Moogfest 2011 (Asheville, NC)

Review by Hilary Cadigan

Moogfest is a music festival with a clear focus.  When AC Entertainment’s Director of Connectivity, Jeff Cuellar, first described to me the rather nebulous criteria the festival organizers were using to select artists for their lineup, I was skeptical.  But what emerged this past weekend was a hand-picked selection of hugely talented musicians that truly did deliver “genre-bending music, a sound-splicing way of pushing the boundaries, artists who are testing the limits, coming up with new sounds people haven’t heard before, challenging what music can do, mixing art with soundscape and creating a great live show overall.”  Mission accomplished, Jeff.

Nearly every performance brought the thrill of the unexpected, and the weekend as a whole was not just fun but exhilarating and thought-provoking to boot. 

Upon arrival, I was immediately delighted by the awesomely bootleg decorations—main venue Asheville Civic Center had the look and feel of a high school gym set up for the big Halloween Dance, complete with dayglow streamers and tape lining the walls and grumpy parental figures passing out [unfortunately not free] refreshments.  But Moogfest upped the ante with some unique festival features, including 80s-esque blown up TV screens by the main stage, glittering space-age stilt walkers with bubble guns, and two-person bicycle cars with giant butterfly wings circling the area.  Best of all was the aptly named “Cluster Flux,” a spinning tube of colored patterns with a walkway inside that festival-goers entered with 3D glasses for the ultimate substance-free trip to the 5^th dimension.

After some initial explorations of the cavernous Civic Center, we headed up a ramp and through a set of heavily and inexplicably guarded glass doors into the Thomas Wolf Auditorium for Tangerine Dream. 

Stoic and slightly dated but still clearly legendary, Tangerine Dream’s mesmerizing performance was a great way to start off the weekend.  They followed their performance with a drawn-out curtain call that soon became the norm for the weekend—nearly every artist took a time out before, after, or during their set to speak directly to the audience about what an honor it was to perform at a festival honoring somebody as awesome as Bob Moog.  And folks, I’ve seen the documentary and Bob does really seem like a pretty awesome guy, beyond even his cataclysmic contributions to the music world.  This sense of mutual appreciation lasted all weekend and really gave a neighborly vibe to the festival as a whole.

I’m not going to lie—before Moby’s explosive live performance at the Asheville Civic Center on Friday night, I had somehow convinced myself that he was only a DJ.  Not so.  In fact, Moby is not only an expert at mixing beats, he can also make magic on just about every instrument that touches his hands—guitar, drums, keyboard, microphone—with a stage presence so compelling that it took me about half the set to gleefully realize that he and his bandmates looked like three bald triplets.  (Like Blueman Group, but not blue.)  At the end of the show, when he took off his shirt and squatted on top of a speaker, bald head shining in the strobe lights, it all became clear: Moby is Buddha. And Buddha knows how to make your booty shake.

Wrapping up Friday night at the Civic Center was TV on the Radio, a band that totally blew my expectations out of the water.  With their one-of-a-kind blend of pop-friendly art rock and indie electronica with worldly influences, their performances reek of cool, while their earnest passion and energy make them impossible to dislike.  Their new stuff is awesome and their old stuff is classic. These guys can do no wrong.

Saturday was a whirlwind of vastly different performances tied together only by the artists’ shared uniqueness. Our day began with the disappointing news that YACHT’s plane “broke” (YACHT, are you okay?), therefore rendering them unable to perform their 5:00 set as planned.  This ended up being one of several unfortunate cancellations, including Little Dragon and Glasser.  Saddened, we headed toward the Animoog Playground, Moogfest’s only outdoor venue, where the freezing temperatures that plagued us all weekend made the hammock tent a perfect place to burrow in and listen to New Zealand indie electronic ensemble The Naked & Famous rock out. 

Next up was Dan Deacon, but we decided it was too early in the day to listen to someone blather on about spirit circles, so we hightailed it to Thomas Wolfe to greet the legendary Terry Riley and his son Gyan, whose weirdly wonderful combination of psychedelia and minimalism provided a testament to the cross-generational power of experimental music.  Unfortunately, we had to cut our experience short to sprint over to SBTRKT’s show on the Civic Center Stage, which we missed almost completely thanks to the annoying bureaucracy of the venue set-up, which required us to take the absolute longest way possible in order to re-enter the building we’d just exited.  Boo.

