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!

An Interview with Singer/Songwriter/Bank Robber Nico Walker of Safari

NOTE: Just days before this article was set to publish in Consequence of Sound, Nico Walker (the guy I interviewed) was arrested for armed bank robbery (yes, seriously). So it got taken down there. But you can read it here!

In Swahili, the word safari means “long journey”—a good name for a band of Cleveland-based indie garage-rockers who’ve had more member changes than albums, even though they’re one of at least five other groups with the same moniker—including a Chilean hip-hop ensemble, a band of Japanese instrumentalists, and a synth-beat five-piece from London.  “As far as the future of the name, I've given thought about changing it, or augmenting it because of all the different Safaris out there,” says Nico Walker, Safari’s singer, songwriter, and sole permanent member. “I've been considering Sexual Safari. Every now and then I come close to changing it to that... or spelling it using the phonetic alphabet. The name will be different by the time we play our next show, or when we put our new record out.  I just haven't settled on how it will be different.”  

Walker cites Graham Coxon, Mick Jones, and Lou Reed as his biggest influences, and specific facets of each can be heard on Safari’s October 2010 LP, Maybe Tomorrow. This jangly little album features the kind of upbeat alt-rock that would fit nicely into the Empire Records soundtrack, along with one track, the melancholy “Murray Swill,” that could pass for a Lou Reed B-side.  Most importantly, says Walker, “all the songs are about something, so it's not bullshit.”

The critical response was varied. “A guy in London said that one could find our brand of clichéd spew in any East London toilet,” Walker laughs. “But we've mostly gotten good reactions from people at our shows and from other bands. Some even came up and said that we had the goods, which was nice – even if we don't have the goods.”

Clearly, positive feedback has not turned Walker into a diva, nor a PR-monger. Having dealt with pushy, uptight bandmates in the past, he’s pleased with the way things are now, citing that none of Safari’s current members “have any gift for promotion, and that’s a good thing.” His most recent roster includes Marco Nerone (drums), Alex Lackey (guitar), and Doug Roj (bass). Roj is already in the process of being replaced, since he had to move to New York City for school, but Walker isn’t worried. “This incarnation of Safari is the best yet,” he says. “Hopefully, it stays intact for a long time.”

Safari’s next album is expected to drop in June, and the plan is to support it with a local tour, starting in Cleveland and surrounding areas. What to expect? You’ll have to wait and see. “Our sound develops organically,” Walker says. “Lately, I've come in and started playing something and then Marco and Alex drop in and we really focus on working up some interesting textures, juxtaposing rhythms, and getting full clean tones or rounder fuzz sounds.”  Anything else?  “We play loud.”

Ultimately, Walker says, “I'm not in a band to get laid or do drugs. You don't have to be in a band to do either of those things.  I'm in a band because I write songs that I put everything into. My life is fucked like so many other people's lives are, and music helps that. The older you get the more you see that everybody's spinning plates, just hanging on by a thread, and at any moment everything can fall apart and your house is gone and you have no money and people say you're a loser. But a song somebody can really feel is consistent. No matter how fucked things get, you're guaranteed to feel something when you hear it, and that sort of thing can keep people from losing it altogether.”

Album Review: The Sea & Cake - The Moonlight Butterfly

The Sea and Cake’s newest mini-album (six songs puts it somewhere between EP and LP), The Moonlight Butterfly, opens with a warm deluge of ringing sound, a beat that slides in softly, murmured vocals reminiscent of the quieter moments had by Kevin Drew of Broken Social Scene.  But what makes opening track “Covers” so tranquil is the same kind of soothing monotony that ends up turning me off from the album as a whole . Yes, this is a collection of cerebral songs for the quiet life, the zen garden moments—a leaf changing colors, rippling pond water, a butterfly… in the moonlight—but there isn’t enough heart to sustain them, and they end up making me feel more like I’m mindlessly riding in an elevator or sitting in a waiting room at the dentist’s office than contemplating life’s big questions.

