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[kylewritesaboutthings]

Riot Fest 2016 - Day 3

Let me take a moment to tell you about the Law of Standard Deviation. In short, it states that 99.7% of all occurrences of an event or action will take place within 3 deviations of the mean (or 0 deviations). This is the principal behind that bell curve that your teachers always talked about. Everyone pretty much does the same except for the burnout who tanked the exam because they spent 7 hours geeked up on adderall looking up conspiracy theories over the “real Paul McCartney” and the kid who had the Casio watch with all the buttons on it that you could totally use to cheat but you know he never did. The extreme highs and lows are rare, but a possibility. 

Why did I just give you a math lesson on basic averages? Because sometimes you wake up from a three day bender of punk rock, malort, pizza, Old Style, more malort, various other illegal substances, and more malort and feel absolutely incredible. Sometimes you wake up on the .3% of mornings where no matter what you did to yourself the night before, your body has rallied like an Olympic athlete and repaired itself in the four hours you’ve slept since your last drink. Aided by a stomach full of tacos from the night before, I woke up on Sunday morning feeling like a golden fucking god. 

I could not say the same for my Riot Fest companions Rachel and Steph. As both were hurting, I took the Uber ride of triumph, the opposite of the walk of shame, to move my car from its post of abandonment outside of Quenchers Saloon from the previous night (where I guess I loaded out hot sauce gear while blacked out, came to trying to sing Fall Out Boy karaoke, and flashed back into consciousness as I woke up at the bar counter of an all-night taco spot). My driver was as surprised as I was about how chipper I was at such an ungodly early time of morning, asking me if I’ve been to “The Riot Fests” over the weekend. An interesting and often unnoticed trend about the baby boomer generation; they will add ‘The’ and ‘s’ to anything of youth culture. I first noticed this when, despite how much I talked about it, my dad always referred to Tony Hawk Pro Skater as “The Tony Hawks”. As in “you’re always on The Tony Hawks, have you even studying?” The answer to that was no, because I never studied due to the fact that I am a smartass-know-it-all. But I digress…

My partners in crime aka two legs of the traveling tripod were hurting and this needed to be rectified. They’ve put in so much work helping Soothsayer Hot Sauce get where it is today and the best thank you I can think of is delivery coffee and breakfast sandwiches when hungover.  A quick stop through to Dunkin Donuts later and we were in business. The brace-faced teenager burned our everything bagels, but that’s alright. The previous evening we had smoked cigarettes like we were sponsored by Philip Morris so it’s not like our taste buds were working at 100% anyway. What really matters is eggs and friendship…eggs being the most versatile and delicious food stuff to ever happen. When people say “oh, I could totally go vegan if it wasn’t for (insert non-meat animal product here)” it is usually cheese. But I’ve tried some amazing vegan cheeses thanks to my pals in Typesetter and I could live with that reality. But I could never live without eggs. 

After dropping off food to Steph, I made my way home to my very hungover girlfriend for budget breakfast in bed. It is at this point I wish I could tell you that we all instantly rallied and started the final trek to Douglas Park, but that would be a lie. The reality is that we basked in the air conditioning and watched Netflix until the very last possible second needed to leave in time to catch Thursday shake off the cobwebs and remind everyone how fucking depressing it is to grow up in New Jersey. Yeah, I know. We missed The Bronx, The Falcon, and Andrew WK. Sometimes you just want to start the day lying in bed with the only person you really want to be around while you laugh at cheesy cop shows, ya know? But I had a literary responsibility and some back assed semblance of journalistic integrity that would make Joseph Pulitzer vomit in his mouth just a little bit, so we dragged ourselves off of the memory foam mattress and got our shit in gear. 

Making it just in time to see Thursday take the stage, I thanked our dark lord and master for my uncanny sense of timing that allows me to be late, but not too late, to everything I do. That and the fact that once again the security guard didn’t find the chillum in my shoe. Before I got too much time to reminisce on that (or pack a bowl), they kicked right into “For the Workforce, Drowning”, the lead track on 2003’s “War All the Time”. I know that many argue that “Full Collapse” is Thursday’s crowning achievement, but I would argue that they are fucking wrong. Of the emotionally driven music to come out of the early aughts, War All the Time is one of the most powerful. They portray the pain, confusion, and anxiety of that place and time in such a way to make it beautiful. Their four year hiatus hasn’t hindered them one bit, Thursday is still an impressively powerful live band. Driven by the gap-toothed smile of Geoff Rickly, they tore through a hits-only 40 minute setlist that made all of our former scene kid hearts smile. Wishing that I still had at least one of my white, Hot Topic pyramid belts, they barreled through “Jet Black New Year” while trailing into the chorus of Prince’s “1999”. To close their set Rickly bid the crowd adieu, saying “you might recognize this next song from your local bar’s emo night” as the opening notes to “Understanding in a Car Crash”. The irony being that Mr. Rickly would be hosting the emo night at local standby Beauty Bar later that evening. 

One of the best things about festivals like Riot Fest, is the opportunity for back to back sets from some genre heavyweights that otherwise wouldn’t be sharing the stage together (or the opposite, where you get “WHAT IN THE ACTUALLY FUCK” moments like Me First and the Gimme Gimmies playing a set on the Rise Stage just before Death Grips).  If you would have told me two years ago that I would be hanging around waiting for Underoath to play after seeing a set from Thursday I would have said you were crazy. Both bands, defunct for the last number of years, have recently gotten back together for some high profile reunion events. Thursday giving it another go at this year’s Wrecking Ball fest in Atlanta, while Underoath  spent the winter/spring touring a dual album anniversary set for 2004’s “They’re Only Chasing Safety” and 2006’s “Define the Great Line”.

As a former Myspace era scene kid (see: black swoop, white pyramid belt, Norma Jean shirt) this was a dream come true. I had already driven up to Grand Rapids earlier in the year to see the reunion/album tour and was excited to see what they had to offer for a non-linear set. Kicking off with “Breathing in a New Mentality”, the opening track from 2008’s “Lost in the Sound of Separation”, Underoath showed both the fans and the curious alike that they still have it. One of the central aspects of their reunion was the return of drummer/singer Aaron Gillespie, who hadn’t played with the band since 2010. If you are unfamiliar with Underoath, you’d recognize them as the band that really started the ‘clean/whiney singer trading vocals with a second, screaming vocalist’. Love it or hate it, they made it popular and arguably did it the best (and god damn if keyboardist Chris Dudley doesn’t look fucking adorable while he’s trying to look like he’s really contributing to the song). 