Okay, let me be the first to say that I adore the Flaming Lips.  Always have and always will, but on this cold and blustery evening in Asheville, I have to admit: my patience was worn thin.  Maybe it was the weather, or the cutting edge newness of the other acts on the schedule, or the fact that I really had to pee.  Maybe I’ve just seen the same exact performance one two many times, but at a certain point, as I stood there watching the giant balloons drift southward into a nearby parking garage, I felt not exhilarated, but exasperated.  As Wayne, in a more long-winded mood that usual, admonished the crowd for not being excited enough (“Come on you guys, this is all there is, this is it! GET EXCITED!”), I felt the need to shout, “Hey Wayne, SHUT THE FUCK UP AND PLAY!”  I mean seriously, we’ve been standing in a freezing parking lot for an hour waiting for you to set up your damn hamster ball.  If you want the crowd to be excited, you have to excite us, not yell at us for not cheering loud enough. I’m going to stop there, because it breaks my heart to say these things, but Flaming Lips, hear this, from one of your biggest fans: It’s time to step up your game, and I’m not talking about song length here (believe me, 24 hours is long enough) or gummy encasements for your albums (although I would like to get my hands on one of those skulls).  I’m talking about good old-fashioned concert etiquette.  Also, I hope those balloons are biodegradable.

Next up was Amon Tobin, the Brazilian-born drum ‘n’ bass deviant who was said to be performing his new album, ISAM, inside “an 8x8 cube while 3D images – machines, layers of pulsating light – cascade from side to side, top to bottom,” according to the Moogfest iPhone app.  This was not something we were going to miss, so we dipped out of the Flaming Lips’ show early (something I’ve never done before) and sprinted over to the Asheville Civic Center.

Talk about cutting-edge.  The spellbinding visuals projected onto the giant cubist structure mingled with the futuristic space noise of ISAM in a way that seemed to blur the line between sound and vision itself.  However, part of me just kept wishing that Amon would drop a fucking beat.  Call me old fashioned, but it’s not easy to stand in a huge open dance floor surrounded by amped-up festival-goers for 75 minutes listening to a patchwork of electronic manipulations and field recordings that stop just short of forming into a steady beat.  It’s kind of like being constantly on the edge of an orgasm with no sweet release.  Plus, it was hard to see the visuals with everybody standing up, leading me to conclude that this show could’ve been better appreciated if it took place in one of the seated venues. 

The next two performances made me want to stand up and dance, but unfortunately took place in the Thomas Wolfe auditorium.  However, that did nothing to dull the glow of the artists themselves. First, St. Vincent a.k.a. Annie Clark, a woman so goddamn cool that you can’t help but just stare at her in wonder as she strums away on her electric guitar.  Annie hits the sweet spot between kick-over-the-speakers rock abrasiveness and swoony, swirly, feminine sensitivity so dead-on that it’s like she invented both genres.  I have absolutely nothing negative to say about her. 

I also have nothing negative to say about the act that followed, Battles, a band that would put anyone else who resembled them to shame, if anyone else actually resembled them. An excellent example of what happens when truly talented musicians get experimental without forgetting that music is supposed to make us dance, this quartet turned trio (they lost original member Tyondai Braxton in 2010) seems collectively determined to attain perfection by the most difficult means possible.  I’m referring to the playing-two-keyboards-at-the-same-time-without-looking-at-either-of-them agility of synth-master Ian Williams as well as the hey-my-percussion-sounds-like-a-machine-gun-even-though-I-decided-to-position-my-high-hat-three-feet-above-my-own-head absurdity of human drum machine John Stanier.  These guys redefine awesome, and were a wonderful way to wrap up a Saturday.

Sunday began with a stroll around beautiful Asheville followed by a trip to the YMI Center for the highly anticipated “77 Million Paintings,” a multi-sensory art exhibition created by the honorable godfather of modern ambient music, Brian Eno.  And let me tell you, Eno did not disappoint.  In fact, “77 Million Paintings” emerged as one of the biggest highlights of the entire weekend.  I don’t want to give too much away, but let me just say: multiple screens + ambient music + red velvet couches = one of the most mentally invigorating experiences I’ve had in a long time.  After two hours spent mesmerized in a darkened room, I’d decided I was going to move to Thailand, go back to school, and start writing poetry again.  This, my friends, is some powerful shit.

Lucky for me, my favorite art exhibit ever was followed by my favorite live performance of the weekend—Beats Antique. Any group that can flawlessly fuse experimental electronica with traditional belly dance tunes is a win in my book, and they didn’t even stop there.  The live Afro-Arabian beats! The live belly dancing! The live animal vs. pro wrestler battle finale! Does it get better than this? No, it does not.