Coasting along for nearly 20 years, The Sea and Cake has earned a fair share of indie cred for their seemingly effortless ability to master the serene art of flow, crafting their albums so that each track slides seamlessly into the next. However, Butterfly leads me to wonder if maybe these Chicago-based post-rockers haven’t taken it a step too far, sacrificed charisma and spirit for the sake of their almighty flow. Gone is the unique flavor that kept the band’s earlier music from falling flat. Gone are the unexpected moments of strangeness—bursts of steel drums, crunchy textures, odd little moany background vocals—the kinds of blips and lumps that kept their sound fresh and alive. Now the sound feels smoothed over, almost glib, like the band learned how to make a new kind of cake with half the calories, and moved to Florida, where the sea has no waves. 

There are a few distinctive elements—a bubbly beachy vibe in “Up on the North Shore”, some scratchy guitar slides on “Monday”—and plenty of quiet beauty to go around, but ultimately, there’s simply not enough to cling to, not enough to feel. Nothing breaks through the cool gloss of overproduction and the vocals feel all but sedated. It’s not bad music, but it’s boring. Each song ends up sounding like a slightly different version of the song that preceded it, and all we have to interrupt the endless smoothness is the strange (but not strange enough) title track, “The Moonlight Butterfly”, an electronic interlude rife with sparkly staccato and mounting synths that build and build and build… to nothing.

This album takes me past relaxation, past tranquility, into a place that leaves me numb.  I really do want to appreciate the intricacies of vocalist and lead guitarist Sam Prekop’s instrumental layering and laudable experimentation with analog synthesizers, but they sound stifled under their own weight, cancelled out, pureed into soup, like the individual pieces are never nurtured enough to thrive or isolated enough to shine.

In a 2001 Pitchfork interview with Prekop, writer Brian Roberts describes the artist as “content with himself, his art, and his world,” allowing him to create music that is “the very soul of contented beauty.”  But that was ten years ago; now the contentment feels stale and I find it hard to believe that nothing within the past decade has broken through Prekop’s beautifully contented soul enough to bring some real passion into his voice.   If anything, it seems like the contentedness has faded into lethargy. The more I listen to this album, the more I want to grab the man, shake him and scream, “The world is on fire! GIVE ME SOMETHING I CAN FEEL!” 

By Hilary Cadigan

Originally published in Consequence of Sound

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

ULTRA MUSIC FESTIVAL 2011

Miami’s Ultra Music Festival is not exactly a model citizen in the world of music festivals.  It’s no Burning Man, no Woodstock, not even a post-Kanye Bonnaroo. There’s no overt mission of sustainability or charity aside from the rather half-assed “Eco Village” shoved behind the Heineken Dome in the back corner of the park. The food options are narrow, unhealthy, and wildly overpriced ($15 for a sub-par plate of chicken fingers and a handful of undercooked fries? Yikes).  The bathrooms are few and far between (waits reportedly lasted up to half an hour). There’s no source of free water, which is a huge no-no in my book (water = survival when it comes to spending all day dancing in the hot sun, and forcing parched, Molly-driven ravers to pay $5 cash for every puny bottle is downright lethal). There wasn’t even a recycling facility (come on).

Bienvenidos a Miami.

Then there were the unexpected and unintentional issues: a massive and very poorly timed fuel fire at the Miami airport that canceled nearly 200 flights; scheduling conflicts with the Winter Music Conference, Swedish House Mafia’s “Masquerade Motel” show, and Chromeo’s performance at the Juno Awards; Bicentennial Park construction that forced organizers to make do with a venue size 30% smaller than last year’s…

And yet, wow. UMF 2011 triumphed.

