June 2007 Archives

Sweet Talk’s Bonnaroo 2007 Part Three

After waking up “early’, I dragged my aching soles to the Sonic Stage, my favorite venue on the farm, for the first live music of the day. 

It’s always refreshing when your musical expectations are surpassed and the Brooklyn Salt Mines super group, American Babies, did just that and then some.  The Hamilton brothers (Brothers Past) and Joe Russo (Benevento Russo Duo) recently solidified their fledging band by adding guitar whiz Scott Metzger (Rana, Particle, Project Logic) which allows them to translate their soaring and exquisite Gram Parson’s steeped Americana blues to the stage. 

Front man Tom Hamilton’s panache and infectious delivery make his stage presence like 70’s Spingsteen and it’s a surprising treat to find complimenting harmonies behind all of Russo’s deft drumming. Let it be known that the kid has some serviceable pipes.

They earned their slot at the festival the hard way via the democratic process of OurStage.com. It goes to show how the site is slowly weaving itself into the programming fabric of today’s music scene.  I originally had my doubts, but it’s cool to know that fans can now have at least a small say in new bands grabbing such big time opportunities.  Ironically, American Babies is proof that the democratic process still works somewhere in America.

The rest of the day was blur of stage hopping, but Ben Harper’s late afternoon run through “Diamonds On The Inside”, “You Look Like Gold”, and “Burn One Down” was so blissful it almost made you feel that the swirling dust from shuffling feet was a nice addition to the halo effect of sunbursts and miles of smiles. 

Unfortunately the golden hue didn’t last long as the festival’s headlining act, the recently reunited Police were actually a major disappointment.  Granted Sir Sting’s voice was in fine form, and festival veteran Stewart Copeland was banging his balls off to try and get the train on track, but Andy Summers was stuck in Chick Corea jazz hell. They just never seemed to get on the same page, and the “Stingification” of some of the best ska songs ever written didn’t help matters at all. 

The admitted novelty of seeing a seminal band from my impressionable musical youth live and in the flesh wore off quickly, literally as the trio decided to only play an hour and twenty minutes (including two “encore” breaks) out of their two and half hour allotted slot.

Listen, I wanted this to be a highlight of my weekend, and this to be a raving review of the return of the prodigal sons, but when the best Police song played over the weekend was the Roots cover of “Roxanne”, you need to look elsewhere for a highlight.

Luckily the early exit of the Police made more time for the magnificent Okie carnies known to most as the Flaming Lips to sate the thirsty throng of musical omnivores.

Yes, they landed in a spaceship; yes there were gaggles of dancing Santas and mini-skirted Martians; yes there were confetti cannons, hundreds of monster balloons and enough dry ice to choke a dolphin; yes the stagehands included Thor, Captain America and the Flash; and yes Wayne Coyne popped out of the mothership in his hamster ball and rolled over the audience in majestic and awkward splendor, but of course most of this is old hat.  What was not “mundane” was handing out ten thousand laser pointers to the audience. 

There is not enough memory on my hard drive or words in our limited vocabulary to adequately describe ten thousand piercing beams of light all aiming at Coyne and him welcoming it all with open arms only to pull out a convex mirror right at the song’s climax and shoot all the rays back out into the Tennessee heavens.  Mind blowing is not hyperbole or overstating the collective effect. 

Although there is nothing like the Lip’s showmanship, what should not be lost was their musical prowess.  Unlike the Police they carried through all the fan favorites and injected a very rare and a decade plus absent “Mountain Side” until 2:30 am when they thankfully ended the marathon with a note perfect and poignant cover of the Stone’s “Moonlight Mile”.  As the re-boarded the mothership and ascended from whence they came.  Whatever planet these guys visit next will be completely satisfied. 

Yes, I know I am only on day two of my Bonnaroo posts but listen dear reader, I seem to live three full lives every year at that piece of fertile soil in the western Tennessee Valley and much like Jack’s famous whiskey distilled in the same county, you just can’t rush these things. 

There plenty more to come from the farm, but currently I am at 8000 some odd feet in what is arguably the most eye popping piece of Colorado, listening to some of the most ear popping bluegrass floating from the heavens.  This is indeed the cradle of America’s music. This is the the strains of happiness and heartache at its purest and I am simply honored to be able to go straight from Bonnaroo to Bluegrass, hence the title Editor AT LARGE. 

Hell I don’t even know what time or day it is.  Maybe it’s the elevation or the 16 ounces sampler of Oskar Blues’ finest but life at a mile and half high is mighty sweet.  Once I get the pictures up and running I promise you will all be jealous of my environs.  To the point, the “house band, includes Bela Fleck, Sam Bush, and Jerry Douglas and the Avett Brothers have left a wake of bodies in their path since they showed up. 