Next up: another dose of totally unexpected brilliance.  Who knew Donald Glover, a.k.a. Troy from the meta-fabulous sitcom Community, could rap more ferociously than Kanye, and sing with more soulful soprano R&B charm than Usher (in his glory days)?  Not I, until Sunday night at Moogfest.  Did I mention he was dressed like an elf in a Christmas colored collared t-shirt, khaki short shorts, and a hat with a pom pom?  He was.  And he rocked it.

We had to leave Troy behind prematurely to rush back over to the Asheville Civic Center for the mysterious “Special Disco Version feat. James Murphy and Pat Mahoney.”  And by James Murphy, I do in fact mean the founding member of the all-too-short-lived indie empire known as LCD Soundsystem.  Murphy has also been named one of the coolest people on the planet by more than one magazine, and on Sunday he proved that he doesn’t even need to be a frontman to retain this lofty title.

But let’s be clear: LCD Soundsystem this is not.  As Murphy was quick to remind us the moment he walked onstage, “we’re just going to be playing some records, that’s it.”  And that was it, but damn did they rock!  A welcome break from the experimental bleeps and blips that dominated the weekend, this was a fresh take on disco classics, spun together into a syncopated soup of sound that had the whole room dancing our pants off while aerial artists somersaulted overhead.

Sadly, all good things must end, but we picked a great way to conclude our Moogfest weekend.  Over at The Orange Peel, an Asheville institution in its own right, Portlandian trip-hop up-and-comer Emancipator, a.k.a. Doug Appling, coordinated a live violinist over soothing synth beats that had everyone in the room bobbing and swaying the night to a close, with a lovely cameo from a female vocalist to boot.  Chilled to perfection—a perfect way to slip off into the night, back to our various abodes, and into our beds, where visions of Bob Moog would dance in our heads. 

Moogfest, I’ll see you next year.

Photos by Rachel Mills & Hilary Cadigan

Hangout Music Festival 2011

What’s better than a music festival on the beach? Not much. And what happens when said music festival features a line-up that is literally perfect? It’s sort of like watching your own head explode, yet feeling no pain.

Hangout Music Fest 2011 was a force to be reckoned with. The weather was ideal, the festival grounds were beautiful, and the consistently awesome performances were some of the best I’ve seen, ever.

The sandy terrain sculpted our calves and kept our minds free from worries of strange diseases contracted from the swamp-like mix of unidentified substances that typically coats the ground of music festivals.  Note: you should, however, bring a pair of flip-flops to the festival grounds; about 50% of the total area is comprised of hot black asphalt. And don’t expect to quickly hop from stageside to ocean deep—while the fest does allow unlimited reentry for every patron, it took awhile to trek out the front entrance and all the way around, since the ocean alongside the festival grounds was  unfortunately but understandably blocked off.  Cops on dune buggies hung out between the ocean and the fence, a barrier that made for some exciting people watching scenarios, including several strung-out individuals attempting—and in a few cases, succeeding—to dive over the rickety wooden fence and toward to the beckoning waves before getting tackled by an army of blue-suited officers.

Last year, a mere 15,000 flocked to the Gulf Shores beachside to jam out to Trey Anastasio, John Legend, and The Roots, among others. This year, tickets sold out entirely, a rare feat for a festival in its second year of existence, capping attendance at 35,000.

The 35,000 cap was definitely a necessary measure, and at times I wondered if maybe they should’ve cut sales even sooner.  While the two main beachside stages were great, the aptly titled Boom Boom Room tent was a bonafide clusterfuck.  Because the sides of the tent were blocked off, the back was the only way to get in or out, thereby creating the dreaded bottleneck effect worsened by the fact that everyone was sweaty.  As such, despite all the hugely popular electro-acts like Bassnectar, Pretty Lights, and Girl Talk performing in this tent, after a dicey first experience trying to get in, I went ahead and avoided the Boom Boom Room altogether, thereby missing a significant number of shows at which I’d planned on shaking my booty quite a bit.