My lovely girlfriend, who indulged me through two albums worth of scream goodness earlier in the year, wanted to check out English songwriter/pipsqueak Jake Bugg…so I hung up my low v-neck and retired my neon Supra’s a little early and left Underoath to wrap up as we went to find a nice, shady hill spot at the Rock Stage. Only having heard Bugg a few days prior, I was intrigued to see what this 22 year old had to offer. Playing a garage rocky, folky, blues forward style this kid has somehow amassed almost 100 million listens on his top 5 Spotify songs…most of which came on an album he released when he was 22. As the theme today was ‘general chill’, it seemed like a good way to close out the last of the daylight, and that it certainly was. Surrounded by a backing band, Bugg played a solid 45 minute set while mixing his faster/slower songs. I was impressed, at 22 I would be lucky if I could be on a stage that size for 5 minutes without throwing up…let alone entertain a couple thousand people for the better part of an hour.

At this point in the evening, the things I had to give a shit about were pretty much over. Ever curious about large scale spectacles/general bullshit, we wandered over to see the first part of Death Grips set. Admittedly, I haven’t spent much time on what is one of the more polarizing bands around. I know they leaked their own album ahead of the release date to piss of their label, I know they have an album cover that is just a big ole boner with the title written on it, and I know they notoriously just don’t show up for performances. But those I know who love them, LOVE THEM…so I wanted to see what it was all about. We made it all of about 2 minutes before trading looks of “what the fuck is this shit?” and fleeing as far away as possible. Death Grips have been added to the list of things that I just don’t get. They were by far the loudest set all weekend, abrasively so. And with the stage lights set so dim that you couldn’t really see anyone on stage, so the only thing one had to focus on was the pooling of blood in your ear canal. 

As I could give a fuck about Rob Zombie playing just about anything that isn’t “Dragula” repeated for 60 straight minutes, this seems like as good of time as any to circle back and talk about what Riot Fest did right and wrong this year. The biggest check in the plus column for the crew responsible for punk rocks biggest carnival would be their adjustments to the layout at this year’s installment. While last year’s location details were filled with stress and uncertainty, having to move from Humboldt to Douglas Park and then facing last second threats from St. Anthony Hospital, they were able to work on solid ground this year and damn if they didn’t do it right. 

Issues with sound bleeding from stage to stage were all of non-existent from what I could tell and in terms of maneuverability; it was incredibly easy to get from one act to the next. Having one main gate made finding your way in very easy, with all will call/VIP/press check in’s occurring right in one spot. You would think that shuffling thousands of people through one gate would cause a huge backup and bottleneck? Not the case, entry was quick and easy on all three days. Compared to what I experienced at Shaky Knees in Atlanta, Riot Fest has set a standard for urban music festivals. They did a fantastic job providing a wide variety of vendors, both food and otherwise, while placing them in three central locations (food stand, food truck, retail vendors) for easy access. Unlike the rambling views of near blackout drunk Kyle, I would say that there were plenty of available port-a-potties and I never had to wait very long to relieve myself in the stuffy blue box we all know and love. 

I’m really happy to see this year go so well for the Riot crew, as they’ve worked really hard to make this festival what it is. As someone who has seen all the phases of the fest, from the mutli-venue city hopping weekend, to the Congress Theater takeover, to the Humboldt Park introduction…they have come a long way. The rains held out, for the first time in three years, and they didn’t have to stare down a $100,000 repair bill. They booked the biggest/most surprising reunion in punk history (more on that shortly) while filling out the rest of a very solid lineup with new and old favorites. In the era of major festivals, I’m glad they’ve done what they can to give punk rock their say. My only complaint: more water stations. While September in Chicago is not known to be a sweltering month, having one water station (and a small one at that) for thousands of attendees is a poor showing, if not a dangerous one given the amount of alcohol consumed onsite…both legally purchased and snuck in like some kind of boozy joey for alcoholic kangaroos. 

Now that that’s out of the way, a brief review of the reunited Misfits: they played well. Seriously, that’s about all I have to say. They had a rad set for a band who hasn’t been a band for the entire time I’ve been on this planet. Danzig only freaked out once, calling out his stage tech for microphone placement, and sounded out of breath in between every song…the kind of out of breath that you get from eating too many McDouble’s, not the kind you get from running a marathon. But they did well, everyone had a great time, and I got to hear “Where Eagles Dare” from the comfort of the back of the crowd before we made our traffic beating, early exit home.

All in all: 10/10, would do again, thx fr th mmrs, tip your bartender, ect.

The end.

[kylewritesaboutthings]

Riot Fest 2016 - Day 2

Insanity, by Einstein’s definition, is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results.  While this may or may not be a true attribution, it is a fair statement and the most accurate to how I approach any music festival. For those of you keeping track of my writing (see: my review of the Shaky Knees festival in May), you will know that my experience is a predictable one as shittily illustrated by the graph below.

Day 1 is a fury of alcohol, high fives, and shenanigans that usually peaks around 1:30am when I’m taking shot after shot before the bar closes because god forbid I want to feel like a real human being the next morning  or make the first batch of bands I want to see. And Riot Fest was no exception. Considering that I spent the previous day drinking crotch smuggled whiskey and drinking to easycore jams all night long, Saturday was set up to be a slow start. And that it was. Shooting well past the 12:30 and 1 o’clock start times of both Plague Vendor and Canadian darlings Fucked Up, we arrived to Douglas Park in time for two things: a press happy hour in which I could not bring myself to drink more than a single sip of beer and to lay in the grass and listen to hometown crooners, the Smoking Popes.

If you have never listed to the Popes picture the dadest punk band to ever happen. Like white, short sleeve button up shirts and cargo shorts. Wikipedia lists their influences as “crooners like Tony Bennett and Frank Sinantra”. They have been around since 1991 and while I am sure they were not actually dads back then, they have been dads the whole time. But please do not take this as any kind of slight on the band or their music…I’m merely setting the scene to say that they are the perfect band to listen to whilst sitting in a grassy field on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Always a solid live band, I highly recommend them for anyone looking to take a breather in between a full day of festival sets or, alternatively, those arriving late and hungover and looking to ease their way back into the real world. 

