of their lifetimes while they were catching The Red Hot Chili Peppers for the 4th time, I’m beat and in no mood to avoid trying not to get sued for slander. Tune in mid-afternoon tomorrow. In the meantime, listen to Ray Parker Jr. tell it like it is.
Download:
MP3: Ray Parker Jr.-”Ghostbusters”
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April 26th, 2007
It’s that time of year again. Time for the only “LA” music festival in the world. A time when the two concert-a-year crowd (three if Wolfmother comes to town) rents lavish houses in the desert, throws killer parties and dangles their VIP passes like they were Wayne and Garth backstage at an Alice Cooper concert.
I will be staying at a Motel 6 and will not be a VIP. Consequently, my life is not worth living. However, I am currently en route to the Desert, trying not to ward off frightening battery of hippies, Hollywood types and scariest of all, die-hard Rage fans. (Then again, they can’t be worse than Tool).
So I’ve left you all with a monster Best Of post (a final list won’t be compiled for another week….Joey and I need accountants…which you think would be quite easy to find for two Jews, but not so much). No posting Monday but expect a Day One of Coachella write-up by mid-day Tuesday. If you want coverage in the meantime, go to the Times’ website’s Coachella Coverage. I will be helping the Buzz Bands’ Coachella Blog. (And while you’re at it, check out this Times feature I wrote for Thursday’s Calendar on Family Los Angeles, a very cool new book/music shop in town.)
Bjork Says To Read These Links (and Buzzer!!!!)
Brunette Like Me attends the really great Sunset Rubdown show that I attended the other night but didn’t have time to write about.
Blockhead dissects the idiocy of Mims.
New blog to check for is Chickens Don’t Clap. It does not have the clap, but hopefully it will have chickens.
See other Top 25 Lists:
20/20 Proof
Analog Giant
Angry Citizen
Audio Deficit Disorder
Berkeley Place
Bol
Dallas Penn
8 Million Stories
Floodwatch
Fresh Cherries From Yakima
From Da Bricks
Gorilla Vs. Bear
Jamie Radford
Just Sayin’ (1, 2)
Poisonous Paragraphs
Slushy Gutter Summer
Start Snitchin’
Straight Bangin’
Until the Train Stops
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November 30th, 2006
On some level I lied in the title of this post, because the incredible Funky Soul box set isn’t the ideal Christmas present. Indeed, the perfect Christmas present for anyone with class and gentility would be Jim Jones’ A Dipset Christmas. But perhaps that special someone in your life doesn’t find hearing the word Baallin!!! hysterically funny (i.e. they have a normal well-adjusted sense of humor). If that’s the case, then there is no better solution for your gift-giving woes than the recently released four-disc funk compilation: What It is! Funky Soul and Rare Grooves (1967-1977). Take that Sufjan Stevens and your O So Silent Post-Modern Hipster Christmas!
My knowledge of classic funk and soul is tenuous at best. For this, I blame R. Kelly and Usher for souring me on the fine name of Rhythm and Blues. Sure, I dig me some Al Green, Shuggie Otis, James Brown, and Sly & The Family Stone, but hadn’t ventured much further than those relatively obvious boundaries until Ace of Slack Lalane pointed me in the direction of this Rhino Records compilation that came out last week. (By the way, if you haven’t checked out Ace’s Glide Magazine music blog, you should)
In terms of as introductions to the world o’ funk go, you won’t find many better primers than this one. Despite its whopping four discs and 91 track length, Funky Soul never ceases to entertain with cuts full of rolling and rich music brimming with joy and soul. Each track bursts with triumphant horns slick pianos, serpentine basslines and back-breaking Crazy Robertson -esque funk. Music doesn’t come much better than hearing Parliament’s Eddie Hazel doing a solo cover of “California Dreaming” full of Hendrixian guitar pyrotechnics, haunting piano keys, ghostly backing singers and a plaintive and bruised lead vocals. Or a brass-backed falsetto-voiced Curtis Mayfield cooing his strangely uplifting dirge “(Don’t Worry) If There’s a Hell Below We’re All Gonna’ Go.”
You’re Either With Curtis Mayfield or You’re Against Curtis Mayfield
While many of the songs selected come from big names (Hazel,Mayfield, Aretha Franklin, The Meters, Wilson Picket, Earth Wind & Fire, Little Richard), it never feels like a greatest hits compilation, as each track is rare and seldom-heard, plucked from the dusty recesses of old major label catalogues. Besides the marquee artists, the album is filled with strong songs from lesser known acts like Eddie Harris and The United 8, who turn in incredible performances on “Live Right Now” and “Getting Uptown (To Get Down),”respectively.