The fact that I enjoyed myself so immensely despite these losses is a testament to the greatness of the rest of the lineup, and to Hangout as a whole.  While the festival’s fledgling status was clear, particularly in the face of crowds more than twice the size of the previous year, its organizers’ attention to detail and overall dedication to Hangout greatness outshined its missteps by a landslide, catapulting it into the festival big leagues with ease.  Yes, the Porta-Potty placement could’ve been better (wading through a crowd of amped-up festival-goers to reach a fleet of toilets located behind the main stage is not ideal for those in dire need of bladder relief), but there were fireworks every night, VIP-style accommodations for all (hammock and palm tree oasis, anyone?), and the freaking ocean at our feet, so you know what?  I was willing to hold it. 

Hangout’s success was made particularly clear by the reactions of the artists themselves, who repeatedly took time out of their all too short sets to note the general awesomeness of a music festival on the beach.  David Grohl himself said this was the most fun he’d had performing in 20 years—and that’s a serious statement. 

Another serious statement: Hangout Music Festival brought me what I can safely dub the most epic festival moment I’ve ever witnessed, or, if I may, The Greatest Festival Fook-Up of All Time.  Bear with me. 

So, we all know that in the world of music festivals, timing is everything.  In order to keep such an intricately arranged event running smoothly, it’s crucial that artists arrive on time, deliver a condensed version of their typical set list, and exit the stage at the end of designated block. Festivals are as much if not more about the overall experience than any individual performance. As such, any dedicated festival-goer will expect the artists to adhere to what I will call festival etiquette, and will likely react in a negative fashion if said etiquette is violated (see: Kanye West, Bonnaroo 2008).  Which brings me to my point.  On Saturday at 3:00 p.m., one Cee Lo Green was scheduled to perform at the Hangout Stage.  A large crowd eagerly assembled, but one thing was missing: Cee Lo.  As the minutes ticked past, I began to fear the worst.  At 3:15 there was still no sign of Mr. Green, and the crowd let out a communal groan as a festival organizer took the stage.  As the guy made his way to the mic and began a feeble, mumbly attempt to connect with the pissed off crowd, I thought to myself, “there is no way this poor dude is going to leave this stage without taking at least one Miller Lite can to the face.” 

I was wrong.  Suddenly the guy smiled. “Well, it seems like Cee Lo Green couldn’t make it here” [cue the boos], “but we say, Cee Lo, forget you—we got the Foo Fighters!” Whhhhhhhhat?  Enter David Grohl himself, exploding onto the stage like a bat out of heaven with a fist-pumping rendition of Alice Cooper’s “Schools Out” that had the confused but elated crowd eating from the palm of his hand in a matter of seconds.  Grohl tore through a masterful selection of covers, including Queen’s “Tie Your Mother Down” and Tom Petty’s “Breakdown,” then paused. “We actually really like Cee Lo Green, and if he were here, I’d hope that he’d sing with us,” shouted Grohl, before launching into a spine-tingling rendition of “Darling Nikki.”  Then suddenly, out of nowhere, Cee Lo himself appeared at the mic, clad in a velour tracksuit and diving right into his own down and dirty version of Prince’s ode to sadomasochism.  As he stripped down to a white tank top and grinded with the mic stand like it was Nikki herself, it was clear that he’d earned full redemption from the ecstatic crowd.  Then after a brief break, he re-emerged with the cherry on top of the sundae—a short but spot-on set of hits, including “Fuck You” and a rendition of “Crazy” (from his Gnarls Barkley days) that had everybody dancing madly.

For some mysterious and undoubtedly stupid reason, photos of the unplanned Foo Fighters show were strictly prohibited from being published, but you can see a fan video here.

Other highs of the weekend: a gorgeous set from My Morning Jacket, which included songs from their brand new album, Circuital; a magical, multi-sensory sing-along with the Flaming Lips; a rousing hour of pitch perfect blues-rock from The Black Keys; and a delightfully energetic Ween show (Gene Ween, pointing to the ocean: “Hey, everybody look, a boat!” [Everybody turns to look at said boat.] Gene Ween: “FUCK YOU, BOAT. DON'T LISTEN.”). As one of my fellow festival-goers exclaimed, “There is something really epic about watching your favorite band move the waves of the ocean while feeling the sand between your toes as you dance.”

And what better way to finish off a perfect weekend of music than a performance from one of the most lovable music icons of all time: Paul Simon.  Paul wrapped all 35,000 of us in a cocoon of sheer joy as he paraded his way through two hours of back-to-back gold, including cuts from his wonderful new album, So Beautiful, So What, and a generous portion of Graceland gems.  To ease the pain of Paul’s departure and conclude what may very well have been the best weekend of my life, the sky exploded into an epic fireworks show.  As the smoke cleared, all I really wanted to do was lie down on the soft white sand and bask in the beauty of it all, but sadly, the patrol cars were coming to clear us all away.  Gulf Shores, Alabama—I’ll seeya next year!