At a time when many festivals focus on drawing in the maximum number of people with the widest variety of musical offerings—the “something for everybody” approach—Miami’s Ultra Music Festival seems to have known exactly what it wanted to be since its nativity on the shores of South Beach thirteen years ago.  Despite or rather because of its complete unwillingness to compromise on this very particularized vision, Ultra seems to have achieved self-actualization in a way that few other festivals have in this day and age.  The result? A three-day, sold-out wonderland of bass-laden, booty-shaking, face-melting EDM that showcased the very best of an industry in its prime.  With a line-up ranging from hot-off-the-press buzz-makers (Afrobeta, Beardyman, Trentmoller) to legendary standbys (Chemical Brothers, Carl Cox, Underworld), Ultra ran the gamut without ever veering too far from its molten core.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that Ultra Music Festival is not for everybody.  But it is for anybody who loves electronic music enough to be blasted with it for three solid days without reprieve. And therein lies the beauty of the whole affair. 

FRIDAY:

We arrived to find the party in full swing, with what would soon prove to be a permanent sea of speedy die-hards blanketed across the mouth of the Main Stage and shaking their fists along with the endless pulsations of Benny Benassi, who seemed to take his midday placement as a chance to chill out, and was even spotted texting onstage during his own set.  Not that it mattered; crowds were way too amped-up to notice, and it’s unlikely that anyone who noticed would have cared anyway.

After checking out the scene a bit, we skipped over to the Live Stage, Ultra’s second biggest and best situated arena, where Norwegian downbeat duo Röyksopp was spinning some seriously spellbinding ambience that kept everybody moving.

Next up, an entirely unexpected and seriously danceable dubstep-derived nosh-up from classically trained house mastermind BT (a.k.a. Brian Transeau).  It was exactly what I’d been looking for all evening, with my energy level still sky-high and booty aching to swivel and swim.  BT would be playing a second set on the Main Stage on Sunday afternoon, but unfortunately it was scheduled for 1:30 p.m., hence I already knew I wouldn’t be making it unless I happened to wake up there.  Regardless, despite the small stage size of his Friday set, it was clear that this British club favorite and all-star producer knows how to deliver exactly what the people want, exactly how and when we want it.

Rave-style hypnosis.

We were riding high until we headed back to the Main Stage, which was all but deserted thanks to the Duran Duran buzz kill that was happening on it.  This is not to say that Duran Duran is not worthy of a listen, or that they shouldn’t be applauded for making a comeback, or that their rendition of “Notorious” didn’t put a smile on my face, it’s just that they didn’t fit in with the otherwise airtight line-up that Ultra created, and it was too early in the weekend for people to be ready for a break from the pulsing electro we had come to experience.

Then, right when we began to wonder if live sets were a no-go at Ultra, here came Pendulum, with epileptic, industrial noise layered under live drums and vocals alongside skin-crawling big-screen visuals that brought the energy and the crowds bouncing back to Main Stage. 

When Pendulum got overwhelming, it was over to STS9 for some downtempo electrojams and a rare break in the pulsing base. But you can only sit for so long at a place like this, so we ran over to Tiesto, god of trance, who’d come all the way from the Netherlands to hypnotize 50,000 of us into a state of pure euphoria.  Now that’s a great way to kick off a weekend.

EMTs can party too.

SATURDAY:

We rambled back over to the festival grounds just in time to catch Dutch dance DJ Afrojack, who has been drawing quite a bit of buzz lately for his ability to take crowd-pleasing pop songs and amp up their danceability factor by about a thousand.  When we arrived, he was doing just that to an already thoroughly sweaty crowd at the Main Stage.  Even the EMTs constantly roving the crowd picking up ravers who raved too hard were partying on their EMT mobiles.  We immediately joined in. 

Suddenly, we looked up to see a plane tracing out billowy white smoke letters across the cloudless blue sky: L... A… D… Y… It was like that scene in Matilda where the whole classroom of kids is reading out Magnus’ chalkboard message to Miss Trunchbull from beyond the grave (right? Anyone?  Never mind).  G… A… G… A… Suddenly you could feel the communal energy shift, everyone staring at the sky, cameras pointed, breath bated.  This was by no means a crowd of teenyboppers or Lady G diehards, but the woman’s a superstar, and a surprise appearance, we all agreed, would be epic, indeed. But no.  It was just a promotion for B…O…R… oh.  Born This Way. S a bag of D’s, Gaga.  The only way I’ll be obtaining your newest album is by pirating it.