In addition to listening to some vintage windows-down bass-rattling funk, any hip-hop head will have a field day trying to pick out which songs have been sampled where. Some are immediately recognizable like “Hard Times” by Baby Huey & The Babysitters which provides the foundation for Ghostface’s classic Supreme Clientele track, “Buck 50;” or Lupe Fiasco’s “Slow Down” which re-appropriates Earth, Wind & Fire’s “Bad Tune.” “Ridin’ High” by Fazo-O laid the musical foundation for tracks like Black Moon’s “Shit is Real” and Snoop’s “Ride 4 Me.” while a Fred Wesley cut called “Four Play” was snatched by DJ Premier for the Gangstarr classic, “Step in the Arena.” And as one might have guessed, the Dust Brothers-era Beastie Boys also owe a large debt to these cuts, as they pilfered Funk Factory’s “Rien Ne Va Plus” for Paul’s Boutique’s”Car Thief” and Eugene McDaniel’s “Headless Heroes” for Ill Communication’s “Get it Together.”
If you have any interest at all in classic soul and R&B music, this compilation is highly recommended. Sure, it might not have the intrinsic Yuletide charms of Jim Jones rapping on the soon-to-be classic, “Dipset X-Mas Time.” But even the Capo himself would be hard-pressed to admit that What It is! Funky Soul and Rare Grooves (1967-1977) is anything but Baalllin!!!
Rating: 9.5
Buy it here.
Download:
MP3: Baby Huey & The Babysitters:: “Hard Times”
MP3: Ghostface Killah from Supreme Clientele:: “Buck 50″
MP3: Earth, Wind & Fire:: “Bad Tune”
MP3: Lupe Fiasco from the leaked version of Food & Liquor :: “Slow Down”
Mp3: Fred Wesley & The Horny Horns: “Four Play”
MP3: Gangstarr from Step In the Arena: “Step into the Arena”
Posted in Festivals, Album Reviews, Are You From the Lester Bangs School of Thought? | 5 Comments »
September 11th, 2006
Like many music festivals, Bumbershoot provided more than just music. In many ways, the set-up was like a county fair, with carnival games, rides, comedy shows and most importantly foot-long corn dogs. Now, before arriving at Bumbershoot, I wasn’t even aware of the possibility that humanity was capable of constructing a corn dog 12 inches in length.
At first, I was baffled by the fact that human beings actually eat an entire feet of corn and dog. I considered this might be the most disturbing development since the time I’d heard that they were frying twinkies at the Los Angeles County Fair. (Honestly, who needs to fry a fucking twinkie). But Bumbershoot seemed to evidence a nascent corn dog-mania rising on the American continent, as people throughout the festival queued to devour this delicious deep-friend processed meat.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m a long-time fan of the corn dog. In fact, I regard it as one of the most underrated lunch-time cafeteria meals ever (next to the wicked good turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy slop that they used to serve at the Beverly Vista Elementary School). However, I remained uncertain that a corn dog could be satisfactory in such obscene quantities. Oh how wrong I was. Indeed, while it may represent the decline of American civilization thanks to our constant desire to consume more and more of everything, I can safely say that the foot-long corn dogs at Bumbershoot were/are delicious. Sure, you so-called health advocates might wonder about things like heart attacks, clogged arteries and triple by-pass surgeries. However, all I can say in response is to look to the foot-long corn dog for the answer. Sure, that doesn’t make a shred of sense. Logic be damned. To paraphrase something once said in Field of Dreams, If you deep-fry it, they will eat it.
It’s Just Like Miles Davis…If Only Miles Davis Were Clinically Retarded
Another strange element of the festival was an interaction that my friends and I had with a human statue. Of course, my first thought was what in God’s name drives someone to be a human statue. While staring at this monument of weirdness, I couldn’t help but picture myself one day as a father with a son who would do would approach me with a vision:
“Dad…,” my future son would say. “I know what I want to be in life. I want to go to festivals, fairs and crowded shopping areas around the country and stand still for hours at a time while people gawk at me.”