At Your Funeral: My Morning Jacket - "One Big Holiday"

My very first writing assignment for Consequence of Sound?  Choose the song you want played at your funeral.  Talk about D.O.A.  Heh heh.

Right. So I died and everyone’s miserable, and now it’s time to attend a ceremony intended to single-handedly celebrate the epic grandeur of my earthly existence while simultaneously lamenting the fact that I shall never set one gorgeous foot on said earth ever again.  (I’m dead, remember, so we will only be speaking of me as though I were the greatest person who ever lived.)  So, what we’re looking for here is a song that expresses a very particular blend of devastation, remembrance, inspiration and celebration—a catharsis of sorts. 

Actually, this question was a lot easier to answer than I thought it would be. If I could pick just one song to play at my funeral, it would be “One Big Holiday” by my all-time favorite band, My Morning Jacket.  Preferably the live version from Okonokos.

No wait, is that too obvious?  Probably only to those who know me, and that’s a good thing, I think. A funeral song should attempt to achieve a degree of summation rather than surprise.  And what better way to sum up a well-lived life than “One Big Holiday?” Because isn’t that exactly what life should be, when it comes down to it? And shouldn’t my funeral be a national holiday anyway…? 

MMJ’s songs throb with life. Their expertly-rendered osmosis of ecstasy and agony begets a sonic vitality that resonates in each explosive reprise, in every cavernous moment of stillness. Frontman Jim James’ haunting voice encompasses the full range of human experience, dipping and soaring through the decadently layered instrumentals like a slow-motion volcano.

“One Big Holiday” finds James’ intonations at their most raucous: a train-engine drumbeat crescendos into a pool of pealing guitars as James sings about the kind of simple, celebratory life we all yearn for.  It’s the life I hope to have lived good and well before a song about it becomes the soundtrack to my funeral.

Actually, you know what? I want MMJ to be at my goddamn funeral, performing Okonokos in its entirety. Hopefully, by this time, Jim James and I will be great friends and the whole crew will be there anyway. But if not, you know what, Jim?  I died.  It’s the least you could do.

And why stop there?  Let’s invite the Flaming Lips as well. Let’s do some sort of never-before-seen collaboration.  Wayne Coyne will bring his laser-beam hands and his giant transparent crowd-surfing ball.  I’ll be inside the ball—the luckiest corpse ever—somersaulting over the crowd like an oversized hamster.  Then they’ll hook me into a hot air balloon and send me off over an open field where everyone can stand watching as I float to the stars.  There will be costumed dancers and glittering confetti and fireworks spelling out my name. It will be the spectacle of the century. It will go viral on YouTube.  People will be jealous of how cool my funeral was.

Then, it will turn out that I'm not really dead after all. I’ll snap into consciousness, do a little dance, claw my way out of the ball and parachute back down to earth.  Surprise!  I’m immortal. Let’s party. 

By Hilary Cadigan

Originally written for Consequence of Sound

Forecastle Music Festival 2010 (Louisville, Kentucky)

Forecastle Music Festival was a success. Particularly for me, having managed to snag a bed at a friend’s parents’ condo, conveniently located directly across the street from Louisville’s lovely Waterfront Park. We could see the main stage from the balcony, and that made us feel important. But we still had to use the porta-potties, and that kept us from feeling too important.

This was Forecastle’s 9th year of existence, but the very first year the festival has taken place at Waterfront. The park turned out to be the perfect venue for this light-hearted weekend of music, art, and activism, providing a welcome breeze off the water in the daytime and a gorgeous sunset at night. Plus, while it seemed a little weird to have a festival going on under a highway bridge, there’s something to be said for a built-in source of all-day shade, and something even better to be said for the brilliant individual who came up with the idea to position a row of porta-potties right under this all-day shade source. Today we salute you, Mr. Porta-Potty placement picker. Because it’s much easier to go when the horrifying concoction you’re left to hover over hasn’t spent its day caramelizing in the sun. Right?

This festival also had music.

We missed the first day altogether due to the fact that I now have a real job and can’t go gallivanting all over the country on weekdays anymore unless I get time off, which is sad. And my friend’s dad said Widespread Panic was a religious experience. So there’s that.

