Spanish Mosh: The Fest 8, Gainesville, Oct. 29-Nov2 (Day 3)

After a fitful night of sleep, we headed over to Bagels Unlimited on University Avenue for coffee and fuel. It was full of sleepy Fest attendees and band members who had tickets for free food. It's a pretty good place to ditch a hangover, and a good place to eat even if you lack one, and none of us were suffering too much. Full, we headed to The Venue, since Ninja Gun's drummer Jeffrey Haineault would begin his double-duty day as the Ship Thieves' drummer. We arrived early, before the doors had opened, the line already long, but we were let in soon enough. Male and female Festers in black clothes, black boots, and glinting steel studs strolled up and down the Ave. searching out the sounds they wanted to start their "morning" with. At the dark, cavernous Venue, the first band, Broadway Calls, set up their gear while the sparse bleary-eyed attendees bellied up to the bar to beer away their hangovers. BC started their teen-movie-friendly punk, gently waking us into familiar bouncy-bouncy and a decently congenial crowd. Probably a good idea to start the day without anything too challenging.

Off With Their Heads was next and Matt was expectant; I, on the other hand, didn't know what to expect from these Minnesotans. The crowd milled, but the feeling was surprisingly mellow and we just kind of stood around and talked next to the stage. The band set up without hurry, but, finally ready, they launched into their first note and I was instantly paninied into the stage-front crowd as the beer showered from above. The mosh pressure was instant and omnipotent up front, and I couldn't move. It's best to go with whatever shape they press you into so long as it's not crushing any limbs or organs, and so I did, while overhead crowd surfers climbed the stage or up the backs of anyone handy and surfed until they fell. It's Darwinism, pure and simple, and since this wasn't an activity an injured (bad shoulder) nearly fifty year old would naturally select, I was ultimately expelled slowly through the seven circles of mosh until I was finally on the periphery of the heavy action. Still, I held my good arm up to support a few surfers and, before I was expelled to the margin, I served as involuntary ladder for three or four surfers. The music? It was loud, raucous, punk for the executioner in all of us.

Chris Wollard & the Ship Thieves, up next, would provide a marked contrast in styles and would challenge the expectations of the crowd assembled. They set up slowly, with more elaborate instrumentation (including keyboards, computers) than the punk outfits before them. I noticed the guy prepping his guitar was the nice guy, Chris, from the night before. I'd been chatting with Chris Wollard, legendary member of Gainesville punk icons Hot Water Music, recently disbanded, and hadn't known who he was exactly. He looked almost too scholarly to be a punk icon--tall and lanky, with a slight beard--but then again, his new music moves him decidedly away from punk into more standard Americana-tinged rock territory. They opened up with "Dream in My Head," a song that announces Wollard's departure from HWM and that punk milieu. Their sound is tight and sophisticated, as Wollard places his raspy, plaintive vocals in a register between Springsteen and Westerberg, and the driving rock rhythms followed suit, through "Sick, Sick Love," "Long Wave," "Modern Faith," and "No Exception" ending the set repeating, "This is not a test." Many in the crowd seemed to expect them to play some Hot Water style thrash, and they even started an impromptu mosh during "No Exception," which seemed very odd given the music, but it felt like a good-natured tribute to Wollard's past, if not outright denial that one can outgrow punk. Yet Wollard seemed at ease in the new music, and the band was tight, and watching Jeffrey keep the rhythms mathematically fluid was especially pleasing.

We left The Venue to close out The Fest at Rumrunners, a small bar with lousy acoustics. The Terror in Tiny Town, a self-proclaimed Gainesville "supergroup," was already playing a fast, pumping set of energetic indie-punk songs embellished by some deft keyboard work. Heavily tattooed and exotically lovely Heather handled the heavy vocals duties; they sounded a little like Rainier Maria with extra caffeine. They finished up soon after we got there, but I enjoyed their work.

Towers of Hanoi, whom I've reviewed before, was up next. I'm always glad to hear them play, as their music challenges easy description. They blend math, metal, and indie elements into a sonic pastiche that powers through simple genre definitions. Rachel climbs primal vocal mountains while her husband Travis articulates intricate guitar riffs that contain the music perfectly. Jon on drums and Dru on bass underpin it all with forceful, relentless rhythms. The crowd was relaxed and friendly, and we enjoyed their short set that featured a strong new song, "Heart of Reason," to go with their signature works, including "Danger, Danger," and my favorite, "Empty Chapels." which gives Travis a chance to step out and sing in calm counterpoint to Rachel's theatric style. Coyote Throat followed up with an urgent set of punk songs in the Gainesville mold.