I think at that point, I’d know that I failed at parenthood. Who exactly are the people that become human statues? Has anyone ever discussed life with a human statue? These are all things begging to be answered. Unfortunately, I didn’t get any of these things answered. I’d had an intriguing appointment with Samson about an hour previous and was in no mood to prod the human statue for details on the nature of life. That being said, I want to know how one practices becoming a human statue. How does one cope with such stupefying levels of boredom? I imagine they just watch episodes of Frasier over and over again.
At any rate, watching the human statue and watching people actually giving money to said human statue, made me decide to open a school for human statues. I’m sure I can buy Frasier Crane on DVD and I can probably get David Hyde Pierce to even guest-lecture. I’m sure he’s not doing very much of anything these days.
But David Hyde Pierce jokes aside, the real reason why I came to Bumbershoot was for the music, specifically the back-to-back bill of Atmosphere and A Tribe Called Quest.
Slug: Showing Off His My Chemical Romance T-Shirt and His Latest Attempt To Destroy Any and All Street Cred
I’ve seen Atmosphere three times now and written about it twice, so there’s no real need to write it again. He put on a solid but unspectacular set, practically the same one that he put on at Coachella this year. Atmosphere is a good live performer and a good rapper. His Overcast album is one of my favorite hip-hop albums ever made. And Lucy Ford and God Loves Ugly aren’t too shabby. If you like hip-hop, I advise you to pick them up. I just wish he focused on those songs live, rather than the ones off of his last two albums, 7even’s Travels and You Can’t Believe How Much Fun We’re Having. Unfortunately, that isn’t the case. The only old songs that Slug played were “Woman With the Tattoed Hands,” “Shrapnel,” and “God Loves Ugly.”
Download Atmosphere-”Blame Game” from God Loves Ugly
On Q-Tip’s Command, No One in Tribe Called Quest is Allowed to Show Their Face
So Tribe Called Quest rolled into Seattle for their latest stop of their “Getting the Band Back Together” Reunion tour ‘06. I’m not sure if the tour is actually called that, but if it isn’t, it should be. Going into the show, I was skeptical as to whether Q-Tip and Phife could still bring it more than a decade after their prime.
Of course, like any hip-hop fan in the 90’s, I worshipped at the alter of Tribe Called Quest. I must’ve played Low End Theory about 8,000 times and still to this day I know every single word to the majority of the album. Of course, there was the greatness of Midnight Marauders and I’ll still throw down for Beats, Rhymes and Life and The Love Movement if even some of those songs were abominable (”Da Booty” anyone?). I’ll never forgot one fabled week my Junior Year of High School when Aquemini, Hard Knock Life Volume 2. and The Love Movement came out and how I might’ve been the most excited to hear the Tribe album (in hindsight, that was prolly the wrong instinct). Or when I saw The Source cover with the details of the Tribe break-up and immediately viewed this as a horrible blight on the face of humanity. Needless to say, I liked the group.
So it was a pleasant surprise to see that even at their advanced age, neither Phife nor Tip had lost a thing on the mic. From the first strains of “Buggin’ Out,” the crowd went nuts, as the duo, delivered a dynamic set, clearly reveling in their newfound status as hip-hop’s elder statesmen. As one might expect, Tip and Phife showcased unparalled chemistry on-stage, never missing a beat, chiming in on each other’s ad-libs and knowing every word of the other’s lyrics.
In particular, Phife was much better than I expected. Spending all “that time with his children” (because we’ll just pretend that that was the reason why he was absent from music for the last decade) seemed to pay off, as his voice has aged into a raspy but powerful growl. Gone is the boyish, non-threatening sounding Phife that you heard on the old albums. In his place is a fiery Junior Reid sounding voice that mixed well with Q-Tips’s timeless “I’ve just inhaled a tank of helium” pitch.
As it should’ve been, the set was heavy on their Greatest Hits, focused mainly on Low End Theory and Midnight Marauders material. “Buggin Out,” segued to a Busta Rhymes-less “Oh My God,” to “Jazz” to “Butta” to “Sucka Niggaz,” which provided an unintentionally hilarious moment when Tip exhorted the crowd to sing along. Needless to say, you will never see anything more awkward than 10,000 lily-white Washingtonites gulping their throats and trying to mouth the words “sucka nigga.”
From there, Tribe launched into “Steve Biko (Stir It Up)” which got the crowd going nuts, singing along to every word. Then weirdly enough, Tip performed “Vivrant Thing,” from his abortion of a solo album Amplified. One couldn’t help but wonder what the rest of the group thought about that decision, considering it wasn’t like Phife was about to bust out hits from Ventilation: Da Lp. Then again, only three people actually listened to that album. All of them members of Phife’s family.
