Review by Hilary Cadigan & Rob Royall
Photos by Rachel Mills of
bassismyboyfriend.com
As of 2012, Hangout Music Festival of Gulf Shores, Alabama,
has officially solidified its role as a major player in the ever-expanding
summer festival scene. And that’s saying a lot, considering the fact that this
is only Hangout’s third year of existence. But really, what’s better than a music festival on the
beach? The general public seemed
to agree. Hangout sold out within
weeks of unveiling its lineup, capping attendance at 35,000 and promising a
weekend of sand, sun, and sweet sweet music.
Last year, the Hangout lineup was one of the greatest I’ve
seen, with Paul Simon and the Foo Fighters headlining, alongside personal
favorites My Morning Jacket and The Black Keys. This year, the bill exhibited a slight downgrade (who the
fuck invited Dave Matthews?) but the overall festival experience improved,
showing that the organizers took note of the few flaws of last year’s set-up,
and fixed them. Most notable was
the shifting of the EDM tent from a small and anxiety-inducing corner of
asphalt to a much more spacious patch of grass across the street, and the
gracious proliferation of port-a-potties. In fact, the improvements showed what
a strong team Hangout has in place, which may be due in part to the fact that
the festival founder seems to own pretty much every establishment in Gulf
Shores, including The Hangout, the beachside bar and restaurant for which the
festival was named.
Because of how much of a workout it is to slog through sand,
the lighter lineup actually felt like a good thing once we were there. To be honest, I think we still would’ve
had a great time if the line-up was back-to-back jam bands. When you’re lounging on the beach under
cloudless skies, pretty much anything with a mellow groove will do just fine,
and often the best method is just to camp out in one place and let the good
vibrations wash over you.
Upon entering the sunny festival grounds early Friday
afternoon, we found a cozy spot to settle in at the Chevrolet Stage just in
time to witness a truly feel-good performance from local up-and-comers The
Alabama Shakes. Led by
gravelly-voiced anti-diva Brittany Howard, the Shakes crooned their way through
a variety of scruffy Southern rockin’ soul ballads off their month old debut, Boys
and Girls. Each song had the sound and feel of an instant
classic; especially their heartfelt hit “Hold On,” which had the whole crowd
singing along.
Next, we considered wandering around to explore but the draw
of the fluffy white sand and a rare patch of shade proved too strong, so
instead we pitched our blanket and proceeded to get sloshed on frozen margarita
bags. We had no regrets as M. Ward took the stage and provided the perfect
soundtrack for our mellowed-out afternoon at the beach. Drawing mostly from his
last three albums, 2006’s Post War,
2009’s Hold Time and this year’s Wasteland
Companion, Ward and his 5-piece band
blended electric and acoustic guitars and keys into a soothing cocktail of
sound that far surpassed the syrupy taste of the margarita bags (did you know
those things are made with wine?).
Despite his tendency to collaborate with everyone from Zooey Deschanel
to Jim James to Lucinda Williams, Ward’s solo performance proved that his own
soft-spoken vocals can hold down a stage just fine.
It's incredible to
think about how long it's been since Wilco reached the apex of their critical
praise with 2002's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. Way back then, they were lauded for shedding their
alt-country label and showing they had many other tricks up their sleeves. The
ensuing four albums have been nothing short of solid, but none until last
year's The Whole Love
have displayed something close to YHT's sense of musical exploration and song craft. As fans that
perhaps haven't paid as much attention to Wilco in recent years, we were
surprised and delighted by how much these guys still rock. As the sun was
setting behind the condos of Gulf Shores, Wilco seemed to say, "we're
still here", with a set heavy on old favorites and the best of their newer
material. Jeff Tweedy and the gang seamlessly mixed songs that span a 17-year
career, usually landing somewhere between easygoing pop and snarling experimental
rock. It all amounted to a great summertime vibe that couldn't be dampened by
the snottiest of music critics.