The air is thin, the sun is out and the high lonseome sound echoes for miles and miles.

Stay tuned, more to come.... off to see Guster try and get their Ralph Stanley on

Extra Point:  This is hands down the best run festival Sweet Talk has ever encountered.  If all people were this kind and helpful there would be no need for chill out tents or bumber stickers clammoring for whirled peas.

So where did we leave off.  Oh yeah the Roots vieing for the title of hardest working band in show biz.  To prove the point, as soon as ?uestlove left the stage he went back to the Holiday Inn to rehearse with Ben Harper and John Paul Jones (yes, that John Paul Jones as in Led Zep) for the annual Bonnaroo Superjam.  Sometime after the witching hour the trio took the stage in the Other Tent to a thunderous reception.  It was a hair on your arms standing up kind of ovation, even before the first chord was struck, but when the open notes of "When The Levee Breaks" clicked in the audiences brain, well… the levee was obliterated as a wave of sonic yelps of joy beat out the massive JBL’s. This was Zep, Zep, and more. Praise Be.

The set is exactly what the pilgramage to the farm is all about,  collaboration, and man this was it in spades.  Harper clenching his fist and straining his vocal chords to the limit, admirally going for the Robert Plant highnote;  ?uest doing his best Bonham, hammer of the gods, impersonation to the point where during the thirty four minute (yes I clocked it) "Dazed and Confused" (with a nifty "We’ve Got The Funk" sandwiched in the middle,  two drum techs reapeatedly had to tighten the kit because it kept vibrating loose from the pounding onslaught;

JPJ doing his best JPJ letting a barrage of open E bombs shake the hollow of everyone’s chest cavity and then nimbly dancing the fret board with lightning fills of bottom end bliss.  In typical Bonnaroo mind screw, the encore came from the opposite side of the 70’s spectrum with a soul medley that would have made Bill Withers holla. Captain Kirk Douglas camee on stage for some added guitar and vocals, and the quartet charged through a loose "Superstition" > "It’s Your Thing" > "Gonna Take You Higher" > "Superstition".  Somewhere around 2:30 when they stepped off stage, everyone in attendence drenched in a soulful sweat, it was clear Bonnaroo had delivered another notch in it’s What the F*#k just Happened belt.

Friday extra point:  Tool is the loudest band these ears have ever encountered.  (in case you missed it that was a bold PERIOD at the end of that last sentence).  Their sound made my eyelashes quiver and joints shake.  In fact I am fairly certain I lost a filling.

Once again your intrepid traveler has survived another Bonnaroo.  You’d think after four years I’d have this place dialed, but that’s the beauty.  Just as soon as you get comfy....POW right in the kisser. 

Time To Plug into Bonnaroo 2007

Land in Nashville, jump into the fire engine red Monte Carlo, go the secret back way to the grounds. no speeding ticket this year. Good.  all the more to tip my favorite bartender.   Listen to a gomez / radiohead mix from last years b-roo.  lots and lots of lightning bugs.  Pull into Holiday Inn where all the State Troopers are staying in order to pick up press credentials.  Except for maybe the set of the Blues Brother movie or a 70’s porno you’ve never seen so much fuzz in one place.  It’s a remarkably effective deterrent for the countless tour buses pulling in around me.

Grab credentials, frustrated, luckily I run into the Roots, they vouch for me.  That’s favor number 734 I owe that crew.  Go directly to bar to see said bartender, who makes his famous "Bitch Slap", basically equal parts liquor sponsor, vitamin water sponsor, and energy drink sponsor.  The perfect cocktail for 90 degree nights and days. 

Head out and see Apollo Sunshine.  Have a nice chat with the boys before their very vibrant set.  They are on their way into the studio next week, we should all be awaiting the outcome anxiously.  These marvelous Massholes are constantly climbing up the beanstalk.   

Meet up with the Sam Champion boys at the bar.  They give me a day-glo neon wrist/sweat band, which comes in handy over the next few days of trying to write notes with sweat shotgunning out of every pore.  Makes me feel like a professional something....when I figure it out  I’ll get back to you. Pick up my sidekick photographer and wonder wingman Toad, who grabbed all the following shots with a tiny pocket digital (yeah our sight lines were that good).  2:00 am early to bed; big couple of days coming. First Motel has rat in bathroom and large blood stain on floor, second hotel room a tad bit better, not by much but at least the toilet has a seat, which in a bonus.

Friday morning: RX Bandits out of Cali.  Fun Group, reminds me of State Radio with a lot more joviality and panache. 