Saturday began with listening to Modern English from the condo’s balcony—and that was nice. “Melt With You” is always a good way to start your Saturday afternoon. By the time we ambled over to the festival, Ocean Stage, the relatively small grassy basin ironically situated furthest from the water, was already throbbing with electronic music. This was the place where the festival’s most colorful characters could usually be found, and I was wearing my go-to festival ensemble of fairy wings, bubble wand, and an unnecessary quantity of beads and glowsticks, so while I felt a bit judged at the press entrance, I fit right in here. Onstage local DJ Amtrack—flanked by two uncannily identical blondes in stripper gear gyrating like their lives depended on it—spun out an infectious blend of beat-heavy electronica as we danced in the whirl of flailing limbs and flying colors below. Things were off to an excellent start.


We meandered around West Stage, the largest of four (East, West, North, and Ocean—apparently Forecastle functions under the notion that the South has already seceded, and been filled in with water), where the rootsy blues-rock of Grace Potter and the Nocturnals floated out onto the sun-soaked field and into the alcohol tent. There was one of those rather annoying systems in place where you have to go to a separate station to buy non-refundable drink tickets and then trade them in for beer and Maker’s Mark whiskey drinks. My only other logistical complaint was the lack of accessible drinking water—apparently there was a fountain somewhere within the festival grounds, but I never found it, and when you have thousands of people in an enclosed space with temperatures in the mid-90s, $3 Dasanis and empty souvenir water bottles (while a nice touch) don’t cut it.

As we continued to meander, I noted the multitude of non-profit booths, with an overarching environmental theme, stationed around a glistening serpentine art installation sculpted out of recycled plastic bottles. Forecastle is a festival that has not relinquished its philanthropic spirit to the evil clutches of capitalism. On the green grasses of Waterfront park, the activist spirit remains alive and well, and while it’s hard not to be cynical about such efforts in this day and age (especially if you happen to look over the shoulder of the Avatar manning the sustainability booth and see one of those oil tankers chugging down the Ohio River behind him) it feels good to be surrounded by people who care, especially when there’s music involved. And you realize, man, if everybody just quit bitching and treated themselves to a good old-fashioned music festival, the world would be a far better place.

Next up, Cake. I’ve liked Cake for awhile and though the peak of my fandom has passed, I was still hoping for a great show. Alas, speak-singing frontman John McCrea spent far too much time just speaking, trying to engage with the audience by blathering our ears off rather than doing what we, or at least my companions and I, wanted him to do, which was generate music. Maybe, ultimately, this was exactly what Cake was meant to do. Maybe the true fans appreciated it. Maybe I’m just too far gone to appreciate their brand of 90’s geek-rock anymore. But once McCrea started rambling about “which is more powerful in America today, anger or escapism?” and how the party hardy city of Louisville “must get its protein, hells yes” I grew restless. And once he split the audience into sections and started yelling out instructions (“All the girlsssss on the siiiiide, say duuuuude”) I grew irritated. And they didn’t even play “Mahna Mahna.”


So, we wandered into the food area. Here, I was impressed. Not only were the prices extraordinarily fair for a festival, but the options were abundantly varied, uniquely local and absolutely delicious. And they had free samples! In fact, I must announce that Forecastle Music Festival is the current titleholder for my ongoing, unofficial “Best Festival Food” competition, with J. Gumbo’s $6 trifecta of mouth-watering Cajun chicken and veggies served over rice coming in big for the win. Plus they had Coldstone ice cream, only $3.50 a pop! My over-eager friends got stuck with some dried-out chicken on a bun, but that’s because they were impatient, and impatience never pays. Sampling pays. This much I know for sure.


Feeling proud that I had for once made the best food choice of the group, I marched back over to the main stage and settled down contentedly behind one of the many middle-aged, folding-chair-touting contingents stationed on the lawn. In fact, I think this was \the first time in recent memory where I fell outside the median age range at a music festival. Saturday was a day for Gen X, with Cake and DEVO and Smashing Pumpkins providing a nostalgia-ridden journey through the 80s and 90s for those whose tastes went beyond Punky Brewster and Fraggle Rock during that time. I felt uncharacteristically out of the loop at a lot of these shows, not because I wasn’t around when these bands had their heydays, but perhaps because I was, yet didn’t have the deep-seated appreciation for them that the Gen-Xers did.