Friday concluded with a blistering rock show by the one and
only Jack White, now finally touring solo on the heels of his latest
masterpiece, Blunderbuss. And by solo I of course mean with two
full bands in tow. White decided
to keep us on our toes by switching from an all-male ensemble (The Buzzards) to
an all-female one (The Peacocks) halfway through the show. Necessary? Perhaps not, but as one of
my companions noted, “Jack White is the Tim Burton of modern day alt-rock,”
meaning Jack White can be as weird as Jack White wants to be and that’s okay
with us. The setlist drew heavily from Blunderbuss and White Stripes material, but left no stone
unturned, including The Dead Weather’s fiery “I Cut Like a Buffalo,” The
Raconteurs’ “Top Yourself” and even “Two Against One,” the eerie little ballad
White wrote for the Danger Mouse/Daniele Luppi collaboration, Rome. On top
of all this, out came gorgeous Grammy-nominated songstress Ruby Amanfu to
perform a very sexy duet with White on “Love Interruption”, the first single
off Blunderbuss.
White brings his signature sound and rock star mystique to
everything he touches, and while the explosive delivery of each track almost
seemed to melt into one long fit of pounding guitars after awhile, the enormity
of it all sticks with you long after the band(s) leave the stage. Especially when the last song is “Seven
Nation Army,” featuring the first of three night-ending fireworks shows and an
audience-wide hand-clapping percussion section that continued in our heads long
after we left the beach.
A beautiful Saturday began with a memorable performance from
Grammy-winning singer/songwriter veteran Randy Newman at the Chevrolet
Stage. Just straight up Randy
Newman and a piano, no accompaniment whatsoever. From a little ditty about how short people have
no reason to live to an autobiographical number about geriatric rock stars
entitled “I’m Dead (But I Don’t Know It)” that required the audience to chant
“he’s dead, he’s dead” as the chorus, Newman’s show was delightfully hilarious
in a far more acerbic way than the average Toy Story fan might expect. A unique gem of a show and a testament
to the refreshing eclecticism of the lineup as a whole.
Texas-born electric blues-rock wunderkind Gary Clark, Jr. is
currently in the process of taking the music world by storm, performing at
countless festivals across the country.
In fact, his latest record, a mere four-track sampler, was tagged as one
of Rolling Stone’s top 50 albums of 2012, and his Hangout performance showed us
exactly why that did (and should have) happened. For an hour, the unassuming,
good-natured Clark coated our eardrums with sweet and sticky blues and the
kinds of nimble-fingered guitar riffs that make Hendrix comparisons inevitable.
Then it was off to the Letting Go Stage for the ever-lovable
Philly-based indie rockers Dr. Dog, with their charming blend of late 60’s pop
and timeless lo-fi rock. They
played fewer tracks from their newest album, this year’s Be The Void, than expected, instead choosing to fall back on crowd
favorites from the more widely acclaimed Fate (2008) and Shame, Shame (2010).
But it felt right. Without
ever getting too saccharine or smart-alecky, these guys have a knack for making
people feel good, and this show was no different. We left early to spend some time in the dance tent with
Kaskade, which made for some enjoyable booty-shaking, but mostly served to remind me of the fact that no regurgitated
electronic blips and bleeps can ever match the sunny soul of rock n’ roll.
String Cheese
Incident
I've come to the
conclusion that no matter what your taste in music is or what type of festival
you're attending, it's nice to see at least one jam band, even if from a
considerable distance. Arguably, these guys are responsible for the resurgence
of The American Music Festival as we know it, with their Bonnaroos, Wakarusas,
and Whathaveyous. Furthermore, this type of music is generally of the feel-good
variety, which makes for a pleasant reprieve from the hard rock and heavy
electronica that tends to dominate festival lineups of recent years. Anyhow,
while none of us have ever been members of the String Cheese fan base, their
2.5 hour late afternoon slot provided the perfect opportunity to just sit and
enjoy the simply wonderful scene that is Hangout. We recognized a few of their
original tunes, as well as covers of Weather Report's "Birdland" and
The Grateful Dead's "I Know You Rider," and we even found ourselves
dancing about on occasion. Frequently, however, it sounded like 2 different
bands were on stage, as bouncy bluegrass/rock made way for clunky electronic
flourishes. It seems that String Cheese likes to keep one foot in the door of
their late 90s heyday and the other awkwardly toward the trends of the new
millennium.
