Bumbershoot: Day Two
Seattle Center; Seattle, WA
Day two was not kind to me or many
of the festival goers. It had nothing to do with the temperatures or a lack of
food and water, but with the size of the mob trolling the grounds. Compared to
Saturday, the amount of festival goers doubled, causing massive headaches and
massive lines. With Key Arena shut off, there were fewer bathrooms, fewer
concessions (not that it was noticeable), and fewer places to seek the indoor
cool of air conditioning.
It didn't help matters that two of indie music's hottest acts — The New
Pornographers and Spoon — were sharing the early bill at the main stage. Minus
a few scraps of shade emanating from the stage's massive rig, the sun beat
down on the beer- and cigarette-soaked turf. Those smart enough to seek the
shelter of the stands were doing themselves a favor. However, I am a fearless
(also known as a pale white boy willing to roast in the abnormally hot Seattle
sun) journeyman seeking any inkling of a story to share. I arrived just in
time to catch the last few licks of the New Pornographer's set. Perhaps it's
an indie sin to state that I just don't enjoy the New Pornographers as a
group. I'll pay money to see Carl Newman or Neko Case play solo shows (or in
the case of the later, with her “Boyfriends”), but other than a track or two
from each of the band's albums, I don't find myself fully enjoying their brand
of super group power pop. Of course, the sizeable audience negated any
negative aura I was giving off.
Deciding to kill some time between the sets of indie juggernauts, I exited to
the grounds to check out what smaller treasures the other stages hid. First
stop was Dengue Fever. A large cluster of dancers were fighting for territory
among the grass loungers, so getting an up close look at the band was near
impossible. Factor in that press access to smaller stages was nigh, and you
can pretty much see that the day was starting off terribly. Bumbershoot
mistake #2: Shitting on the press.
Before I go any further, I should clarify my views of being a "member" of the
press. I didn't expect to have better treatment than the paying festival
goers. I didn't strive to cut in lines, get in people's way, or shove cameras
in between the audience to capture a band in performance. I never trampled
over people to get to a show, and I sure didn't expect some giant spread of
food and drink at the press room. I was, however, under the impression that
press would have access to viewpoints and stages easier than we did. I'm sure
complaining about getting into a festival for free is something many of you
could care less about, but I noticed I wasn't alone in feeling alienated — a
large majority of paying customers felt that Bumbershoot was falling flat on
its face. Usually a festival is organized enough to get people to where they
want to be and into the shows they want to see; this year everything collapsed
under the weight of neglect. Everything was hurried, and everyone paid the
price for it. It was easy to ignore during the first day's activities because
the crowd was significantly smaller than that of day two, not to mention more
polite.
Back to the action, I was tired of trading elbows and shoulders with the crowd
at Dengue Fever, so I made my way to the Northwest Court to catch the Kelley
Johnson Quartet. Needless to say, the jazz was just what I needed to calm me
down from an early overload. I was beginning to dread Bumbershoot, but the
cool and collected Kelley Johnson soothed me back to health. Once she wrapped
up, I sucked it up and returned to the main stage to catch Spoon.
The crowd for Spoon was exceptionally large for this time of day and this type
of music. I guess more and more folks are getting turned on to Spoon via word
of mouth and car rides where friends thrust the CD into their player of choice
and will their passengers to like Spoon. Fortunately, Spoon is a great enough
band that the forced exposure isn't needed. Spoon came out to thunderous
approval and began tracing over their catalogue's sharpest numbers. The
highlight of the show came from a surprise appearance from David Cross, who
gave us an interpretive dance to "The Beast and Dragon Adored." Before I knew
it, flocks of teenagers began thrusting themselves closer and closer to the
stage to catch a glimpse of Cross. I guess I never knew how popular he was. I
couldn't take the swells of kids, and since I had seen Spoon just last year
and the set was quite familiar, I decided it was time to roam the grounds
again.