After cleansing my musical palate on the smooth tunes of the Smoking Popes, I was ready for the bitter sweet taste of Motion City Soundtracks large format farewell show. While they were set to play their officially official farewell the next night at the world famous Metro, I was not one of the luckily 1100 to get a ticket to that sad boy/girl fest. For me and the thousands gathered around the roots stage, the hour would be our goodbye to a band that was our introduction to a lot of the music we listen to day in and day out. In the wake of their decision to call it quits, Noisey published an article articulating just that…that Motion City dug their niche as an often underappreciated gateway band that really did much more than they were ever recognized for at the time.

It was with this mindset that I watched the Twin Cities catchiest export work their way through 60 minutes of perfect hooks, witty lyrics, and constant crowd singalongs. I kick myself for the years of “oh, I’ll see them next time they’re in town” and “yeah, I’ll get around to listening to the new album”. They only took a few short pauses in between songs to thank the audience and collect themselves, as singer/guitarist Justine Pierre was never one for the extravagant…just an earnest band trying to play as best and as much as possible in their given time.  Motion City was a truly special band and incredibly fun to watch live. I’ll especially miss the onstage energy and antics of keyboard player Jesse Johnson. RIP the days of keyboard stands. 

The end of their set, appropriately closed with “The Future Freaks Me Out”, left me a little sadder than I expected to be. But reprieve was in sight as The Hives were slated to start shortly after on the nearby rock stage. If you have written the The Hives off as ‘one of those bands that was popular when it was super popular to call your band The Somethings’ you are foolish and have done yourself a disservice. Garage rock at its rockiest, these Sweedes know how to perform at a level last seen in the 1970’s heyday of rock itself. Lead singer Howlin’ Pele Almqvist (I KNOW RIGHT? HOWLIN?!) is the closest we’ll get to seeing Mick Jagger strutting his stuff across the stage without the assistance of a walker or other mobility device. The ultimate showman, he knows how to work a crowd. Bouncing around all over the stage, climbing the side trusses, inciting cheers from “ladies, gentlemen, and everyone else” there was never a dull moment. Introducing the band at the start of the set, he let the crowd know that The Hives are here and we all had two wishes left. 

As a band, their stage presence can only be matched by the likes of Gwar…though obviously in a more subtle fashion than giant, mutoid, murderous space demons. The Hives take the black and white motif to an extreme that would make a 50’s diner jealous. Each member of the band donning a split black and white suit, playing black and white instruments (to include drumming with one black and one white stick), and having their stage techs dressed as one black and one white ninja while handing off freshly tuned guitars and adjusting drum kits before, during, and after the show. They are a monochromatic whirlwind of rock and roll fury and an absolute blast to watch live. As they do not play the states very often, with their last US performance coming in 2013, you should take every opportunity to see their show. Learn the lessons taught by Motion City Soundtrack.

With some time to kill before Brand New was set to make everyone sad again, our little band of hungover heroes sauntered over to the food vendor row in hopes of snacks and salvation. While browsing the selection of fried and un-fried items alike, I began to notice a sign posted to each vendor booth. These sheets were announcements that there was to be no meat cooked, served, or sold during Morrissey’s 2 hour set that evening. He has famously bared venues from even having meat in the building during his solo performance, so I’m not terribly surprised by this move. However, I do think that it is a complete and utter crock of shit. These are the same forced down the throat, boarder line fascist mentality of the fringe religious groups and other general nut jobs that hold a ‘holier than thou’ ideal to their beliefs. This move hurts every small business that spent massive amounts of money on vending space at the fest, for the will of one moody performer. While I agree that there needs to be more vegan friendly options at events like Riot Fest, this was not the way to go about it. But Morrissey has never been known for being a reasonable person, que sera sera.

Luckily it was about this time that I stumbled upon a stand serving plates of pierogis complete with sour cream and apple sauce. If anything can put out the fires of indignation in my soul, it is a belly full of doughy Polish delight. Making our way back towards Brand New I could feel life coming back to my liver. Knowing full well that press happy hour started just after the beginning of their set, we camped out on the right side of the riot stage in anticipation of the metaphorical dinner bell for all of us writers. If there is anything that can bring together a group of literary minded people: it is the promise of free booze. Of course we immediately found our other friends from For the Love of Punk and Punktastic waiting around for the same thing.

Brand New kicked off their set with a jolt, heading right into the familiar bass into to fan favorite “Sic Transit Gloria”. Hot damn! Jesse Lacy and company are known for their temperamental nature, especially in festival settings. Maybe this is growing up? As they rolled through the next two songs, also from Deja Entendu, were in shock. What is this? Where are the Daisy songs scattered in the set to break up the rhythm? Following up this run of hits with the acoustic “Mix Tape”, Jesse actually broke out a smile when getting to the line “and I’m sick of your tattoos and the way you always criticize the Smiths, and Morrissey”. I’m sure playing on the same stage that Morrissey would walk onto just an hour later (note: it would be two hours later because Morrissey is a fucking dick and was late to his headlining set) made his sad heart warm for just a moment. But the moment was fleeting as the set closed out with tracks from The Devil and God Are Raging Inside Me and Daisy. During this time I sang my way back and forth from the press tent, shuttling free tallboys to my general admission friends and getting ready for the rest of the evening, which was to be the annual Pop Punk Pizza Party for my business, Soothsayer Hot Sauce.

After Brand New closed out, we started our stroll to the car as I wound through my mental checklist for the evening. Last year, in a fit of nerves, I threw up in a Walgreens parking lot before getting to the venue. This year I was doing much better, some jitters were called down through my Chief Sauce Operator/Right Hand Woman Rachel and the help of my good buddies Steph, Jim, and Travis. But I believe someone else has covered that show, so I’ll let you get the juicy details from them. To preview: amazing sets from Turnspit, Nervous Passenger, Devon Kay and the Solutions, and our secret guest…Bad Cop/Bad Cop! We ate close to 50 pizzas, drank enough malort to kill a small village, and named a dog.  Ya know, usual punk shit.