Expectations can
completely affect the way one experiences music, and this was certainly the
case with Shpongle. The festival website billed the act as, "a strange
hybrid of electronic manipulation and shamanic midgets with frozen digits
squeezing the envelope and crawling through the doors of perception." And
so on. That, along with an accompanying picture straight out of Pan's
Labyrinth, had us hoping
for a flying circus of a performance, with masked creatures on stilts,
didgeridoos, and actual shamanic midgets. And alas, we got a DJ set. A pretty
awesome DJ set, with a cool light show, and some pretty unusual beats, but a DJ
set all the same. It was no circus and perhaps not worth missing the beginning
of Red Hot Chili Peppers, as we'd supposed it might be.
After getting
Shpongled for 20 minutes or so, we made our way over to the big stage for
perhaps the festival's most anticipated performance. By the time we settled in
a decent spot, the band was just wrapping up the title song from their classic Blood
Sugar Sex Magik, and
sounded like they were in top form. It took us a while before we realized that
the guitarist was not longtime Chili Pepper John Frusciante, but some younger
looking fellow. Then we recalled that new guy, Josh Klinghoffer, had taken over
guitar duties when Frusciante left the band a few years ago. This is all to say
that Klinghoffer was more than capable at meshing with a band currently in
their third decade of making music together. What he lacked in volume and fiery
solos was made up for by Flea's monster bass and stage antics. Flea is the
clear anchor of this band and easily it's most likable asset. Shirtless and
energetic as ever, he never looked like a man nearing 50, much less someone too
old to still dress like a skateboarder. Meanwhile, lead singer Anthony Kiedis
looked ridiculous in his hipster mustache and trucker hat look but sang well
throughout. Drummer Chad Smith was solid, but perhaps was given too much time
on a few drum solos that went nowhere and served only to help fill up their
allotted 2 hours.
Besides a handful of
new songs from last year's I'm With You, this was very much a greatest hits concert. This, however,
was not unwelcome, nor unexpected, as the Chili Peppers are a band that thrives
on the strength of their singles, and most would agree these are their best
songs. They're one of the few mainstream bands everyone can get behind, and
they've somehow managed to not sound dated while always sounding like
themselves. It was truly fun
to hear them play "Give It Away" and their classic cover of Stevie
Wonder's "Higher Ground," alongside sing-along ballads like
"Under The Bridge" and "Soul to Squeeze." Plus, did we
mention that we were on the beach and the weather was perfect? What's not to
like?
Despite appearing 4
rows deep on the festival poster and getting a short afternoon time slot, Steve
Winwood has perhaps the best resume of any of the weekend's performers. He may
not have the name recognition of frequent collaborator Eric Clapton with
today's younger audiences, but he's certainly left his mark on the history of
rock & roll. Sunday, the final day of the fest, Winwood and his loose,
jazzy backing band brought a number of his own classics to life, including
Traffic's "The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys" and "Dear Mr.
Fantasy," and The Spencer Davis Group's "I'm a Man" and
"Gimme Some Lovin." We kept hearing people in the crowd say things
like, "Ohhh... He sings this song too?", especially when he pulled
out his 1986 solo hit "Higher Love." Occasionally playing electric
guitar, but mostly sitting at the organ, Winwood showed he still has the chops,
as well as a barely aged singing voice.
Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros
You know that episode of Portlandia where Fred Armisen and Carrie Brownstein play two
impressionable locavores who accidentally get sucked into a polyamorous organic
farm cult led by Jason Sudeikis?
Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros has always kind of reminded me of
that, even before I heard the Edward Sharpe back-story, as told by frontman
Alex Ebert. Ebert describes the
fictional Sharpe as a messianic figure who "was sent down to Earth to
kinda heal and save mankind... but he kept getting distracted by girls and
falling in love." So I guess
that’s kind of the vibe they’re going for. Whether this vibe strikes you as
funny or creepy or a little bit of both, there’s no doubt that the Zeros put on
a good show. Not a blow-you-away
spectacular show, but a fun and energetic experience that encourages audience
participation and the sharing of positive vibes. Ebert spent a good portion of his stage time off the stage
altogether, opting to stand among the crowd instead as he belted out Up
From Below pleasers like “40 Day Dream”,
“Janglin’” and of course, the feel-good anthem of 2010, “Home.” The group also
performed a few songs from their about-to-drop sophomore album, Here (out May 29, it's the
first of two albums Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros will release this
year). From what we heard, the new songs
didn’t have quite the same level of appeal as the older ones, but they fit in
well with the show as a whole, and provided yet another great installment for
our beach day soundtrack.