I was pretty much killing time until Vashti Bunyan's set. I thought about
checking out some comedy acts, but it seems they weren't friendly to the
press. I'd beat the long lines and yet I was continually turned away. The time
I'd waste standing in line would not be worth all the missed music, so I
sucked it up and went on my merry way. In retrospect, killing time in line to
get a few laughs, wasting an hour or so, and soaking up some air conditioning
would have been the wiser move. No matter where I ran, no matter the artist or
band — Matt Costa, Jeremy Enigk (admittedly, I was a pretty big Sunny Day Real
Estate fan. Shut up!), the Crystal Skulls or even Floyd Standifer at my
favorite pavilion; the NW Court — no one was very entertaining. Each was more
boring, harder to stomach, and easier to ignore. Never the signs of good
performances. Sunday was turning into a wash. By the time Vashti Bunyan hit
the NW Court stage, I was ready to endure the bus ride and head home. I stayed
long enough to hear Bunyan serenade an older crowd for a few numbers, but I
just wasn't in the mood. I know someday I'll wake up and kick myself for not
staying, but sometimes a cold beer and a comfortable loveseat trump a unique
musical experience.
(Day One)
(Day Two)
(Day Three)
Bumbershoot: Day One
Seattle Center; Seattle, WA
Taking the bus can be a daunting
task even for the most fearless explorer. Whirling south from the Ballard
neighborhood, I expected every stop to be packed with teens and twenty-somethings
eager to make it to through the pearly gates of Bumbershoot only to wait in a
contrived line to maybe, hopefully, possibly grab mainstage passes to check
out the unholy trifecta that was Hawthorne Heights, Yellowcard, and AFI.
Bumbershoot mistake #1: Making your paying customers waste hours under the
blistering sun to get an additional pass to see the mainstage action.
Thankfully I was armed with a press pass as well as no desire to check out the
bland trinity. I had bigger fish to fry.
I arrived, checked in, and then headed for the nearest musical stage. I
stumbled upon P:ano's set, which was winding down to much anticipation. The
band was on fire, adding fuel to what was to be an abnormally hot September
day for Seattle. Classify the band as chamber pop if you must, but today they
blazed a trail into jazz country. Perhaps it was the surroundings of the
jazz-sponsored stage they inhabited. No matter, they were sharp in front of an
older and appreciative audience. Playing to a crowd of no more than 80 either
brings out your best or your worst and P:ano happened to entertain 80 people
expertly.
Not wanting to miss the speaking engagement of Charles Burns and Chuck
Palahniuk, I made a quiet exit and backtracked to Boeing Performance Arts
stage — the true beginning of my day. Burns, best known for his graphic novel
Black Hole as well as his cover illustrations for The Believer,
opened up with a slide presentation. At least it wasn't of his most recent
vacation. Much of the crowd was enthralled as he juxtaposed his favorite
comics of his youth with his sketches and stories. The more Burns settled in
to his speech, the more involved the audience became. I was beginning to
regret this misstep until Burns began to explore his work beyond the central
themes. Finding inspiration from his high school yearbooks, parallels between
the fictitious characters and the very real peers of Burns' yesteryear
overtook the presentation. After fielding a few benign questions from the
audience, Burns yielded the stage to big applause and bigger anticipation —
anticipation Chuck Palahniuk quickly met and exceeded. Ever since the days of
Fight Club's big screen adaptation, Palahniuk has been an author in
demand. His stories are larger than life and his details only blur the lines
between fantasy and reality. After showering the crowd with airplane bottles
of Wild Turkey and Crown Royal ("If you caught on of those and you're under
21, you're now breaking the law."), and showing us a suitcase of plastic
severed arms (which were inspected by Homeland Security) he read from "Guts,"
his prized story of childhood exploration through masturbation. If you've
heard it, consider yourself a survivor. I've never seen a room of men who
thought themselves to be tough as nails succumb to the uneasiness and sheer
brutality of Palahniuk’s descriptive prose. Thankfully I had eaten long before
journeying to Bumbershoot, so my stomach chose not to revolt. However, I saw
plenty of people make hasty b-lines for the exits. "Guts," is not for the
squeamish. Space Mountain be damned.