I have to hand it to Devo though—they’re a pretty spirited bunch of old dudes. And ultimately, their Forecastle performance reflected their latest album, Something For Everybody, which falls into the positive middle ground between death rattle and comeback. It’s more like a last hurrah, but the kind that could go on for a while, as Devo seems determined to ride this wave as long as they can. As their “Song Study” method of fan-driven track selection for the aptly titled album illustrates, second-wave Devo is nothing if not crowd-pleasing. (Apparently they even changed their trademark red bucket hats to blue because, for whatever reason, that’s what their fans preferred.) And considering the band’s strange history, to which many of us teens and 20-somethings may be blind beyond the ubiquitous Totally 80s! compilation regular “Whip It,” that’s something new.


So, while my brethren and I may have been a bit confused and exasperated by the 15-minute sci-fi history digression, and the equally long and a-bit-too-soon-for-comfort Michael Jackson impersonation (at least I think that’s what it was), it’s only because we didn’t know that Devo actually had this whole 1970s-spawned theory of de-evolution derived from some book about humans evolving from mutant, brain-eating apes. And while they’re certainly not trying to make us take it seriously anymore (were they ever?), there’s something to be said for their power of foresight, in hindsight. Looking at our own postmodern world, does de-evolution seem so far-fetched? And regardless, we certainly cannot deny the irreparable influence Devo’s music has had on the today’s deluge of popular electronic music. And for that, I thank them.


Case in point, the next act to take up residence on the West Stage—Bassnectar. Back in the loop and into the fray, my fellow Gen Y-ers and I rushed toward the stage as the sun slipped behind it. Soon, the sky turned black and the glow sticks emerged, blending with the electrifying visuals and pulsing lights onstage as the honorable DJ Lorin Ashton, engulfed in his signature mass of waist-length hair, pumped out face-melting break-beats over a rippling sea of sweaty dancing bodies.


Literally soaked in perspiration and exhausted from a solid 75 minutes of pure adrenaline, we decided to head back to our temporary abode for cold (free) drinks and the opportunity to experience Smashing Pumpkins from the balcony. I will not deny that this was a bit of a cop-out. I’m well aware of the Smashing Pumpkins’ cult following, and I, like most people, do own a copy of Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, but I’m going to confess something here: I bought it because I was in middle school and it seemed like the cool thing to do for the emerging music connoisseur I imagined myself to be. In fact, beyond admittedly poignant gem “1979,” I never really got that into it. And as I sat out there on that balcony in Louisville looking down at the vaguely defined top of the shimmering West Stage, I kept listening for “1979” but never heard it, not necessarily because they didn’t play it—they must have, right?—but because to be honest we really couldn’t hear very well from up there, and were lingering more on principle than anything else.

Sunday began, of course, with the World Cup final. I cheered for both the Netherlands and Spain, so I feel like I came out a winner. My reward? She & Him, Spoon, and The Flaming Lips, back-to-back on the main stage. I could hardly contain myself. But on the immediate forecast, what I was most excited for was a little band called Greenskeepers, that sing a little song called “Lotion,” based on a little scene from Silence of the Lambs that you may recall. Let me enlighten you with a brief lyrical sample: “The night is very cold, I'm feeling kind of weak/I think i'll make myself a cap from your right buttocks cheek/And then I will go walking with my little dog/and then I'll bury you underneath a log.” Let me continue, with the chorus: “It rubs the lotion on its skin/Or else it get the hose again/Yes, Precious, it gets the hose.” Imagine these lyrics oozing over what may be the catchiest hook of all time, combined with a particularly magical 3-year-old memory of seeing this very band cavorting around the stage in kung fu ensembles at my first-ever music festival (R.I.P. Echo Project) and you can imagine my excitement about seeing Greenskeepers on the Ocean Stage on Sunday.


Now imagine this: madly hustling the more dedicated soccer fans in my group out of a local bar, charging through layers of traffic, elderly bystanders and sustainability pushers and reaching the Ocean Stage just in time to find… what? To my horror, rather than the four vivacious droogs I was expecting, there was a lethargic-looking chubby guy in discomforting skinny jeans mixing dated samples for a nearly empty basin. Not even the two Kubrickian blondes, gyrating rather dolefully behind him, could save this show.