Following Tip’s solo track, the group launched into “Hot Sex On a Platter,” a little heard track from the Boomerang Soundtrack.
Sadly, Eddie Murphy Lost Out on His Original Goal: Replacing Robin Givens and Halle Berry with a Pair Of Trannies In Need of Rides Home
At this point, Tribe decided it was time to bring out the big guns, trotting out a hall of fame trio of songs, “Bonita Applebum,” “Electric Relaxation,” and “Can I Kick It?” After making the fans cheer for an encore, the group returned to deliver another stellar triumvirate: “Scenario,” “Check the Rhime,” and “Award Tour,” to rounds of thunderous applause.
All in all, Tribe definitely put on a good show, as good as you’re going to find in hip-hop, a genre of music sadly dominated by musicians who think a live show is playing abbreviated versions of songs punctuated by gun-shots (yeah..I’m looking at you Mobb Deep). Watching the group that had been my favorite in high school made me a bit sad, considering that no group since Tribe has emerged that could match their energy, charisma and mic skills. We’re pretty far from Hip-Hop’s golden age, but for an hour and fifteen minutes in Washington, Tribe Called Quest did their best to make you forget.
Download A Tribe Called Quest–”The Hop” from Beats, Rhymes and Life
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September 11th, 2006
Okay, so there weren’t any beards at Bumbershoot and you’d have even been hard-pressed to find a cheap pair of black plastic spectacles on any of the festival-goers faces’. It seems the hipster/scenester/jeepster scene hasn’t made it’s way out to Seattle. Perhaps this is why I consider Seattle the most underrated of all major American cities.
In fact, the crowd at Bumbershoot was markedly different than any show I’ve been to in a long time. First of all, it was young. Really young. As in if I were a betting man, I’d say that half the crowd that gathered to see The New Pornographers and Spoon didn’t even have Driver’s Licenses. Of course, the next logical statement is: where were these girls when I was 15 years old.
Judging from the youth of the crowd and the fact that they seemed to know every word to both bands’ songs, my best advice to any man reading this blog is to head to Seattle in about six years. The girls might still be a tad on the young side, but compared to most of the girls that I’ve met in my twenty-something years in Los Angeles, I imagine they’ll be a vast improvement.
After all, this is Los Angeles, home to 3,000,000 Justin Timberlake fans. Most of the girls I went to high school with would probably tell you that Spoon is nothing more than dining utensil (albeit a very useful one) and the New Pornographers are an incipient adult film company that recently launched in Chatsworth.
The New Pornographers: Because Old Pornographers Are Just Gross
I didn’t end up making it to any of the shows prior to the New Pornographers 1:00 p.m. set on Sunday afternoon. Sure, there were shows on Saturday, but catching a 30 years past their prime Blondie didn’t really strike me as being all that appealing. Nor did catching the emo trifecta of Hawthorne Heights, AFI or Yellowcard. Of course, I woud’ve liked to have caught some of the other acts that played that day, most notably Rogue Wave, but there were more important things to do on a Saturday night in Seattle, like take back-to-back-to-back shots of Tequila, Jagermeister and Vodka, and then attempt to drink the rest of the town’s supply of inexpensive alcohol. Needless to say, I discovered two things that Saturday night. 1. Hot Dogs with Cream Cheese are surprisingly delicious and 2. Mixing Whiskey, Tequila, Jagermeister, Vodka and Beer together will give you one of the most savage hangovers of your life
So this was the state I was in on Sunday afternoon, my brain feeling like each of its synapses was embroiled in a screaming knock-down drag-out brawl and my contacts having picked a wonderful time to break (particularly outstanding considering I hadn’t brought a replacement pair).
Luckily if there was any band on earth designed to palliate the sorrows of a skull-crushing headache it would be the New Pornographers. I’d never seen the Pornographers before, but had probably listened to each of their albums at least 50 times each. And for good reason. You can search far and wide for better pop albums, but you won’t find anything finer than Electric Version, Mass Romantic or Twin Cinema. In a just world, Timberlake would be scorned and maligned and A.C. Newman and the gang would push “Sexyback” where it belongs, as the soundtrack to a lower-rung of purgatory.