Next, on the Live Stage, Simian Mobile Disco duo James and James (Ford and Shaw, respectively), clad in simple all-black ensembles, fully embodied their own indie-tech duality by producing a hip-shaking lesson in sleek and shiny minimalism via clunky analog DJ equipment that looked like something David Cronenberg might’ve dreamed up in 1983.  Hipsters and ravers: two birds, one stone.

As late afternoon seeped into early evening, my crew and I formed something of a disco train that bumped and grinded through seas of sweaty, smiling, dayglow-swathed revelers before pausing in the central dustbowl to rock out to San Fran house master Kaskade.  Kaskade’s always-awesome assortment of expertly-fused party tracks includes everything from classic dance riffs to spanking new samples from dub’s newest it-kid, Skrillex, whose own performance was regrettably missed by me.

From there, it was over to the multi-level Carl Cox & Friends arena, a brand new addition to UMF and “the largest enclosed sound structure ever featured in Florida.”  Here, spinning his heart out, was one of the most controversial figures in techno—although you definitely wouldn’t know it by the looks of him.  Quintessentially bald and bespectacled, this would be Moby, the guy who made electronic music mainstream in the early 90s, and who continues—as he proved on Saturday—to stay at the zenith of the game, churning out electric dance magic as vigorous as it was dynamic, as classic as it was fresh.

Bright like neon love.

 Then, it was time to head back over to the Live Stage, where two of the acts I was most looking forward to were scheduled back to back: Cut Copy and Empire of the Sun.  Unlike distant cousins Simian Mobile Disco, Cut Copy occupies an entirely different section of the indie-electro soup.  Actually, picture that soup as one of those kinds you can get in Asian restaurants that’s shaped like a yin yang, and think of Cut Copy as the yang to SMD’s yin.  Whereas SMD surfaced as a paring down of experimental electronic rock band Simian, Cut Copy evolved out of DJ/producer/songwriter Dan Whitford solo project, to which he added bassist/guitarist Tim Hoey and drummer Mitchell Scott to fill out his synth and sample-based sound. The pre and post-addition album titles say it all: “I Thought of Numbers” transformed into “Bright Like Neon Love,” a phrase that accurately sums up the band’s performance on Saturday, despite the fact that their set list drew most heavily from their two latest albums, indie-darling “In Ghost Colours” and this year’s equally awesome follow-up, “Zonoscope.”  Regardless, the band kicked off a welcome hiatus from the rotations with some good (albeit not so old-fashioned) live music that had crowds dancing and singing madly and brightly as neon love itself.

Empire of the Sun

If Simian Mobile Disco and Cut Copy are a yin-yang shaped soup, Empire of the Sun is on another plate entirely.  And by plate I mean planet.  (I know, that was a good one.) With their experimental yet pop-minded electric revival, the Aussie duo’s music sounds much like that of American counterparts MGMT—that is, until you compare their live performances.  Completely blowing MGMT’s notoriously lackluster shows out of the water, Empire of the Sun delivers exactly what you’d expect from a band whose album art resembles a space-age theatrical poster for Labyrinth. I have no earthly idea about the plot that unfolded onstage, but the mesmerizing spectacle of glammed-out costumes, interstellar backdrops, and Cirque de Soleil-style choreography left me far too entertained to care.

Next, we raced over to Main Stage to catch the tail end of what was clearly an incredible live set by British electronica veterans Underworld.  Luckily, the duo closed out with the soaring melodies and neck-breaking beat of “Born Slippy,” the song from Trainspotting that seems to best capture the gritty glamour and brash tragedy of the 1980s Edinborough club scene depicted in the film. The fact that this was one of Underworld’s last-ever performances made the experience particularly cathartic.

