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Recently returned from Seattle's Bumbershoot festival. We bookended the long weekend by attending Friday and Monday, while Saturday and Sunday were devoted to fine dining and low-energy debauchery. As usual, I missed a whole swack of artists I wanted to check out, but here's what I did see:
Friday:
Got on the grounds too late to see the Gruff Mummies (a local '60s influenced punk band), so ended up starting the fest at the EMP's Skychurch with Sub-Motive (a local trio), who were - and I mean this in the nicest possible way - shitty and insufferable. They sounded like a half-baked emo band with the world's wankiest guitarist. Things picked up slightly whenever the bass player sang, but his more pop-oriented songs were continually ruined by the guitarist running all over them. We briefly escaped the Skychurch and washed the aftertaste of Sub-Motive from our skulls by heading straight for one of the outdoor beergardens. 2 o'clock on a sunny afternoon is as fine a time to start drinking as any.
Next, back at the Skychurch, we saw Anna Oxygen, who was fairly accurately described in the program guide as a cross between Madonna and a Jane Fonda workout video. That admittedly sounds like it should be godawful - and it is, but in a completely delightful way. She was dressed in what looked like terry cloth gym shorts, with a fuzzy owl mask on her head, singing and dancing to the rudimentary beats from a laptop set up behind her. She's either extremely courageous or barking mad. Each year at Bumbershoot there's always an unexpected highlight - a couple years ago it was my introduction to the Boss Martians, this year it was undoubtedly Anna Oxygen.
The Skychurch comes equipped with a bar so with the aid of more liquor we stayed around for the next act, Smoosh. Smoosh is two sisters - a thirteen year old singer/keyboardist and an eleven year old drummer - and, it turns out, they're a huge draw. I suppose it's more out of curiosity than anything else, because their music to me sounds like it came straight out of Lillith Fair in '95. Impressive, I suppose, given their ages, but not impressive enough to stop us from finally leaving the confines of the Skychurch.
Next up at the outdoor Backyard Stage, we took in ex-dBs semi-legend Chris Stamey from our vantage point in yet another beergarden. I loved the dBs, and Stamey is armed with truckloads of talent, but he just refuses to stick to what he's good at - which is melodic pop. Instead, he pretentiously refers to himself as a "folksist" and stretches his voice beyond its limitations while stubbornly avoiding hooks and melody. Definitely a letdown.
From Stamey we trekked over to see ancient local busker Baby Gramps with a backing band that included a musical saw. It was interesting enough, but the clock was ticking and we had to make it to the Mainstage in time for the New York Dolls. I've been waiting 30 years to see the Dolls, so my expectations were understandably high (even though they're more of a tribute act than the real thing). Anyway, the songs sounded great - even though Steve Conti is too good a musician to even approximate the sonic chaos of Johnny Thunders - and it was a blast of outright nostalgia to see Sylvain and Johansen enjoying themselves onstage (Johansen was so frighteningly skinny he resembled a scarecrow with all the straw knocked out of it). Good crowd for the band as well - lots of pseudo-glam costumery and a surprising number of kindergarten-age children sporting Ramones t-shirts (I didn't know they came in sizes that small).
We then raced over to the NW Court Lounge to see Stan Ridgeway. Ridgeway has developed into quite the raconteur over the years, peppering his set with hilarious anecdotes and extending songs with pointed rants. He even played his old Wall Of Voodoo chestnut "Mexican Radio" as a sort of cajun reel. He also played faves "Drive, She Said" and the spooky-ass WoV version of "Ring Of Fire." Fun stuff.
The day closed for us back at the Mainstage with Garbage, which was a bit of a denouement for the day IMO. Shirley Manson did her best, parading her flat bum around in tight denim shorts with her name inked across the ass, but it was all a tad too rote. This band is in a major rut. We left early, figuring it would behoove us to keep our buzz going in a bar off-grounds.
Monday:
The day started with the Decemberists on the Mainstage. Their brand of overly literate (some might say precious) indie-folk didn't translate well to a stadium environment. By four or so songs I was bored out of my brain, wishing for Shirley Manson or even Baby Gramps to make an unscheduled appearance. No such luck.
We left and ended up back at the Skychurch, this time with the Charming Snakes. They were something of a trainwreck, but they were a fun trainwreck - which was a breath of fresh air after the staid professionalism of the Decemberists. After three sloppy songs the bass guitarist looked out at the crowd and said "how much longer do we have to play?" That was our cue to leave.
We wisely stayed away from Dashboard Confessional at the Mainstage, opting instead to check out the Be Good Tanyas while sitting at the Backyard Stage's beergarden. Seemed like about a thousand people had the same plan - and that was our first inkling that this day was far more populated than the Friday had been. We managed to steal a table, and listened to the placid alt.country of the Tanyas without being able to see them.
Our plan was then to head to the What's Next Stage to catch Earlimart, then stay in the beergarden until the following act, Ted Leo and the Pharmacists, but the enormity of the crowd scuttled our schedule. A huge line-up for Ted Leo had already started - an hour before he began - and so we had to break our Bumbershoot rule of "no queues." It almost wasn't worth it, because Ted Leo's first few songs were obliterated by feedback. Once the techs got it under control, however, Leo put on a typically rivetting show.
We left Ted Leo to get a taste of Brazilian Girls at the Bumbrella Stage, which was a mishmash of bossa nova and disco and godknowswhatelse. Not at all my cup o' pee.
From there we saw Okkervil River back at the Backyard Stage. They were hit and miss. They certainly gave it everything they had, with vocalist Will Sheff unafraid to hit notes that have historically been rejected by human ears, but overall they don't seem quite ready yet.
Afterwards we chilled out at the NW Court Lounge, listening to French chanteuse Keren Ann lull the crowd into a blissful persistent vegetative state.
We then trudged back to the Backyard Stage for Tegan And Sara's chirpy mix of folk and tick-tock noo wave. Suffice it to say, I rechristened them Alvin and the ChickPunks.
We just missed Mudhoney back at the Mainstage, but got there in time for Iggy and the Stooges. Iggy was in fine form, prancing like a rhythmically-challenged gay derelict suffering from the debilitating effects of electroshock therapy, screaming at security to let the crowd jump onstage (and subsequently disappearing under a mass of at least one hundred moshing fools), and always threatening to lose his pants. On this night the Ig decided against exposing his 58-year old meat whistle to the world - and for that I will always be thankful. An encore of "I Wanna Be Your Dog" sent everybody home happy.
And that was that - another year of Bumbershoot over.
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