But I was there to hear Valdosta's Trailer of Tears, up next (Jeffrey's second show of the day, this time as frontman), and their unique blend of psychadelic punk doo-wop that they refer to as "trailer pop." After their obligitory round of tequila shots for good luck (after a day of beer), they played an exuberantly Replacements-esque set about love and loss, from the new and catchy "Don't u be Afraid," through TOTs classics like "Oh Baby," "Go Home" (in which Jeffrey channels Bryan Ferry as if he were fronting the Toy Dolls while Taylor, smiling the whole set, hammers the drums into submission), and "Not My Baby Anymore, " a truly inspired, 50s-flavored pop complaint. "Lonely Eyes" continued the nostalgic doo-wop relationship woe-ooo-oh-ooo-woes, and they finished their originals with the excellent "Family Values," which allows Jason on ringing lead and Bobby countering on bass to step out and rescue us from relationship hell with power and even some unpretentious majesty (Think of the opening of "In a Big Country," but the beat is heavier). They closed appropriately with a fun cover of "My Little Runaway," and the set ended in lots of laughter and a very pleased crowd. Their live shows are about fun, but check out the web site to hear the sophisticated blend of pop influences, from Beach Boys to Kinks to Todd Rundgren.

Thunderlip played their final gig. Technically fine neo-Zepplin rock, but Wolfmother has apparently stolen all that thunder.

West Palm Beach boys Surfer Blood kept us at Rum Runners despite headliners Youth Brigade and the Samiam reunion at The Venue. They pulled in from an all day drive at the end of the Thunderlip set and set up quickly. They look very young (the eldest is 24), but their music is a precocious blend of Pet Sounds and new wave that surprises with its unabashed musical righteousness. The played most if not all of their debut release, Astrocoast, beginning with "Floating Vibes" and lighting on the percussion heavy "Take it Easy," the Pitchfork-praised, "Swim (to reach the end)," "Harmonix," both "Jabronis," and "Twin Peaks," among my favorites. Any band who can reference David Lynch all bouncy calypso like and who lists Flannery O'Connor as an influence appeals to my biases. They don't sound live exactly like they do on the cd with all its distorted, washed vocals, but the raw effort appeals because the band has so much fun. They paired very nicely with Trailer of Tears in exuberance and influence, and they finished the Fest 8 perfectly for me, as we headed home after the set. Overall, Surfer Blood and Lemuria were my best new finds of the Fest, though I worry that Surferblood could get overheated given the hype they're already generating.

We straggled tired and spent into the Waffle House in a late night assault, talking about what we'd heard and seen, met by a sudden chill that chased away the Indian Summer and woke us slowly back into our South Georgia lives.

Harvest of Hope, Saint Augustine, Days 1 (sort of) and 2

Large music festivals are always crucibles of noise and odors, and clearly the allure of wonderful noise makes us tolerate the portapotties and the unshowered aromas of musical sophisticates pushing against you toward the stage. Year one of the three-day, four stage Harvest of Hope Festival (schedule), a benefit for migrant workers, was no different. The Saint John's County fairground location was reasonably accessible and spacious, and it was a quick drive from lovely Saint Augustine (and my hotel room; I like showers).

While I had to miss Friday's shows and headliner Girl Talk (not well-received by those I talked to), I did catch two of the acts, Cheap Girls and Failure's Union, the Wednesday before the festival at a local shed show. Excellent bands both, and friends of Ninja Gun, so we were lucky to have them until the cops showed up and shut us down. Michigan's Cheap Girls played a set pleasurably ensconced between 80's Minneapolis punk and 90's Ohio indie, while Buffalo's Failures' Union crunched through a healthy set of blue collar punk. FU's Jason also plays bass in Lemuria, a terrific band my Pandora station introduced me to.

I arrived Saturday, early afternoon, in time to catch Her Space Holiday's last two songs, and then I headed to stage three to hear Alabama blues vet Willie Green sing and blow harp for a small but enthusiastic tribe. Excellent grounding for what was to follow, though he deserved more than the twenty minutes they allotted him. I rambled over to stage four to catch some of Gainesville's excellent Towers of Hanoi (thanks for starting with fave "Empty Chapels" ) before checking in on Pitchfork darlings Deerhunter. They were pleasant enough--sort of Ian McCullough fronting Saucer-Full-of-Secrets-era Pink Floyd pleasant--but it was 2:00 pm, brightly sunny, and there weren't any chemical enhancements save beer around to chill the crowd into the kind of nodding acquiescence toward ecstasy the music suggests.