Deadmau5

To conclude Day 2, last year’s top headliner and the reportedly antisocial wunderkind of today’s EDM scene: Deadmau5, a.k.a. Joel Zimmerman.  Complete with a blinged-out version of his dementedly grinning mouse head and lit-up cube—notably brilliant elements that set him apart visually from the hundreds of other skinny white guys standing at turntables—Zimmerman spun his distinct brand of dark and bouncy techno for bouncing masses rife with homemade recreations of the Mau5’s iconic head.  Heavy on the bass, heavy on the synth, heavy on the flashing lights.  

Deadmau5 has a real person face.

Zimmerman’s bromance with Tommy Lee continued as Lee and his drum kit emerged on a raised platform, and Lee’s girlfriend Sofi Toufa (as in, the one who needs a ladder) strutted around below and yelled into the microphone, alternating between what some might describe as singing and what most would describe as prattling on when all we want to hear is the music.  At the end of the show, a blizzard of confetti shot out into the crowd, the lights went white, and we all trudged back to our respective hotels, condos, and, as the case may be, all-night after-parties that kept the city throbbing ‘til the sun came back up.

SUNDAY:

Sunday was spent flitting around like moths to a series of flames (the flames being any beat we could shake to), in a dance trance that didn’t stop until the music did. It began with an electro-house stopover at Wolfgang Gartner but quickly moved into an official State of Trance.  And by this I mean that for its third and final day, UMF decided to transform the Carl Cox tent into an enchanted grotto reserved exclusively for back-to-back performances from some of the greatest trance DJs in the world. 

Fake Blood

After getting down to British progressive trancer Gareth Emery, we scooted over to Live Stage to the beat-heavy house party of another talented Brit—Theo Keating, a.k.a. Fake Blood, a personal favorite that we’d first discovered at Ultra last year.  Despite his preoccupation with another music project called The Black Ghosts with Simon William Lord, Keating’s lively beats and computerized vocal hooks remain addictive as ever. 

A State of Trance.

We danced until Steve Aoki emerged and disappointed us all by eliminating the one thing we loved about him—his delicious Lion King intro.  And he didn’t even replace it with anything cool. So, the disco train left the station, and we made our way through twisting passages, grassy knolls, and strung-out hill-dwellers back to A State of Trance, where Armin Van Buuren promptly showed us exactly what the phrase meant.  Soaring synths!  Astronomic drops! Flashing lights! Rainbow glasses! Vick’s Vapo-Rub! Heart-melting rendition of “Use Somebody” that had the entire crowd singing along with our arms in the air!  When I emerged from the tent I felt I’d lost all five senses, and I wasn’t even mad.

The only thing that could tear us out of our tranced-out state was the Crystal Castles set happening back over at Live Stage, so away we went.  As you may know, I’ve already seen (and reviewed) Crystal Castles more times than necessary, and though I love them dearly, they’re pretty much the same every time: Ethan spins and Alice screams and everybody wears a lot of black. This time, Alice had a bum leg, so she couldn’t even crowd surf.  But I still danced my pants off. 

Not Beardyman, but a man with a beard.

Next up, something truly new and different: London-based beatboxer extraordinaire, Beardyman.  This guy is pretty incredible, folks—his entire show consists of off-the-cuff beatboxing and live looping technology.  As in, every sound that comes out of his speakers is a sound that he made with his mouth while he was standing there in front of us.  You’ve got to see it to believe it—it’s a feat admirable enough to forgive the shameless self-promotion in the form of Windows ‘95-style graphics that came along with it.  Expect to see big things from this up-and-comer.

After Beardyman’s 20-minute set (apparently he was a last minute addition), it was time for MSTRKRFT, the Canadian dance duo comprised of Death from Above 1979's Jesse F. Keeler and producer Al-P. With a slew of expertly crafted remixes and rollicking beats, these guys just know how to make people move, and we love them for it.