[kylewritesaboutthings]

Riot Fest 2016 - Day 1

It is 12:30pm and it feels like a jellyfish is hugging my balls. “Does it look I’m hiding anything in my crotch?” I ask my girlfriend Rachel. My hangover tells me that I’m being more paranoid than I should be…this isn’t my first rodeo. As a Polish punk there are few things I love more than combining my passion for subverting authority with my love of saving money. Which brings us to this point: waddling through the security line at Douglas Park for the first day of Riot Fest Chicago with a half a liter of Jameson saddled between my thighs.  We’ll go ahead and skip past the other illicit substances safely concealed between my size 11 boot and right foot. Like my literary icon Hunter S. Thompson, I feel it is best to experience a story when seeing it from an array of angles, even if those angles are all within your own head.

Like every time before this, my shitty acts of smuggling go off without a hitch and we are now inside the park with the (surprisingly) rarest of Riot Fest beverages: the elusive brown liquor. Unfortunately the time spent waiting for the rest of our party to shuffle through the GA entry line has caused us to miss ska heavy favorites, Big D and the Kids Table, but we take solace in the fact that like checkered vans and skanking, they will be around until the end of time. With a shrug of ‘oh well, next time’ we cut our losses and head to the nearest beer tent to get the day started off right. As we’re nursing the poor decisions of the previous evening (hence the reason why we didn’t have a full fifth of Jameson), I take the time to appreciate the fine work of the folks at All Rise Brewery who once again came to the park to vend their quality, local, higher alcohol percentage beers before we settle into a weekend of $8 Tacate tallboys. Driven by the fresh breath of alcohol into my system and an inability to read a schedule like a normal human being, we split up and I head for the Rise stage because I am not missing a god damn minute of the manmade hurricane that is the Dillinger Escape Plan. As soon as I arrive at the stage I realize two things: this is where all the #summergoths are hanging out trying not to get any color to their skin and that Dillinger Escape plan isn’t going on for another hour. Oops. I take the inaugural sip of my whiskey pouch and head back to the heard, congratulating myself on my skills of shitty espionage and the money I will save because I’ll have Jameson with me alllllll day. What is the old saying about counting chickens? 

I find my friends watching Diarrhea Planet kicking off the Rock Stage, a large pop up stage that only a band with four guitarists can make look like the midsized club in whatever the hell town you’re from. Think the Subterranean in Chicago. Think the Triple Rock in Minneapolis. Think the White Rabbit in San Antonio. But that’s the price that DP pay to layer 4 guitars over one another, and they do it well. Ripping through song after song in their short 30 minute set, singer Jordan Smith takes a very brief moment to apologize “for being so terse”. This will become a theme over the weekend, as everyone but the headlining acts receive a smaller set than usual. Such is with festivals. But unlike most festivals, the bands at Riot Fest put the pedal to the metal and wasted no time with banter and pleasantries. Except for The Hives, but more on that in the next installment. 

After a little while we start to wander over to the Story Heart stage, tucked in the back corner of the grounds behind the Ferris wheel. This is where all those bands in small type that come at the end of a lineup announcement “who you haven’t heard but have totally heard of them” spend the weekend. This time it is the bad ass girls of Bad Cop/Bad Cop who, by the looks of the crowd upon arrival, have had a lot of people take the plunge to actually listen to them.  It’s a great thing to see, as they are lovely people who make ripping, catchy, harmonized pop punk. Their energy is contagious and the tides turned pretty quickly from ‘recovering from last night’ to ‘in it to win it’. While they rolled through favorites like ‘Nightmare’, ‘Rodeo’, and ‘Anti Love Song’, we rolled through whiskey and beer and high fives. 

Luckily the Rise stage, where Dillinger Escape Plan were set to melt faces in an ever setting changing of time signatures that would make a symphonic composer shit themselves, was a hop, skip, and a jump away. More beer, more whiskey, some air guitaring, and some 7/5 timed headbanging ensued. Have you ever wanted to give yourself whiplash? Try headbanging on time with DEP. Ben Weinman is an absolute madman and musically/theatrically they are one of the most interesting bands in metal. A little bummed that we missed the usual destruction that comes with a Dillinger set (it is RIOT fest after all), we meandered back towards the Rock stage to see GWAR do their murderous space alien thing. With a fresh set of politicians to eviscerate, we knew we’d be in for a treat. I can’t tell you what they played, but I can tell you that when you start a set with a decapitation of a president that soaks the first 30 feet of the audience in fake blood…you’ll be in for a good time. Hillary and Trump boxed, with the former ripping the intestines out of the later. 

We now reached the point in any good afternoon of day drinking where you realize that if you don’t eat, you will be in serious trouble. Luckily some holy deity created tacos and soon I had crammed three of them into my facehole while I caught at least one side eyed look of horror from the carne asada vacuum that I had become. Whatever. If you wanted to see someone eat gracefully, you should have come to a festival of thousands of drunk punk kids. Take that, whoever you were. It was not the time for napkins, it was the time for drunken nostalgia. Set Your Goals, the only acceptable twin vocalist band, was back and they were playing just a beer stand away from where we were currently located. It was about this time that my ‘stockpile’ of whiskey had completely run out and we were running on full cylinders…each cylinder being a 16oz can of Mexican PBR. 

Luckily I had been tipped off ahead of time that they would not be doing the ‘Mutiny’ album in full, so I was able to enjoy their career spanning setlist for what it was. They did hit a number of jams from that album, making me even more excited for their fall run in which they would go cover to cover on what is one of my favorite pop punk albums of all time. A great band for group vocals (see: two vocalists), the whole front of the crowd was a giant sing-a-long of big ole dorks like myself who were excited for the Bay Area favorites to be back in action.

The next few hours were pretty hazy, but this is what I remember of them: • Never get a gyro at a festival, it does not come off a spit and no matter how drunk you are you will be disappointed. • Jimmy Eat World still puts on a great live show and everyone ever still remembers all the words to ‘Sweetness’. • Refused is fucking dead and they should have stayed dead. • I still don’t get Ween. • The Flaming Lips play the same god damn setlist every time they play Riot Fest. Or at least that’s what it sounds like. Just play that song about the robot, already.