Midafternoon's S1 acts didn't appeal, so I headed back to S4 and its regional punk flavor for Saturday. Moutbreathers were loud and raucous, and Hometeam featured sloppily affable beer-fueled punk, so, drunk with that noise, I headed over to catch some of Strike Anywhere and touch base with many of the Valdostans who attended, but left quickly to S2 to catch the end of Alabama's Wild Sweet Orange's set (definitely worth listening more into) in anticipation of John Vanderslice and Mountain Goat's John Darnielle's back to back sets. Vanderslice made it feel like he was home, and he was close, playing his well-crafted and intelligently penned unplugged pop. I checked in on Bouncing Souls between the sets, and they pleased their crowd, but I left quickly to hear Darnielle, accompanied at times by Vanderslice, play his Mountain Goats nerd-chic witty or wry song narratives concluding with "The Best Ever Death Metal Band in Denton," giving me the chance to yell out "Hail Satan" and smile big.

Among the most anticipated Saturday performers, Bad Brains took over stage one and proceeded to lecture the crowd into irritation. I mean, just play. You don't have to explain to those who don't get that you're covering all of your genre-bending oeuvre (hardcore, reggae, and metal). Who cares if they get it? Nobody goes to music festivals for the lectures.

I left to go hear Nebraska's Tilly and the Wall, at Dixie and Camille's suggestion, and I wasn't sure at first. I have what I hope is a healthy skepticism about the new wave revival; I think most of the groups are listening to the wrong bands, the sappy, superficial leg-warmer synth-pop of the 80's played to excess at so many 80's dance parties. Tilly also features, to my knowledge, pop's only tap-dancer as a key percussion component. She's cute and keeps the beat, but she made me feel a little like I was at a dance recital. Still, the band managed to win me over. I think it was their cover of Yaz' "Only You" that finally won me over, and "Pot, Kettle, Black" has a nice, hard, anthemic, nasty adolescent edge.

I caught some of Gainesville's Against Me!, much lauded and big supporters of the HOH cause, on the main stage. It's the popular punk style these days, and they're enjoyable enough, but after a few songs I gravitated back to S2 to catch Lucero's driving set. The music is honest and you feel it in the belly and the heart: "I kissed the bottle when I shoulda been kissin' you." Pedal steel slide and Ben Nichols worn out voice found that front-porch moonshiney place that hadn't been touched all day, and the crowd love it. I headed back to stage one for the last act, Propaghandi, but it was the wrong energy after Lucero, so I took that with me out to the car and the short drive back to St. A. and a night's sleep before Sunday's musical feast.

The Kids are Alright: House Shows, Georgia Style

Somebody posts a bulletin on Myspace, flyers the walls at school, texts a few people, and we show up. Jason and Eric's. Ria's House of Sin (bring some paint for the walls). Jackson's shed in our many warm months. Or Bobby and Tina's (especially if she's baking cakes). Bonfire and trees and Spanish moss, kids on porches, lots of vinyl against the wall. Drums and guitars. Music in South Georgia happens in homes, because the bars want cover bands so drunk sorority girls and jocks can sing and swill along. It's not that we don't like covers at the house shows--a good song or two in a set is expected. But there are few places for original bands to play in this town, which surprisingly boasts much excellent original music. In this blog, I will summarize the last few weeks here, why I stay.

Last Friday Madeline came into town on her way to Gainesville and she played a solo set at Jason and Eric's. John G. opened and sang his childlike, offbeat songs and strummed pleasurably as the crowd grew inside and on the porch. One might say that he's our version of Daniel Johnston, but John is finishing an MA degree in Biology, so whatever madness compels him comes most likely from a bottle. (Later he was excused after excess overcame him and he accidentally put Bo's head through a window, but usually there's no drama, and even so, all is quickly forgiven).