After a rousing
introduction from Andy Kaufman alter ego Tony Clifton, The Flaming Lips took
the stage to do that thing that they do. Lights. Confetti. Disco ball. Action.
If you've been to at least a few music festivals in the last ten years, then
you couldn't have missed this band. If you somehow did miss them, you will
still have numerous chances, since they show no signs of letting up. With noisy
guitars and synths, psychedelic video imagery, droves of costumed characters,
and so on, The Flaming Lips have been putting on more or less the same show for
years now. And, it's almost always a great time. They don't try to match the precise,
multi-layered sound of their albums. Instead, those extra layers show up in
crowd interaction and wonderfully absurd visuals. Frontman Wayne Coyne seems
intent on having at least as much fun as the audience does, and how could
someone who gets to crowd surf in a giant bubble not?
It had been
announced on the festival bill that The Lips would be performing Dark Side
of the Moon, and sure
enough, they performed just five of their live favorites before submitting to
the power of The Floyd. Wayne announced that they would be soundtracking an
actual solar eclipse by the time they got to "Eclipse," noting
however that the band was not actually responsible for this natural phenomenon.
Unfortunately for festivalgoers, as well as the entire Eastern Seaboard, this
eclipse was not visible from our corner of the globe, but that doesn’t mean it
didn’t happen. Joining the band for the album tribute were members of the
electronic rock group Phantogram, as well as singer Lizzie Allen, whom Wayne
introduced as “a witch from Scotland”. It was somewhat surprising how the
performance tended to sound much closer to Pink Floyd's original than the
fuzzed out version the Lips recorded in 2009 with Peaches and Henry Rollins.
One of the
highlights featured Wayne introducing the song "Money" with a story
about Dave Matthews giving him $10,000 in cash backstage. Wayne said the money
had been inserted into balloons, which floated into the crowd as he sang,
"Money / so they say / is the root of all evil today," with the
frenzied crowd up front reaching desperately for the cash-filled globes. Aside
from this bit of social commentary, Wayne kept his usual preachiness to a
minimum. All in all, it was
another fun Lips show that made for a good finale for the musical portion of
our festival experience.
Personally, I haven’t been able to take Dave Matthews Band
seriously since The Great Poop Scandal of 2004. I
was annoyed to see him headlining such an otherwise great festival, namely
because of the particular breed of fans that the band seems to attract. You know, the ones who travel in
pastel-colored, Greek-lettered, croakie-wearing packs with humiliating tattoos, arguing about who loves DMB
more. However, these guys are
probably the reason Hangout sold out as fast as it did, so I guess the festival
organizers knew what they were doing.
Anyway, Dave’s 3 hour closer on Sunday night provided the
perfect opportunity to inhale a trough of deeply desired ground beef nachos at
the beachside Pink Pony Pub while our waiter hula-hooped beside us. And that,
friends, is what I call an excellent conclusion to an excellent weekend.
Recording their first album, Invitation Songs, mere months after the breakup of Pretty Girls Make
Graves, The Cave Singers have been on a steady track ever since, following up
with two more excellent records—2008’s warm and breezy Welcome Joy and 2011’s rather darker No Witch—both of which have become personal favorites of
mine. The band has passed through Atlanta several times since then, most
notably as openers for fellow
Seattlites Fleet Foxes, but somehow I kept missing them. In fact, it was not
until this past Tuesday evening at The Earl in East Atlanta that I was finally
able to experience The Cave Singers live. 
Drummer Marty Lund provided the steady heartbeat behind
Quirk’s warm warbling while guitarist Derek Fudesco was nothing but a mask of
shaggy brown hair and sound, completely immersed in his music with no audience
interaction whatsoever. The music, however, was great, from the clambering
stomp and swagger of “Black Leaf” to the wistful amble and creak of “Swim Club”
to a sun-dappled rendition of “Beach House” that made you want to pick it up
and wrap it around you like a warm blanket. 