After giving up on seeing music for the day, I decided that the press tent was the place to be and snuck Rachel in with me, brushing past the security guard vigilantly checking wristbands with a mutter of ‘it’s cool, I’m with For the Love of Punk and she’s helping me interview Andrew WK’ or something of the nature. HST would be proud. After a short potty break, I then learned the three greatest words I would hear all weekend. Press. Happy. Hour. Less than 10 minutes into entering the press area we were posted up at a table with 5 beers each, or roughly $80 of #preferedsponsor tallboys. Somewhere, HST and my extremely Polish grandma were smiling down on us…proud in their own way. 

Taking those to go, we found the rest of our group and spent some time chatting with our good friends Max and Emily, who help make Riot Fest happen. I will take this time to apologize to Max if I drunkenly said something shitty about the lack of portapotties instead of congratulating them on their excellent layout, somehow reuniting the Misfits, and graciously helping our winter fundraiser for the Bernie Sanders campaign by providing two 3 day passes to raffle off. Sorry Max! More to come on the very large number of things Riot Fest did right this year. 

By the time we finished chatting them up, we missed our mark of leaving before the bands finished up, hearing Fat Mike yell something inaudible to a crowd already starting to head for the gates behind us. Like a boozy salmon in a stream of cheap beers, we flowed out of the park and into the evening…everyone fairly confused but optimistic that we were all going to get rides to wherever we were going. Luckily the fine folks at Five Star Bar had that taken care of, as we hopped about the shuttle service they ran all weekend from the grounds to their Pop Punk DJ night hosted by super-secret special guest DJs, who were not so secret after Set Your Goals announced mid-set that they would be there spinning tunes later that evening. 

As always, an absolute blast was had at Five Star Bar as everyone mingled, met out of towners, and subsequently talked them into shots of everyone’s favorite dumpster liquor…Malort. The gentlemen of Set Your Goals were very nice to oblige my request of ‘Detroit’ by Fireworks, to which I sang embarrassingly loud level. They also had the rap airhorn cued up next to Spotify and every so often (or all the fucking time) we caught a blast of BWOW BWOW BWOW that truly was the cherry on top of the evening. A 3am drunk uber later, we were in bed eating Kumas mac and cheese. And if that isn’t a great way to end an evening, I don’t know what is.

[kylewritesaboutthings]

2016 Shaky Knees - Day 2

Oh, Jameson…my friend, my lover, my enemy, and my undoing. It’s the second day of the Shaky Knees festival and I apparently learned absolutely nothing the previous day. George Santayana once said “those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it.” To George I say fuck you. The southern sun is shining, the spring birds are singing, and all I want is for Atlanta to sink into the sea and end my suffering…set me adrift like a slightly (very slightly) more put together Tom Hanks in Castaway with a scratchy throw pillow as my Wilson. But as the chances of a catastrophic seismic event striking the east coast at that very moment were slim to none, I had to settle for the next best thing, a burrito roughly the size of a Pomeranian stuffed with the majority of extra toppings available at Bell Street Burrito.

Words cannot accurately describe the range of emotions I went through when it was set in front of me 10 minutes, or roughly 70 hangover minutes (they work like dog years), after ordering. I could laugh, I could cry, I could curl up and admit defeat to the tortilla wrapped monstrosity in front of me, I could bask in its glory and finally understand why ‘The World is A Beautiful Place and I Am No Longer Afraid to Die’ is a band name. But instead all I could do is tear into it with a series of animalistic grunts and groans that most likely frightened the young family sitting behind us. But like all good things, my burrito fell apart. Built with the structural integrity of the Verrazano-Narrows bridge (look it up) I was left to limply pick at the wreckage with a plastic fork, the world greying around me and the knowledge of my own mortality sinking in. Alas, nothing gold can stay.

Why had I placed so much hope in the salvation provided via burrito? Well aside from the usual hangover symptoms, I was set to conduct my first artist interview in almost a decade in the coming hours. Unlike my previous experiences, this was not at a sparsely filled club or in the basement radio station of my alma mater, but in an official “press” capacity in the “press lounge”, whatever that would be. I imagined it to be an air conditioned oasis of a tent, plopped in the middle of the grounds, filled with people not unlike myself sipping on beers courtesy of sponsoring Dos Equis, conversing about the days acts and whatever #buzzbands were releasing new material in the coming weeks. After once again pinballing my way from half-knowledgeable security guard to half-knowledgeable security guard until I ended up walking into the sterile lobby of the Atlanta Chamber of Commerce that was acting as the festivals official press headquarters, like some Army annexed base of operations in a foreign conflict nobody bothered to hear about.

The “press lounge” itself was not a hive of flannelled, 20-something music nerds enjoying the perks of their positions and mingling about, but an uncomfortably quiet space of parent-aged career journalists quietly discussing the next stops on the festival circuit and what bands management companies were trying to sell them on for coverage opportunities, while a handful of area collegiate journalists huddled together for protection against the heard. I found myself a chair near the back corner of the room, pulling out a chair with the scrapping screech that is the clichéd nightmare of any quiet room. Oh well. I pulled out my palm sized notebook and reviewed my interview questions, sipping on a Red Bull just liberated from the promised ‘free water’ coolers promised to the press junket. “This will help,” I thought as I pretended not to be aware of two ‘official’ journalists whispering back and forth not very covertly about who the hell I was and how the hell I got there. Too old to be in college, too underdressed to have this be my profession. They weren’t wrong, but you don’t have to be a dick about it. But then again, isn’t that the point of most music journalism? To be a dick about people’s passions?

My interview was scheduled at 2:15, the time was now 2:30 and my interviewee, Casey Crescenzo of the Dear Hunter, was running late. Not that I was in any kind of a hurry, aside from getting out of the press area as soon as I fucking could and back into anonymity of a festival crowd and away from my press colleagues. It was the same anxiety you get when going into a job interview, but one you feel completely unprepared for. Just as I was wondering if I was going to be stood up, I got a profusely apologetic call saying had received some bad info from their management team and was just now able to get a hold of me. Shit happens! This is rock and roll, after all, and I was just happy to have a purpose again, instead of just checking and rechecking my prepared notes. Unfortuantely though, the Red Bull was not at all helping. Instead of giving me a little kick back to life, it was a catalyst for my jitters and amplifying what was left of my hangover. With 20 minutes to kill before their arrival, I decided to wander out for a quick beer, a little hair of the dog, to hopefully counteract the caffeine and level out. This plan was quickly foiled thanks to a shaky port-a-potty shelf and shortly after purchase; I literally flushed $8 down the toilet. 