Madeline Adams of Madeline was lovely and her voice bell perfect as she belted out songs of love, loss, grief, and the classic conflict between desire and faith ("the bible or the bottle" indeed). Her new album, White Flag, set for release this month, boasts some of her best songwriting to date. And as listeners to the album will discover, surrender isn't necessarily a bad thing. Even in the face of death and despair and lost love, desire remains her touchstone. So surrender. Maybe it was because it was a house show, but she looked up into the audience while she sang, asked for suggestions, seemed, well, at home, hanging out with friends. They knew all her songs and she played until she ran out of ones she remembered the words to.

Trailer of Tears (affectionally known as TOTs) played next. TOTs is a side project of local music godfathers Ninja Gun's drummer Jeffrey Haineault, and blends doo-wop, psychedelic rock, glam, and punk with exciting results. He and NG's talented frontman Jonathan Coody recorded the Myspace tracks at the infamous trailer, though now Jeffrey has surrounded himself with a live band of local talents. Travis of Gainesville veterans Towers of Hanoi remarked at their Gainesville debut last week that Jeffrey seems to be in one of those amazing creative zones. He doesn't know what he can't do yet, and let's hope he never finds out. Travis said Pavement and I said Roy Orbison and we both said yes. And we could have said Brian Ferry and Jerry Lee Lewis and T. Rex and Chuck Berry and Replacements and we would have said yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. The Myspace songs are just the tip of what has been coming down from their DiCaprio-killing iceberg, given the new songs they've added to their oeuvre that aren't even recorded yet. When they play house shows, it's loud and fun and the crowd is effervescent with energy (and PBR). Taylor Patterson keeps a steady beat on drums along with Bobby on bass, while Jason adds deft lead to Jeffrey's punked up doo-wop/glam croons.

No More Analog closed out this night, Taylor back on drums along with the Captain on bass and vocals and Jackson on lead and vocals, and this fine trio played a strong set of pumped up punk and power pop. NMA isn't afraid to raunch it up, and so if songs about pregnant sex ("No Vacancy") and hermaphrodites ("Pseudosexual") offend, well, you wouldn't have been invited in the first place. But their sound blends bass forward fist pumping punk with classic 80's and 90's guitar pop sensibilities (think Replacements, Cracker, Soul Asylum, Pixies) with an irreverence only a place this deep in the south could produce. They're newest song, "Fresh Romance," sounded especially fine, as its chorus screams, "Tonight."

Just a week before that, pretty much the same lineup of locals showed up at Jason and Erik's in support of Greenland is Melting, a "fauxlk" band featuring banjo, an old suitcase fitted with a bass drum pedal, mandolin, the occasional guitar, and lots of vocal enthusiasm. It's hard not to get caught up in their downhome upbeat songs laced with irony and humor. They're fun and coming back here next month for more and I'll be there.

P.A.W. (Pinnacle of American Weaponry) played their two songs that night. P.A.W. is a new project featuring Nick Riggle of VD veterans Second to Edison along with Jake and Jeffrey from Ninja Gun and Jason Storer of TOTs. Still too new to characterize, so far I've heard driving guitar-driven rock and I'm looking forward to more from them.

And a week before that, Ria opened her House of Sin to a ten-band show featuring most of the local bands above, along with False Arrest and Mandala.

False Arrest is a phenomonal band of four young men intent on resurrecting 80's hardcore, if only to pull its brain out by the stem and smash it to the floor. I missed them at the House of Sin show, because I was hosting David St. John's poetry reading, but they play all out. Jimi is a gymnastic frontman screaming out vocals and slamming his slim half-naked form all over the floor ("I don't even know what's going on in my own head"). Teddi and Bo handle guitar and bass, and Anthony machine guns on drums.

I walked into the show while Mandala was playing their psychedelic instrumental space jams. Some of their extended guitar riffs remind me of Hum or Quickspace, dense and throbbing and complex, at times majestic in their sound scape. I love "Readheads, Huh," which I can hear Dave, bass and guitar, saying in poetry class quizzically and without irony. They've threatened to write lyrics, but it's the guitar interplay and complex rhythms that make this more than acid jams.

Meanwhile, people are coming and going, painting on the walls, a sudden Francis Baconesque figure at the back of the house, pixies and cartoon balloons, the obligatory naked manikin hung from the ceiling. Or vinyl Joe Jackson spinning while folks are still arriving, or the hot shed full noise and mirth when it's warm. Tina will be usually be dancing and everyone is welcome, even the police officers if they happen show up to shut us down, and they occasionally do, but not before a lot of good music has fed our local starving ears. Ya'll come over for the next one.