As I was half blind, I had to manuever to get a good spot to see the band, which was quite easy, as Bumbershoot might be one of the most user-friendly festivals I’ve ever been to. Despite my close proximity, I wasn’t able to see the obvious fact that Neko Case didn’t travel with the band to Bumbershoot, nor did Destroyer. Nonetheless, the set was transfixing. Watching the New Pornographers live is like watching Greg Maddux pitch in his prime. They might not rock the hardest and they might not have the most amazing stage presence, but every note and transition sounds clean and perfect, the sound large and clarion. It all comes down to the fundamentals.
In spite of the fact that they didn’t have Case, the band ran through her songs anyway, including soothing note-perfect renditions of “The Laws Have Changed,” “July Jones,” and “The Jessica Numbers.” Whoever they’ve got playing the Neko Case role did a damn fine job.
Naturally, the AC Newman songs were the stand-outs, if nothing else for the fact that he was the only songwriter in the band who showed up to play live. This was fine with me, as AC Newman might be the most underrated songwriter in music today. It’s not that critics don’t give the New Pornographers enough respect, they do. It’s just that you don’t hear AC Newman mentioned in the same breath as Sufjan Stevens. Ever. And while his songs may not carry the same emotional depth as Stevens, that same logic never stopped anyone from comparing Brian Wilson to John Lennon.
At any rate, Newman ran through his own songs with skill and aplomb, including “Twin Cinema,” “Use It,” and the closer, “Sing Me Spanish Techno.” All in all, The New Pornographers might not have delivered the most electrifying set I’ve ever seen, but they definitely delivered one of the more entertaining ones. I’ve been long convinced that the band doesn’t have the capacity to write a bad song, and seeing them live only deepened that conviction.
Download The New Pornographers–”Use It”
Britt Daniel and His Friendly Goblin-Friend Performing a Cover of “The Beast and Dragon, Adored”
If someone told me that Spoon was the best working band in the world I probably wouldn’t disagree with them. After five full-length albums and several EP’s, I’ve come to the conclusion that Britt Daniel is clearly a genius. No other band other than maybe Wilco has been as consistently brilliant as Spoon. As far as I’m concerned Series of Sneaks, Girls Can Tell, Kill the Moonlight and Gimme Fiction are certifiable classics and Telefono is a lot better than most people give it credit for. Sure, it sounds a lot like a Pixies album, but if you pretend that it’s Frank Black on vocals, it’s still probably better than Bossanova and Trompe Le Monde.
But despite the fact that Spoon has been on a Cal Ripken-esque streak of greatness since at least ‘98, I’ve never seen the band live. Chalk it up to my stupid names theory. Honestly, who’d have thought that a band named after an eating utensil would turn out to be so damned good (Knife fans get angry).
So needless to say, despite being halfway blind, hungover and sweating in the baking mid-day sun, I was amped to see one of my favorite bands, and in no way did they disappoint. Blasting out with “My Mathematical Mind,” from Gimme Fiction, Britt Daniel and his gang immediately exploded into blistering waves of spiky sound spreading out across Seattle’s Memorial Stadium, The stadium is built more for arena-rock acts like U2 or Radiohead, but Spoon had no problem filling the air with noise, as Daniel rifled off fierce and jagged riffs that could be heard outside the festival grounds. Meanwhile, Jim Eno kept a sturdy and thudding beat that revealed him to be the band’s unsong hero.
From “My Mathematical Mind,” the band launched into an explosive version of “Everything Hits At Once,” as the energy of the set and the crowd continued to rise from the already high level that The New Pornographers had left it at. Other high points of the set included a raucous rendition of “Two Sides/Monsieur Valentine,” and of course, “I Turn My Camera On,” which along with “The Way We Get By,” predictably drew the biggest reaction from the crowd.
Most festival sets are abbreviated and are often rushed as the band tries to sneak in as many songs as possible. Yet Spoon’s set was one of the most impressive I’ve ever seen at a show of this stripe. Alloted a full hour and fifteen minutes, the band took up each second with cuts from all of their last four albums. During “The Beast and Dragon,Adored” Daniel even introduced comedian David Cross who did a hilarious pantomine to the words of the song, jumping, mincing and writhing across the stage, as though he were Tobias Funke. At one point, he even mooned the crowd.
By the time the band played its encore, “Small Stakes,” they had proven their merit many times over. If you’ve never seen Spoon live, you’re missing out. Full of charisma and prodigious guitar chops, Britt Daniel is one of the few front-men in indie rock that can be called a legitimate rock star. If they aren’t the best band in the world, they’re pretty damned close.
Download Spoon–”Change My Life,”
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