Hit Kings of Leon on the main stage; luckily they play half of the new album which is by far the best stuff they’ve recorded.  So good through the massive Marshalls, they blow the main stage power for thirty seconds.  You can’t say they don’t go to "11".  Is it me or does Caleb have the best legs in rock n roll this side of Tina Turner?  He even pulled his best Cobain on his end of set microphone throw-down.

Race over to see the last of Gillian Welch, one of my favorite festival stalwarts.  Go back to the bar, watch Gillian and David get their picture taken by the best Music Photog on the planet, Danny Clinch.  There are three people who have a better job than I do,  The home bat boy for the Boston Red Sox, the senior product tester for Patagonia, and Danny Clinch.  The one he has of the G & D hopping hand and hand with half their faces out of frame needs to be the back cover of the new album....  You hear me, BACK COVER! 

Hustle to the poser platform  for The Roots on the main stage: This is what I write in my handy dandy Mt. Tom notebook pictured below:

Perhaps the best cover band in the land.  Talib Kweli’s "Get By", Sugar Hill Gang’s "Rapper’s Delight ", James Brown’ "Funky Drummer"  all with a sparked horn section.  The Tuba player must have needed two IV’s after the amount of energy he left on the stage and in the audience.  You haven’t see a ballsy tuba player until you see one jump off the main stage, chase down guitarist Captain Kirk Douglas 80 yards through the crowd to the soundboard, and back while never losing the beat or a synchronized dance step. 

How about a 10 minute cover of Dylan’s "Masters Of War" played to the melody of the Star Spangled Banner. With ?uest’s drums sounding like bursting cannons and Captain Kirk firing his guitar leads like sonic missiles, the anthemic posturing seemed  politically apt.  In fact the stadium cock rock seemed so perfect that Gary Glitter’s Rock and Roll Part Two, sung with praise to the Roots Crew,  seemed right in time with the scene.

But the real highlight came with a note perfect rendition of The Police’s "Roxanne" sung by ?uestlove with tour manager, Tina Farris taking over the bass for Hub who was roots chomping and grooving with a mile wide grin behind the stacks.  Later Tina told me she’d played a little in high school, but had been practicing for months.  I mean who wouldn’t practice before playing the most famous song the headlining act of the festival  ever wrote in front of 30 + thousand people.  Not only did they nail it cold, it was unequivocally better than the version played by its original authors the next night.   I told her if she could write the way she played she could write for Sweet Talk any day. 

..... LOTS more to come:  Stay tuned

I am a stars and stripes kinda guy.  I even own a 1990 pair of American Flag, Chuck Taylor, Converse All Stars Hi-Tops. Out of respect to old glory, I only wear them twice a year, every year, without fail, once of fourth of July and once on my favorite holiday, FLAG DAY.

Many moons ago, I was looking for an excuse to blow off my job as a bar waiter in small Maine town so I could go to the local rope swing, drink warm Olympia Light, and listen to my new mix tape. To remedy the situation, a couple of summer roommates decide to start our own holiday. So years before “Festivus for the rest of us”, we had Greta Garbo day. I honestly don’t remember why the silent screen actress was behind our proclamation but I guess that was the point.

What I do remember is that we played a warped game of follow the leader through the quaint summer hamlet calling each other by our Greta Garbo Holiday names. Superstar, Coolest Kid, and All that Jazz are the ones that pop to mind. Looking back, this random mid-week summer holiday was idyllic in its simple celebration of freedom.  It wasn’t until we walked home gleefully sunburnt that we noticed all the American Flags hanging from every store front.  Asking Brud the famous local hotdog cart vendor what was up with all the patriotic fervor he told us that it was actually Flag Day.  Who knew Greta Garbo day and Flag Day fell on the same day?!?  The serendipity being too much to handle, I decided that moving forward I would do myself the honor of celebrating this cosmic event by not working on such a hallowed date. Instead I would go for a swim, listen to music, and partake in general lollygagging. 

Although I may have missed one or two in the last seventeen years (Flag Day is subliminal in its sublimity, it kinda sneaks up on you like your third cocktail), so far I have been pretty vigilant at keeping with tradition.  One year of particular note was about nine years ago. I was on Martha’s Vineyard, holed up in a beach shack trying to write my first script.  Some old friends were on island for vacation, and it wasn’t until we were on the way to grab lunch when I noticed all the flags. Needless to say the fun progressed at break neck speed and before too long our over served and merry crew were dancing on stage with Toots & The Maytalls singing “Happy, Happy Flag Day!” to the tune of “Feels So Good” with Toots pointing between my Chuck Taylors and the Jamaican flag hanging behind the drummer who was barely containing his incredulous guffaws.

I would write more, but I am leaving for the airport to immerse myself in four days of music at Bonnaroo.