I slipped out shortly after Palahniuk wrapped up to avoid the exiting mass and
made my way back to the NW Court Lounge to catch Jarboe. After Palahniuk,
Jarboe's hushed beginnings weren't making the impression on me I desired.
After sitting on my hands for a few songs, I decided it was time to just
wander the grounds and see what I could find. My first stop was eavesdropping
on the set of Jaime Lidell. The set was very uneven, stretching from gnarled
soul to broken hip-hop. Perhaps I needed a different surrounding, or just a
beer or two in my stomach. Either way, I backtracked towards Key Arena to
check out the roller derby tournament and grab a beer from the stadium
concessions. Both were the mid-afternoon pick-me-up I needed. Ladies — all
elbows and knees, lukewarm beer, and the roars of a crowd enthralled by the
hometown all-star team beating the living hell out of a lesser team from
Carolina (North or South, we never were told. Perhaps it's like the Carolina
Panthers except without Steve Smith or Jake Delhomme) — were the recharge I
was looking for.
I absorbed the last bit of air conditioning I could muster and headed south to
catch Laura Veirs. While her performance wasn't as rousing or rocking as I was
hoping, she had a captive audience and the help of Karl Blau to help her power
through "Fire Snakes" and "Galaxies" in front of the hometown crowd. As she
was picking up steam, I decided my goodwill was needed elsewhere. I grabbed my
pack and headed to the far south end of Seattle Center to catch Rogue Wave
entertaining the chill, pro-KEXP crowd gathered 'round the Backyard Stage. By
now the temperature was beginning to cool and shade was taking over most stage
areas, so many in the crowd grabbed a large piece of land and set up camp. I
watched the crowd as the band plowed through the best Out of the Shadow
and Descended Like Vultures have to offer. I liked this crowd — it was
quiet, receptive, and captivated without the rowdy teenage hipsters or the
obnoxious 40 year-olds drunk and stumblebum as if Bumbershoot was their first
day out in the world. Of course I hate them — because I'm destined to become
one of them.
Soaking up enough indie music to last me for awhile, I made my way towards the
roller derby tourney once more to empty my bladder. After a quick peek to see
the hometown Rat City Rollergirls blasting the visiting San Francisco team, I
exited the premises to hear the members of NOMO finishing up their soundcheck.
Hearing the blast of horns, I figured a change of pace was needed. I strolled
over to the Bumbrella stage and was rewarded with free-jazz blasts of
saxophone and trumpet accompanied by African-influenced beats. The herd of
wanderers was quickly summoned over to watch Nomo's set from the first note.
Not one band attracted as much diversity, appreciation, and devotion as NOMO.
The music melted away my sadness that pitcher Hideo Nomo was not part of the
band, but I'm sure Bumbershoot could have used a decent hurler in case of an
emergency.
The moving bug bit me again, but I still had 30 minutes to kill until
Alejandro Escovedo took the More Music Stage, so I returned to the homebase of
the NW Court to catch the improv stylings of PK and What Army. NOMO may have
advertised 4 horns, but PK and What Army boasted as many as 13 (during one of
my counts) out of the 17 people I was able to catch onstage. It was a
psych-jazz free-for-all as the band wailed and conductor/composer/all-around
nice guy PK led the band like a true-to-life Bugs Bunny. The music was
mind-melting and I began to contemplate leaving the festival right then and
there, for who was able to usurp PK from day one's top perch? Surely not
Alejandro Escovedo.
My decision to stay and let it ride on Alejandro Escovedo was a wise one. Two
guitars, a bass, a synth, and a cello certainly bested PK and his army on this
day. After Escovedo's battles with Hepatitis C, it was good to see the man
back on stage and tearing everything to shreds. Escovedo and his backing band
didn't take one note off, quickly gathering the passers-by with each number.