The Chemical Brothers

MSTRKRFT provided the perfect warm-up for what was without a doubt the most epic performance of the entire weekend.  The fact that it happened to be the top headliner performing the final set of the festival just goes to show how great UMF’s organizers are at their job.  Enter the pioneers of big beat; the original unifiers of dance, rock and rap; the granddaddies of arena-sized electronica: The Chemical Brothers. Living up to every expectation and then some, Tom Rowlands and Ed Simons put on the show of the century: back to back to back flawlessness, like a thousand moving parts all coming together into a perfect machine.  As mind-melting visuals flashed across the screens—a mechanical horse, a human body made of light bulbs, the most terrifying clown in the history of the world screeching, “YOU’RE MY CHILDREN NOW!”—sound and vision melded into one big bursting sensation that seemed to coat the inside and outside of every single body in the park.  Walls of blood-curdling sound seemed to reach down and scoop up the entire crowd by our earlobes, lifting us until it seemed like our ears would tear away from our skulls, and then at the last possible second dropping us back down into a featherbed of liquid beats, the kind that makes you look over at your friends and scream “OH SHIT!” into their beaming little faces.  Pure bliss.

Ultra = Bliss.

A confession: when it comes to music, I’m a hedonist.  I seek out sounds that bring me pleasure, that I can feel deep down in my belly, that radiate from my flailing limbs. This is why Ultra is so incredible to me—and also why it’s so difficult to capture it in writing.

Novelist Nick Hornby says, "I love the relationship that anyone has with music: because there's something in us that is beyond the reach of words, something that eludes and defies our best attempts to spit it out.  It's the best part of us, probably, the richest and strangest part."  In Ultra, we sum it up in just two words: “TOTAL FACEMELT.”

The End.

By Hilary Cadigan
Photo Credits: Hilary Cadigan, Rob Royall, Stacy Komitor

Countdown to Hangout Music Festival: An Interview with Festival Founder Shaul Zislin

In October 2009, serial entrepreneur Shaul Zislin had an idea: he would create a music festival.  And not just any festival.  This would be something exceptional, something huge: the first and only major music festival held on a beach.

Seven months later, this crazy idea became a reality, and Hangout Music Festival was born.

“I have no history in the music industry,” Zislin confessed in a phone interview. “I love music, but ultimately, I’m the only rookie in a room full of experts I hired to make this thing possible. I wanted to create an event notable enough to put our sleepy beach town of Gulf Shores on the map, to become a major player in the same category as something like a Bonnaroo or a Coachella.”

Already the owner of a 24-unit retail chain called Surf Style and The Hangout, a hugely successful restaurant and family entertainment complex located in the sleepy beach town of Gulf Shores, Zislin says that his initial reason for creating the festival was simply to stretch the tourist season. 

“For me, the venue is the main event,” Zislin said.  “It’s part of a multi-year plan to make Gulf Shores not just a tourist destination, but a destination for music lovers and music makers. Our biggest challenge is convincing the rest of the world that we’re for real, that our venue is for real, and that our beaches are still clean and beautiful, despite the oil spill.”

In fact, it was Zislin and his team who created the beach venue itself, making it the destination not just for Hangout but for a summer 2010 music series called Concerts for the Coast.  Free performances by everyone from Jimmy Buffett to Bon Jovi brought thousands of visitors and much-needed economic stimulation to struggling Gulf area businesses after the spill. 

“It’s important to create a memorable experience for not only the audiences, but the artists too,” noted Zislin. “Jimmy Buffett told me afterwards that it was the best show he’s had in 20 years.  That kind of feedback is why we’re able to book the big names that we do, even as a brand new venue.”

That and some serious work ethic (not to mention some serious cash). 

“I’m going to be honest with you,” Zislin told me. “Nothing about this project has been easier than I thought it would be.  It’s all been harder.  You can’t imagine the amount of work and the number of crucial little details that go into putting on an event like this, and it takes awhile for it to become anywhere near profitable. But you know what? It’s worth it.  There’s magic stardust associated with rock ‘n’ roll music, and that’s something worth making sacrifices for.”