After killing some more awkward time in the press area, Casey and Dave walked in, both with the same scan of “I what I’m here to do, but I don’t know who with” look I gave the room about an hour before. Luckily I had the advantage of seeing them play before and walked over and introduced myself. Casey went off for a quick interview with one of the collegiate journalists while me and Dave hung out in the much more relaxed lobby area and talked about the logistics of being on the artist side of festival performances. The reason for the delay was the insistence of the PA assigned to the band that they would give them a ride to the grounds, to which they lamented the fact they could have just walked the few blocks from their #sponsor hotel. This was peppered with a few more apologies for being late, which were completely unnecessary but did ease any remaining nerves I had for the interview.

While I’m not one to get nervous around people for their respective professions, music or otherwise, I do get sometimes get nervous around those who do them very, very well. Crescenzo and the Dear Hunter are just that. A project that started during his tenure with The Receiving End of Sirens, he has put out some of the most ambitious projects I’ve seen in music over the last decade. The crux of the work being a comprehensive six part ‘Acts’ series, which began in 2006 with ‘Act I’ and saw the 2015 release of ‘Act IV’, nearly 6 years after the release of the third album in the series. What were they doing during that gap? Oh, just releasing a 9 EP ‘Color Spectrum’ series along with putting out a non-linear full length through Crescenzo’s own Cave & Canary Goods, an imprint of Equal Vision Records. Please excuse the massive musical nerd out I just had there, but I felt the need to give you a background on why I was getting butterflies about a casual conversation about festivals with someone not terribly much older than I am.

My previous experiences seeing the Dear Hunter were in venues like the Bottom Lounge in Chicago and Underbelly in Jacksonville, not huge but not tiny clubs that are staples of van/trailer tours. Like the vast majority of bands featured on this site, that is the staple of touring life. So what’s it like to go from your own venue show to the 40+ bands, multistage labyrinth that is an average day at a larger festival? “I love the opportunity to play,” said Crescenzo, “but I hate the competitive side of festivals…where it is a little anti-musical. You’re trying to convince people to see you over other bands.” In a situation so saturated with music, it can be difficult to feel like it is worth it on the audience side. “Any given attendee really wants to see maybe 4 or 5 bands,” he added. Considering the cost of a days ticket (single day tickets for Shaky Knees ran just north of $100 after fees), you’re getting, generally, abbreviated sets for each band with the risk of conflicts, noise pollution, and the torture of having to use a port-a-potty all day (yes, I’m still bitter about the lost beer). But the opportunities presented by a festival set are absolutely realized and appreciated by the Dear Hunter crew. “It blows me away that anybody chooses to watch us,” Crescenzo admitted. “It does feel good to have people who you can tell haven’t heard of you, aren’t singing a single word but are enjoying themselves.” While some bands play the same setlist as the given tour they are on before being thrust into the festival world, albeit briefly, there is consideration for that mixed audience in their set “We think about what’s recent and what we want to play, a few songs that fans will want to hear, and what people who don’t know us might like, what might catch their interest.”

Just as the festival experience is an unusual experience for fans, it’s just as unusual for those who exist in the heart of the lineup. “I feel way to taken care of at a festival, it’s not what I’m used to…people always checking ‘are you okay? How are you doing?’…You don’t have to impact your life for my quality of living. I’m not complaining but I want to ask them how they’re doing or see if they need anything,” he says. “But that’s not really the way that it works and I don’t have any pull if they wanted anything,” Crescenzo adds with a chuckle. “It’s stepping into a mini dream for a moment…but the brick wall of reality hits the day you leave. It’ll hit the second we leave. It’ll be tonight when we get to a TA or a Loves gas station and it’s ‘so…sun chips and chili dog’s again for dinner tonight?” 

What I really took away from sitting down with Casey is that the festival spot is a mixed bag for bands. While on one hand it’s incredible exposure, building of name recognition, and a chance to play for a new audience you also are thrown into a world of logistics foreign to the club circuit, fighting (whether you want to or not) to attract an audience amidst a variety of acts and options, then trying to do right by both those who’s radar you were already on as well as appealing to first time listeners. Add in an afternoon set time and an aftershow, the equivalent on working a closing shift right into a double the next day, and you’ve got a lot of work going into a single day. Respect given where deserved, because while I walked out of the interview to redeem my fallen tallboy, Crescenzo was on his way to the Boulevard stage for The Dear Hunter’s 4:15 set.

Still jittery from a combination of nerves, trailing hangover, and Red Bull jitters I sought out tofind my wandering comrades hanging about the Piedmont/Boulevard stage lot. Continuing with the job interview metaphor, I was grilling myself the entire walk. Did I ask the right questions? Was it obvious I lost a fight to a burrito earlier today? Was my voice recorder actually working? Spotting the familiar Chicago flag tattoo of my traveling partner Danny, I walked up hoping to shake it off before…too fucking late. I was blasted square in the face with a squirt gun by part of their group. Stopped dead in my tracks, ice cold water dripping from my face, every single anxiety I had melted away as I opened my arms and embraced the firing squad. It was one of those glorious moments when you get ripped out of your own cyclical anxiety bullshit and realize that you have a day of music ahead of you and by some stroke of luck you get to do this as a writer. Highs were fived, beers were finished, and we took the short stroll to catch Casey and The Dear Hunter do the damn thing.

Opening with ‘The Old Haunt’ from the recent ‘Act IV’ release, they wasted no time introducing the audience to their progy, layered, and orchestral tinged sound. Running through a mix of tracks from Act IV and Migrant, it was apparent the band put definite thought into their setlist…balancing the drive of songs like ‘Waves’ with the dancy, pop feel of ‘King of Swords (Reversed)’. Working with roughly half of their usual set time, there wasn’t much banter coming from the stage. “Thank you for choosing to see us, above other acts or even just eating fried dough in the shade” was the only real interlude between songs, save for the ending footnote reminding everyone that it was indeed The Dear Hunter who you just saw belt out a well thought, earnest, and god damn entertaining late afternoon performance. Good form, boys. Good form.