Happy Greta Garbo / Flag Day
-All That Jazz

PS Here’s some motivation:
Feels So Good

For most people, summer means water skiing on the lake, basking on the beach and reading trashy paperbacks. But to the growing throng of insatiable musical omnivores summer means glow-stick wars, ravaged road maps, silent discos and midnight Mardi Gras parades with American Idol reject William Hung singing Ricky Martin’s “She Bang” on a monstrous Mr. T float. In other words, it’s Festival Season.

While the touring/concert industry—entombed in its gentrified amphitheater sheds—flails like a senile cat thrown into a kennel of starving puppies, the musically enlightened frolic in vast sonic playgrounds built specifically with the live-music experience in mind. If “Camel Cigarettes Presents in Association with Norway Cruises and Cabo Wabo Tequila a Limited Engagement of Steve Miller and Sammy Hagar with the Surviving Members of Reo Speedwagon Extravaganza” leaves you feeling icky and used, then it’s time to pack your sunscreen and sneakers and hop aboard the Festival Express. 

That’s right, no matter how long the battery life of your cell phone, laptop or toothbrush, live performances are still what give music its soul, and the growing number of destination music festivals are providing the enviable alternative to the crumbling bedrock of “Shed Rock.” And this, people, is a good thing, because these major festivals are geared to provide the fan with an experience well beyond what you have been conditioned to endure.

Close your eyes and picture skipping around a carnival designed by Walt Disney, Willy Wonka and Wayne Coyne while they’re on a three-day Peyote Bender, and hearing the strains of Gillian Welch, Manu Chao, The Roots or Rodrigo y Gabriela, depending on which way you cup your ears. Too tired to take Guitar Hero lessons? Maybe get a Jin Shin Jyutsu massage or loll about in the micro-beer garden. Too burnt to climb around a giant, glowing art installation? Maybe visit the Oasis Mist tent or watch the entire Lord of The Rings trilogy in the film tent. Too tired to mud wrestle Sarah Silverman or take a couple cuts in the Batting Cage with Lewis Black? Maybe you should just stay home, because, no matter how invigorating the side attractions, these music marathons are not for the faint of heart.

You can try and make sense of the numbers that come with hosting one of these gigs: 80 to 100 bands, 60,000 to 100,000 people, 600 to1,000 acres, 8 to 10 stages, 1 million pounds of ice, over 6,500,000 total watts of electrical power. But, as with any good mind-blowing, logic is useless. It’s best to tip your cap to the lunatic alchemists who throw these hospitable hoedowns and go about enjoying the hootenanny. But it’s hard not to contemplate just how much these festivals have altered the musical landscape both literally and figuratively. A decade ago, no one would have believed this paradigm to be viable, never mind the norm.

But live music has always been the great equalizer when facing the massive marketing machines behind the disposable and synthetic culture that permeates today’s music industry. If you can’t turn it up to “11” in front of the masses, don’t bother applying. This is why Britney’s sporting a Kojak, J-Lo is going the way of the Dodo and once-niche bands now have a chance to play in front of thousands of potential fans. The blossoming truth is that we live in a time of musical decentralization and genre blending. So, by bringing together a litany of artists whose common bond is their ability to blur the lines of what is visually and musically possible, you have all the ingredients for a rapid cultural shift. 

In fact, this cornucopia of acts is perhaps the Festival’s crowning achievement (along with ample port-a-johns) because by bringing together disparate fans from all walks of life, these long, lost weekends are revitalizing the communal aspect of concerts. Collectively shared experiences on such massive scales allow for a healthier and better-educated music scene. Whether it be festivals’ added focus on renewable resources, voter registration or funding for local music education, they have proven that there is strength in numbers and that the whole is truly greater than the mere sum of parts.

While these socially responsible elements are an added bonus, some of these “parts” are worth every penny. Personal favorites include cavorting with serial Festival Freaks, (easily spotted by their Camelbacks and ability to dance between the meandering herds of overwhelmed neophytes), fried catfish with a side of sweet-potato fries and a double shot of wheat grass (you work it all off at the full-costume 5k), plus randomly seeing people you met on the plane all throughout the weekend and communicating with nothing more than winks, thumbs ups and knowing glances—it’s a true testament to the power of an event (or my gravitational powers of serendipity).

Although nine innings at the park, sunset walks on the beach and the final Harry Potter book can be a good way to spend a weekend, burst your beach ball and come cut loose in the fields, farms and fairgrounds of Bonnaroo, Coachella, Sasquatch, Lollapalooza, Austin City Limits, Glastonbury, High Sierra, Newport Folk, Wakarusa, etc. or else you may be missing some of the Greatest Shows on Earth.