So far, so good.  In only its second year of existence, Hangout Music Festival 2011 has snatched up some of the biggest and brightest names on the scene today, not to mention a significant portion of Bonnaroo’s top headliners, including The Black Keys, My Morning Jacket, and Widespread Panic.  Oh, and the Flaming Lips.  And the Foo Fighters.  And Cee Lo Green.  And Paul Simon.

Okay, let’s cut the formalities for a moment and break it down.  When I first viewed this brilliant line-up, I hyperventilated and did a little jig.  Then I had a panicked feeling, noting the eerie similarities between this list of performers and the so-called “leak” of the Bonnaroo 2010 line-up I saw last year, the one that ignited the fires of musical utopia in my loins and then left me devastated when I found out it was a total fraud.  But no.  Hangout Music Festival is for real, ya’ll, and it’s happening in Gulf Shores, Alabama, May 20-22, 2011.  So be there, or be a square.  I rented a goddamn condo.

For info & tickets, visit: http://hangoutmusicfest.com/


By Hilary Cadigan

Dark Star Orchestra @ The Variety Playhouse in Atlanta

Love ‘em or hate ‘em, the Grateful Dead were and are a force to be reckoned with—the blissed-out crystallization of a culture devoted purely to bliss itself. The Dead spawned not only the jam band concept, but the jam band culture, including the raggedy, tie-dyed legions of ubiquitous yet unassuming fans that remain still today determined to keep the dream alive.

Enter Dark Star Orchestra, self-described only as a band that “recreates Grateful Dead shows, song for song, live on stage.”  Yet to call DSO a mere cover band would be doing them a major disservice.  This aint no wedding ensemble folks, this is the pinnacle of devotion, supported by sheer talent and validated by the acceptance of preexisting fan base with very specific tastes.

Since 1997, DSO has performed hundreds of shows across the country, drawing heaps of critical praise for their impressively obsessive attention to detail. The band is known to actually recreate specific Dead shows in their entirety, with ardent artistic loyalty to the original pieces that has been said to wow not only the critics, but even the fiercest of Deadheads, including 5 members of the original band that have played alongside DSO. 

Stepping into the Variety Playhouse for Friday’s show, my first thought was, where did these people come from?  One thing’s for sure, the Deadheads are alive and well, and either I’m not going to the right places to find them in Atlanta or they’re a traveling contingent, following DSO across the country just as they followed the Dead in previous decades. Grizzly old guys with grey manes and foot-long beards mingle with young jam band-aids in dreadlocks and baja pullovers, swaying around like underwater plants and illustrating the 

incredible breadth of influence the Dead still hold, even sixteen years after their demise.

About halfway through a five-hour set that truly blew me away, the bear-like man behind me shot his Red Stripe-bearing fist in the air and yelled, “October 27, 1980! Radio City Music Hall!”  This man definitely did not have an iPhone anywhere on or around his person—he just knew.  As did the majority of other diehard heads in the room, I soon discovered.  “The next three songs will be ‘Truckin’,’ ‘Scarlet Begonias,’ and ‘Fire on the Mountain.’  Then there’s going to be a really epic drum solo.”

Sho’ nuff, there they were, nearly as clear and true as they must have sounded back in 1980, judging by the reactions of a crowd filled with people who would know much better than I.  Coasting along through the catchy shuffle of “Truckin’” to a rousing, jammed out version of “Johnny B. Goode” to a drum solo that was, indeed, epic, to a melt-in-your-mouth rendition of “Casey Jones” for dessert, DSO proved that they have earned their reputation as the next-best thing to a live Dead show.  And really, what could be better for the ultimate Deadheads than masterfully recreating the magic of their idols amidst a riled-up crowd of their own brethren?  These six grey-haired dudes are not only keeping the dream alive; they’re living it, too. 

Review & Photos by Hilary Cadigan