It's no secret that my first musical love was alt-country and roots rock —
Escovedo being a poster boy for the genre after Wilco left for greener
pastures, but tonight Escovedo was about nothing more than turning every one
of his songs into one giant mass of molten rock. Song after song he made new
fans. I noticed a rush to the nearby Tower Records tent, presumably people
looking to nab a few Escovedo albums. Unfortunately I couldn't stay for the
entire set — Deerhoof was calling towards the north end and I answered.
I made it to Deerhoof's stage in time to grab a beer and pull up a seat in the
beer garden before the doors opened and the Pitchfork indier-than-thou kids
began their fashion show: vintage t-shirts, obscure band t-shirts, shaggy yet
well-groomed hair. This is the uniform of the indie kid generation. Some of
the kids seemed thrilled to be seeing Deerhoof — usually the band is relegated
to the over 21 crowd — but I noticed the majority of people were just here
because folks like us tell them to. Don't misconstrue my words, I don't think
we have that much power and hold on the indie blog readers, but I'm sure many
of these festival-goers who happen to read sites just like Tiny Mix Tapes were
just towing the indie kid line. Unfortunately, their lack of energy rubbed off
on Deerhoof and the band's set never took off. They were doomed from the start
when the snare head broke on the first smack of the stick. Halfway through the
torture, I downed another beer and ran to check out Of Montreal at the
Backyard Stage. Sadly, I made it just in time to catch their last gasps. Both
tracks were ridiculously over-electronic and the crowd seemed restless. I was
growing tired and restless as well and decided it was time to endure the
trauma hell ride back home.
Photo: Ben Clark
(Day One)
(Day Two)
(Day Three)
The Minus 5
Tractor Tavern; Seattle, WA
There's nothing like a good time
with pop. Pop, in this case, being a double entendre for a genre of music and
The Minus 5's head honcho Scott McCaughey. Spouting self-important wisdom
through the lip of a Pabst Blue Ribbon can, Scott wasted no time dazzling the
packed audience with casual conversation and 3-minute pop delights. Few can
pull off the tattered hair and sunglasses look, but Scott has the look down
pat. It's a happy time when a man twice the age of his peers can put them to
shame on a stage.
The true beauty of The Minus 5 isn't to see Peter Buck up close and
lackadaisical or to watch Scott McCaughey wax poetic about sexy food, but to
enjoy a good, old-fashioned rock and roll show strictly on the merit of
clever, hook-laden pop. There isn't a need for a 15 piece band, a horn
section, or more pedals and contraptions than instruments. Seeing The Minus 5
on stage with the bare bones of primitive rock is a thrill unto itself.
Whether the band stuck close to recent releases (At the Organ and The
Gun Album) or mixed in a cover (Warren Zevon's "Carmelita"), it didn't
matter. For a change all pretense was thrown out in favor of substance. I like
a thinking man's show just a much as the next fan. I enjoy the fervor and
manic pace of a noise performance. There is truly nothing as heartwarming as
some twang chased down with a few shots of whiskey. However, none of those
shows can ever replicate the sheer, uninhibited enjoyment of going to a bar,
having a couple of cheap beers, and watching four guys just tear into pop song
after pop song with no cares. In fact, McCaughey's stage banter is just as
entertaining and personal as his music. I caught myself hoping he'd ramble on
a little more about burritos, mashed potatoes, and Portland. Dry wit is a rare
commodity in the world of indie rock
06.09.13-cat_power
The Minus 5 are the perfect change-up to your concert-going routine (unless,
of course, your routine is just seeing The Minus 5). It's nice to lose
yourself in a 40 minute set and not have to think about the lyrics or the
music or the innovation. The pleasure is in drinking your Stroh's, moving your
feet, and bobbing your head. We forget about the heart and soul of music — the
primal band and audience connection. The Minus 5 won't let your ignore those
basic instincts ever again.
Robbie Fulks
Tractor Tavern; Seattle, WA
I was
in no mood to listen to Robbie Fulks. Don't get me wrong: Fulks'
tongue-in-cheek take on traditional country aesthetics and values is something
I enjoy, but it's hard to get yourself pumped up for a Monday night concert
when the last thing you've been listening to is anything but country.