With some time to kill before living every dad’s (and Patrick Bateman’s) dream and seeing Huey Lewis and the News play ‘Sports’ all the way through, we decided to wander over to the food truck village for something to snack on, as there was a long day of music and night of aftershows ahead. As expected, there were the longest lines at the culinary staples of outdoor day drinking; at least 30 people deep for cheeseburgers, tacos, and pizza slices. But I wasn’t there to dine on foods that I know I can get cheaper and better back in Chicago. It might be because I’m a sucker for all things spicy (I mean, I run a hot sauce company) or because I like to play chicken with festival bathrooms, but I headed straight for the shortest line, the creole truck. This is the harshest opinion I will share within these articles: if you go to the south and do not eat at least one meal of creole or Cajun food, you are a straight fuck up.

With a bowl of crawfish ettouffee in hand, we settled down next to one of the shade covered fountain ponds that Centennial had to offered and took some #metime to wet our feet and get some quality RnR before soldiering through the remainder of the evening. Aside from a brief exchange with one of Atlanta’s finest about whether or not my feet were actually in the water, they were, it was the most relaxed I’ve ever felt at a music festival. Another trip to the bar tents had me realizing that the Shaky Knees bartending staff are second to only Fest in terms of friendliness, which is impressive considering some of the mass appeal/douchebag enticing acts that headline major festivals. Of the three types of people I disdain the most, there were two very much in attendance during the weekend: southern bros and hula hoopers (missing: crust punks). A+ to them for holding tight to that southern hospitality…and A++ for the heavy shot pours.

We were now loaded up and ready to get all 1980’s with Huey Lewis. Wandering through the crowd, I wasn’t sure what I would like more; the set itself or those in attendance. The answer was resoundingly in favor of people watching, as every single dad in the greater Atlanta area absolutely called up the babysitter, told it was going to be a late night, and raided their liquor cabinet before ubering to the festival. Holy hell. The stumbling dances, the reminiscing on who they were banging to this album, the whispered conversations about how they wish they still knew someone for cocaine. It was all I could hope for and more. After running through ‘Sports’, Huey and the gang dropped some new material on the crowd. I didn’t hear the title of the song, but my best guess is ‘We all peaked in the 80’s, had kids, got old, and spend most of our time listening to Randy Newman’. It was cheesy on a level that would make Kenny Rodgers blush. It was cliché on a level that made me question where or not Huey Lewis was either an aging rock star or the most advanced person on the planet. Jury is still out.

Focusing on our goal of hitting world famous Elmyr before catching the Explosions in the Sky aftershow, we left the grounds early in favor of cheaper beer, whiskey, and Mexican food. Between the unnecessary whiskey shots (some lessons I will never learn), overkill beers, and an overpacked tinny or two outside the venue the rest of the night was a blur of post rock builds and screaming guitars. The last thing I remember is trying to make a package of frozen mac andcheese back at our Airbnb after realizing we didn’t have a microwave. I think it went well. I was not the General Sherman of Stouffers and Atlanta did not burn to the ground that evening. Hopefully it would be enough to pull me together to wake up in 4 hours to catch Julien Baker’s 12pm opening set the following day.

Will I make Julien Baker’s set? What kind of crying will I start my day with, happysad or sadsad? Will the festival bathrooms finally claim their victory? Tune in to part 3 to find the answers to all these gripping questions and more!

[kylewritesaboutthings]

2016 Shaky Knees Coverage Text - Day 1

The sun came shining through the unshaded window of our Airbnb and the first thought in my aching head was “this is the kind of hangover that a writer should have”. Taking a Thompson-esque approach to my preparations for the first festival coverage assignment of my writing career, I started drinking whiskey well in advance of our 6pm flight to Atlanta. And like Hunter, I made sure to come prepared for the flight, packing nearly half a fifth of Jameson, 3 ounces at a time, in my carry-on bag. You can never rely on the stewardess to keep up if you’re really trying to make the most of your flight. By the time we arrived, the 3am bar around the corner was complete overkill. Oh well, what would HST do? Bleary and beat up, we trudged our way to Chickfila to eat more chicken than any human being should in the hopes of southern fried salvation. The poultry gods were merciful that morning and gave us the strength we needed to get our shit together and head to Shaky Knees music festival. On its 4 th year, the festival’s location has changed every year. I guess Riot Fest isn’t the only group having a hard time holding down a permanent address. This year’s incarnation was hosted in Centennial Park, built for the 1996 summer Olympics and smack in the middle of downtown Atlanta. Our hopes were high for ease of travel given its central location compared to last year’s Central Park set up, but those were dashed as soon as we got close to the festival grounds. Street closures and a serious lack of signage made actually getting into the festival kind of a headache, which was incredibly unfortunate as we were already pretty maxed out in the headache department. Thanks, Jameson. After pinballing back and forth from security guard to security guard in hopes of legitimate directions to the entrance, we walked in the gates just as The Front Bottoms played their first note. A prayer of thanks was muttered to the poultry gods and we headed for the Boulevard stage, which would be our home for most of the weekend. Brian and the boys kicked the set off with Skeleton as we purchased what would be the first of many overpriced tallboys of the weekend. There is something cathartic about seeing The Front Bottoms play outside in the middle of the afternoon, as everyone (band included) fights through their aches and pains both inside and out to sing lyrics about, well, aches and pains. “We were out at the strip clubs last night, that’s why we’re moving slow,” Brian Sella joked mid-set. After watching Mat Uychich drum for a half hour you could have fooled me. TFB have their festival set list well crafted, sprinkling songs from 2015’s ‘Back on Top’ between favorites like Au Revoir, Maps, and Swimming Pool. They’ve had time to practice, already playing Coachella and Boston Calling before hitting Lollapalooza and Austin City Limits later this summer. Inb4 some tru punk dipshit calls them sellouts on their tumblr page of righteousness. They closed with Twin Sized Mattress and all was right with the world.