I marched backstage (that’s how deserted it was), and asked the stage crew about the identity of this Greenskeeping imposter. “It’s Greenskeepers, he’s a DJ,” was the grammatically-suspect response. Baffled, I returned to the stage. Had I hallucinated the whole experience 3 years prior? Impossible. This was not my Greenskeepers. This guy was a fraud or a last-minute replacement, or both. After a few minutes of doubtful lingering, I accepted defeat and moved on. It wasn’t until I returned home the next day and did some in-depth internet research that I realized this guy was, in fact, James Curd, one of the 2 originators of the band I loved so well. Oops. But frealz James, toting your lame solo DJ efforts under the name of your infinitely better band is uncool. Especially when you’re not even the vocalist. And why were you mixing up samples of “Paper Planes” when you had “Lotion” to work with?


I guess I’ll never know.


Disappointed, we headed over to the East Stage, where I was pleasantly surprised by effervescent psych-rock newcomers Morning Teleportation, who provided some much-needed musical uplift after the devastation wreaked by the lone Greenskeeper. Morning Teleportation is currently touring as Modest Mouse openers, with their Isaac Brock-produced debut slated to come out soon. I’ll be sure to check that out.


Post-Teleportation, with nearly an hour to kill before She & Him were scheduled to begin, we wandered. Eventually settling in at the Cirque Bezerk tent, we watched a group of powder-faced men jump over and around a wall and two contortionists writhe around like human snakes. A lovely distraction indeed, marred only by the puke-flavored not-so-mint julep Maker’s Mark beverage I made the mistake of ordering. But winners never quit, so I sucked it down and trotted over to the main stage to watch my girl Zooey rock out 50s-style with M. Ward. 


She & Him is one of the most refreshing musical acts I’ve heard in awhile. Zooey Deschanel trills with her own soulful style while returning us to the kind of retro charm that feels familiar even if you weren’t born until 1987. The perfect soundtrack for a sun-drenched Sunday afternoon in the park.


Eventually though, we were ready to return to our beloved Ocean Stage, where the aptly-named Heavyweight Dub Champion ensemble was spinning. Their scorching beats got us dancing again, and we didn’t stop until we left Waterfront Park. What happened in between were the two best shows of the weekend: Spoon and the Flaming Lips.


Volatile, visceral, and utterly on top of their game, Spoon rocked the shit out of us all—it was the third time I’ve seen them in concert and absolutely the best, confirming Spoon’s spot in my hallowed list of top ten favorite bands. There’s just something about their candid lyricism and uniquely infectious sound that really gets to me.  And I find pasty frontman Britt Daniel extremely sexy.

Spoon played an ideal mix of tracks, mostly from their past four albums, including my personal favorite, which I’ve never heard live before, the seductive, idiosyncratic “Stay Don’t Go,” from 2002’s Kill The Moonlight. It lacked a little in the beat-boxing department, but found redemption by subbing in a seriously sweet horn section made up of local Louisville blowers. As the sun set, the sky awash in seashell colors, Spoon reaffirmed everything I love about them, and definitely acquired some new fans as well.



Now, the grand finale. Another band I’ve seen thrice, another top ten favorite, and architects of perhaps the greatest live show I’ve ever witnessed: The Flaming Lips. I think what it comes down to is that the Lips and I love the same things: over-the-top sparkles and lights and colors and madness—in other words, pure, bedazzling spectacle. The way I see it, this is how great music makes me feel, so why shouldn’t it be matched with its visual equivalent? The Flaming Lips’ music, particularly that of their most recent efforts, Embryonic and the startling, slow-burning celebration that is The Flaming Lips (with Stardeath, White Dwarfs and, against all odds, Peaches) covering Dark Side of the Moon, is all about layers and layers of sound and meaning. I witnessed what may have been a one-time-only performance of Dark Side at Bonnaroo and will never as long as I live forget it, but its essence lives on in all Lips performances.



The Flaming Lips revel in swirling textures—sonic, visual, spatial and psychological. They blend cerebra with kitsch, dark with light, solemnity with mirth. But the magic doesn’t come from attaining perfect balance; in fact, sometimes they go completely askew. Wayne starts babbling about legalizing marijuana in the middle of “Any Colour You Like,” keeps doing his old war-protesting bugle number even as we groan and wait for him to get back to the good stuff, comes out in his giant plastic bubble every show regardless of bodily injury. But he’s nothing if not consistent, and he’s consistent because of the joy these little heady indulgences so clearly bring him. You see Wayne with his giant laser hands and know that one day he just said, “Hey, you know what would be sweet? Giant laser hands.” The Flaming Lips perform their hearts out for us because they love doing it. Their magic comes from the ecstatic totality of the experience they create. And ultimately, that’s exactly where the magic of any truly great music festival comes from, too.

Review and Photos by Hilary Cadigan