Thankfully Robbie Fulks didn't play a single country tune, or any alt-country
tunes; the man and his tight backing band played rock and roll with a healthy
side of twang to compliment the main course of wit.
If you're not from Seattle and/or you've never been to the Tractor Tavern, you
can probably imagine the place's décor just by name alone. This particular
Monday evening the atmosphere was just a little more electric and unlike its
barn roots. Perhaps it was the older crowd and their enthusiasm wafting over
the joint, or it could have been that Robbie Fulks is a man that no
preconceived image can contain. To look at the him, you wouldn't expect
country-inflected music from such a man or his backing ensemble. Fulks is a
man above image.
From the first words of show opener "She Took A Lot of Pill (And Died)," you'd
immediately recognize that biting sarcasm from the indie world. Not only is
the song a shining example of many of Robbie's tracks, it's also a raucous and
rowdy anthem that cowboys and hipsters alike can love. The marriage between
the world of country and indie would become the theme of the evening. Unafraid
to explore his catalogue, Fulks and company ripped through dozens of tracks
with vigor. Whether it was the boot-scoot of "Rock Bottom, Population 1," the
fool's tale of "I Told Her Lies," or the honesty of "Mad at a Girl," Fulks
delivered it all with zeal. He had the crowd eating out of his palm, and much
like me, fans showing signs of not quite being in the mood were quickly
brought into the fold. It was only a matter of time before foot tapping, head
bobbing and full-blown dancing was taking place. The Tractor Tavern was
quickly turning into a barn dance even if most of the participants were weary.
The highlight of the evening came during "I Want to Be Mama'd," which saw the
entire band take solos. Usually tedious to endure, the band was tight and
inventive. There was no slack-jawed bass line, no color-by-numbers country
guitar solo, or country death song drum fills. The track was bits and pieces
of rock, soul and jazz. As the song devolved into chaos, it even began to
resemble free-folk. Robbie was doing Akron/Family fans proud with spastic folk
plucking and impromptu lyrics about his son's former high school teacher (who
was in attendance).
The reality of the situation hit me like a ton of bricks. No wonder Robbie
Fulks will never get the big break he deserves. He's not country, he's not
rock, and he's uncompromising. That's why he draws music nerds and working men
and women into his shows. It's a spectacle without strobes and lasers. All
Fulks has — genuineness — is all he needs to entertain.
Jon-Rae and The River / Castle Music / The People Verses
The Stack Farm; Kelowna, BC
"Welcome
to the Jon-Rae Jamboree," reads the sign greeting patrons. It's 7:30pm, the
official “Doors Open" time, and hardly anyone is here. At least, it feels like
no one is here. In fact, it seems like nothing is here, as tonight's
festivities are to take place at an old farmhouse in central Kelowna, a small
city known for its fruit trees, beautiful golf courses, ski hills, and
ludicrous amounts of urban development. But tonight, the focus is around the
return of one of the city's best exports: Jon-Rae and The River.
The 'door,' as it is normally referred to as, was more of a long, dirt
driveway, with a beat-up, old pedestal and a chair beside it. To the right of
this whitewashed box lay a blanket with the first band's CDs neatly arranged
in a row along the left-hand side, as to make room for The River's swag. Most
of the people who have come to attend this gig are wandering between the house
and Ernie's Liquor Store across the street, waiting for the show to start.
Once Jon-Rae Fletcher and his new, Toronto-based River (after moving there,
members of Jon-Rae's former River went on to play in bands such as Ladyhawk
and P:ano) pull up to the driveway, things are underway. After some quick
setup in the carport and a few beer runs, husband-and-wife duo The People
Verses hit the (ahem) 'stage' (carport). My expectations for their set were
rather low, and I was more than pleasantly surprised. Their stage presence was
warm, friendly, and very similar to fellow couple-band The Evens, but their
sound was more akin to a Detroit garage rock band, borrowing guitar sounds
from The Stooges, or perhaps The Black Keys. During their set, the band even
encouraged the audience to not buy their merch, as to help The River have
enough gas money to get back to hometown Toronto.
