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Highlights for Fun Fun Fun fest, Day Two
Second verse, same as the first: a little warm in the early afternoon, breathtakingly perfect at night.
Obligatory ‘Friday Night Lights’ sighting: Connie Britton. (Insert Homer Simpsons-style “Whoo-hoo!”)
You have to hand it to the Cave Singers. They were stuck with a thankless slot - 2 p.m., the day after all the after-parties (word has it the Murder City Devils show was a jam for the ages) and the time change that everyone seemed to have forgotten about. A bare handful of fans showed up, but they were in for one of the day’s best sets. Pete Quirk’s reedy vocals sang gorgeously low-key, folkish songs while newly-minted guitarist Derek Fudesco and drummer/guitarist Marty Lund sketched in spare, compelling melodies. Can’t wait to spin their debut, “Invitation Songs,” a couple dozen times or so.
Lowlight that eventually became so weak it turned into a highlight: The punk stage hosted a few more reunions in the early evening, the next less compelling than the last. The Saints ’77 punk sounded pro forma at best, while Youth Brigade’s trio thrash filled in the blanks but little more.
But the afternoon’s most bonkers pile-up belonged to Poison Idea, which consisted of singer Jerry A. - he of a much-imitated punk bellow and world-historical beer gut - and whomever he’s calling Poison Idea this time around. A., never the thinnest guy in the room, looked mighty unwell as he took the stage - it seemed to take him a few instrumentals to get up the nerve to sing (or were those introductions?) and once he started, his voice sounded junky and pale. He seemed to have fun, but much of the audience looked a little uncomfortable. The punks didn’t even really bother to slam - the pit consisted of a few tween girls at one point, a perfect objective correlative for how dangerous this once menacing band had become. A. even made a joke about getting a dodgeball for four-square. But those kids weren’t the ones embarrassing themselves.
The most surprising crowd had to be the masses gathered for Don Caballero. The band’s sole original member is drummer Damon Che, yet the two gents he’s currently playing with sound for all the world exactly like the band’s earliest trio lineup. Don Cab still specialize in proggy guitar rock, still taking the parts of King Crimson albums that sound like a sheet metal plant and tossing out the hippie stuff, like hummable melodies. Still, pretty impressive stuff for a band that, by all logic, should have sounded like warmed-up leftovers from the Clinton administration.
Over on the dance stage, Ocelot’s techno struggled against the sun, while the Ocote Sound System reminded everyone that yes, the flute is considered a funk instrument, especially when driven along by a drummer, percussionist, two guitars and two basses.
The festival closed with a few of the strongest, most explosive performances (physically and emotionally) I’ve seen in years. Not completely sure why Ted Leo and the Pharmacists aren’t being hailed as one of America’s best live bands, but I guess as long as Fall Out Boy are still touring, the kids will have their say. Pile-driving through some of their most high-octane songs (“Sons of Cain,” “Me and Mia,” “Little Things”), Leo and the Pharmacists seemed possessed at times. Between compulsively anthemic songwriting, political savvy, the explosive James Canty (ex-Make-Up, Nation of Ulysses) on second guitar and new bass player Marty “Violence” Key (Young Pioneers), the band seems edging ever closer to becoming the most logical heir to the indefinitely hiatus-ed Fugazi. The final song, a cover of Chumbawamba’s “”Rappaport’s Testament: I Never Gave Up” was dedicated to the late Lance Hahn. A highlight of my year, that set was.
While Cat Power turned “New York, New York” into something that sounded an awful lot like “Bullet the Blue Sky,” the Murder City Devils seemed determined to leave the audience in tiny, black-clad, pompadoured pieces on the Waterloo Park ground. Tearing through noirish, fan favorite garage burners such as “Press Gang” and “I Drink the Wine,” MCD reminded everyone that yes, they were one of the better bands of a fairly dull era for underground rock (‘96 to ‘01). Singer Spencer Moody, sporting a few more pounds and a beard for the ages, still sounds like David Sedaris when he talks, but like Satan himself when he breaks out his iconic, throaty bellow. Hypnotic, frankly.
All in all, very easily the best time I had at a festival this year, including Coachella, Bonnaroo, ACL and Lollapalooza. It wasn’t as big, not as swanky and not nearly as profitable as any of those, but this was festival music on a human scale. The backstage was open and relaxed, the vendors local and pleasant, the food reasonable. It did everything a rock festival should do - made you excited about the endless possibilities of vernacular music.
So, um, let’s talk about next year.
(Pictured: The Murder City Devils. Photo by Benjamin Sklar FOR AMERICAN-STATESMAN)
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