As Centennial Park isn’t large enough to hold a 5 stage music festival, Shaky Knees took over the neighboring Georgia International Plaza, with a fenced in walkway and bridge connecting the two parts of the ground. Luckily on Friday our planned sets kept us within the Plaza, saving us from the cattle like procession and sketchy bridge crossing to the main stages. Do you remember your elementary school project where you made bridges out of toothpicks and marshmallows? Well the Shaky Knees production team stole your design and made it full size. But more on that later. Baroness took the stage next on the neighboring Piedmont stage, serving up a solid helping of their riff heavy groove metal to their home state crowd. Keeping to the more recent additions of their color themed catalogue, their set consisted mostly of tracks from the newest Purple album as well as the double Yellow/Green. This was one of my first times seeing them since the bus crash that caused some major shakeups in the group due to injuries, the prior being a small club show at Chicago’s Beat Kitchen just before the release of Purple. It could have been the overcrowded shoebox that is the Beat Kitchen or the unfamiliarity with the new material, but it I left that show (early) pining for the crushing Baroness that of the Red and Blue album days. But on this afternoon they tore through their set, embracing their softer approach and crafting a great set that was meant for afternoon head banging. Keeping the afternoon heavy, The Sword kicked off as soon as Baroness’ last note hit, providing a sound track for the downing of beers and general shit shooting. But while Baroness have adapted to their lighter sound, The Sword have come a long way from ‘Age of Winters’…but not in a good way. But it really didn’t matter because following their set Against Me would be taking the stage recently vacated by Baroness.

Stocking up on the previously mentioned overpriced tallboys, we got up nice and close to see Laura Jane and company do what they do best. As many of you know, Against Me shows are a kind of punk rock family reunion. A band so loved and respected for so long, a ticket to see them is a guarantee for arm in arm sing-alongs, hugs, and high fives. This crowd was a little…different. It could be the daytime slot (with The 1975 headlining the stage later in the evening), the festival atmosphere, or the non-punk interest generated by the very public life of Laura Jane but this wasn’t your typical AM! crowd. But before I go about sounding like some bullshit ‘the last album I liked was Reinventing/#sellouts’ journalist prick, it was not a bad thing. There were a lot in the crowd who it was either their first exposure to the band or their first show since Laura came out…and if you’ve seen them play in the last few years you know that this is the best the band has been live and to call their sets energetic is a monumental understatement. 

Arriving on the stage with one of the biggest grins I’ve ever seen, Laura dove right into ‘Teenage Anarchist’ which barreled into ‘Pints of Guinness’. The crowd reaction to pints confirmed my suspicion that this was not their usual crowd, with only a handful around us signing along to what is arguably their most well known song. Though unfamiliar, everyone was sucked in to the energy on the stage. Aside from technical ability, Inge and Atom Willard add so much to the bands stage presence while James Bowman has always provided solid vocal support to Laura Jane, who intensity has always been a huge part of the bands live performance. While we all go to shows hoping to hear your favorite songs, the highlight of the afternoon was just the opposite…they played FIVE new tracks from their upcoming release. Already highly anticipated, this sneak preview has it in contention for top 10 of 2016. Get stoked.

Midway through the set, Laura addressed the bands upcoming performance in North Carolina. Unless you’ve lived under a fucking rock for the past few months, you’ve seen the announcement and resulting backlash from the decisions of NC governor Pat McCrory in regards to transgender bathroom laws. “The bathrooms were already unsafe!” sneered Grace, referencing the years of racist and homophobic graffiti seen in truck stops, bars, and venues all over the country. “Fine,” she said, “I’ll piss and shit outside like a dog!” If you’re reading this article, you’ve already seen her onstage response to the North Carolina HB2 bill, burning her birth certificate mid set to cries of “bye gender!” I will always respect the hell out Laura Jane.

I could most compare the comedown following an Against Me set to the post-sex bliss where all you really want to do is smoke a cigarette, maybe grab a drink, and smile about what just happened. One of the best parts of a festival, is that you generally get an awesome soundtrack to do that to. On this particular occasion I had the fortune to be serenated by everyone’s favorite GRAMMY FUCKING AWARD WINNING Swedish satanic priests, the one and only Ghost. If you have any inclination towards metal and heavy music, see Ghost play. If you don’t, see Ghost play. Their symphonic sound and theatrical stage performance, lead by the incredibly charismatic Papa Emeritus, is absolutely captivating and a complete fucking blast. Hanging out near the back, as a day in the sun and about 6 hours of continuous drinking were starting to take their toll, we watched a 5 year old kid, sitting on his dad’s shoulders, throwing up the horns and completely getting down to Ghost as they cranked out jams about topics ranging from the Catholic church to the female orgasm. If I ever have kids, I can only aspire to the coolness that was that particular #raddad.

With the sun starting to set, we resigned to our final purchase of $8 High Life’s and made our way to see The Kills. I’ve seen front woman Allison Mosshart as part of the Dead Weather and can say she is an absolute beast on stage. This set was much of the same, with Mosshart pacing back and forth like a lioness stalking prey as they rolled through over an hour of material from…well…I don’t really remember the specifics of their set. You know the scene in Wayne’s World where Wayne sees Cassandra play for the first time and ‘Dreamweaver’ kicks on? That was me. Completely entranced, it was the perfect way to transition from day to night, with The Kills providing the kind of soundtrack that you can feel in your blood. Looking back, this was the set of the weekend. Hands down. No questions. Though there were other bands closing out the evening, we quickly admitted to the fact that nothing was going to beat what we just saw and we should probably just go drink some cheaper beer and unwind if we had any hope of enjoying the Diet Cig aftershow to come. 

After doing just that, we arrived at The Loft at Center Stage, one of the multiple multi-venue complexes that call Atlanta home. While it didn’t have the same feel and soul as the 3 staged Masquerade, I do really appreciate that places like this exist, central locations that can host a variety of music on any given night within a single location. It definitely leads to some great people watching and interesting conversations, though given that Silversun Pickups was headlining the other stage and we were pretty fucking drunk, our main concern was getting through the crowd and inside to see Diet Cigs expectedly short set. Making it in just before they went on, we indulged in a few shots of Jameson and cheaper tallboys because, hell, it always seems like a good idea at the time. The duo of Diet Cig rifled through their set with the fervor of a cartoon mouse on amphetamines, singer Alex Luciano literally bouncing all over the stage during the 25 minutes of their garagey by way of Brooklyn brand of pop punk that is infectious as it is brief, as they were able to play every song in their catalogue during that time.

I don’t remember who was to headline the show, but after stepping (at least) one shot over the line, the conclusion was reached that the only possible thing that could salvage the next morning was to call it a night and once again fill ourselves with as much fried chicken as humanly possible. Luckily, Atlanta is the perfect place for that and the fried chicken gods sang us to sleep in a buttermilk breaded and whiskey soaked haze.