Second act Castle Music (featuring Jennifer Castle of Fox The Boombox and
Everybody Get Sick) was up next; they chose to start playing immediately
instead of saying "hi everyone," and waiting for our attention first.
Apparently we weren't the only ones who didn't realize that her set was
starting – the majority of the crowd continued talking throughout 75% of her
entire first song. Jennifer has an excellent, emotive voice, with similarities
to Leslie Feist or a much less annoying Joni Mitchell, and she isn't afraid to
use it to express. This was best evidenced in her final song in her incredibly
short set, a haunting a capella 'sea shanty' about sailors that finally
silenced the very social crowd.
But it was the entrance of The River that finally grabbed the audience's full
attention. Sporting a leaner, slimmer, touring band of a mere seven members,
leader Jon-Rae welcomed the crowd and started out the set with a set of two
new tracks, "Roll," and “Ghost." The new songs encapsulated the group's usual
'big city record store employee does country' sound, but have moved a little
closer towards a bastardized 'soul' music, such as with "Just One More."
Regardless of genre, Jon-Rae's knack for writing a melody is uncanny; it's not
often that you can go to a gig, hear a new song, and walk out of the show
actually humming the tune. That's how great pop songs should be, right?
Jon-Rae and The River are one of the best live acts I have seen. They are
enthusiastic and passionate about the music they perform, with all members
singing without microphones during some of the songs. One of the most
satisfying moments of the show was during "Holy Ghost" — a standout track from
their 2003 LP, The Road — where audience and band alike sang along with
Jon-Rae during the choruses, never missing a note or a word. There was a
slight chill in the air as those prolonged vocal tones resonated past the
single guitar's subdued, chiming notes, leaving this tiny fraction of
perfection.
Between Paul Mortimer's weeping slide guitar, the outstanding, almost Doors-esque
keyboard collaborations of Jonathan Adjemian and Mike Stafford, the rolling
bass of Ian Russell, and the Animal-esque drum stylings of Dave Clark, The
River's blend of sounds complimented Jon-Rae and Anne Rust D'eye's tag-teamed
vocals perfectly. Never satisfied to adhere to one sound style, the group
would make these subtle yet ironically sharp left-turns, such as the Lynyrd
Skynyrd-style breakdown at the end of "Roll." These are the moments where it's
most apparent that JR&TR is a live band.
Though there were plenty of people in the crowd who didn't know each other,
what they did know is that you come to a River show to sing. This is a
band who did a show that Now! Toronto called "the best gig of 2005" — and for
good reason. They are musically tight, warm, and inviting, and they write
irresistibly catchy indie-rock/country tunes that aren't there to conquer the
world, be dramatic, or anything else other than just be great songs to sing
along to. You could say that they're the ultimate sing-along group. I mean,
all their albums to date have been recorded in living rooms while all of
Jon-Rae's friends sing along; is that not a big enough hint?
Expect the Toronto's newest LP, Knows What You Need to drop in October
on the Baudelaire label (also home to Tangiers and The Diableros). In speaking
with Jon-Rae, he told me he was most proud of this record of "soul songs about
fucking," which I'm sure has some sort of intentional Steve Albini reference
in it somewhere. If the recordings manage to capture a little bit of the magic
these live fucking songs convey, it will be an amazing record indeed. If
you're looking for a great act to see live, make sure you check these guys out
– you won't be disappointed. Perhaps you won't get to see them in a farmhouse,
but any venue with Jon-Rae and The River playing is a good venue indeed.
Set list:
Roll
Ghost
As I Die
When You Come Knocking
Come Back To Me
Nothing To Do
Just One More
Baby, Maybe (?)
Fire
Holy Ghost
It is Hard to Live in the City
Two Hands
Mission of Burma / Major Stars
Warsaw; Brooklyn, NY
Furious
guitars and rabid percussion punctuating intense, epic vocals, and a crowd
full of die-hard radicals shouting back the lyrics to every song. A
top-secret, sweat-soaked, God-forsaken hole in the wall where the kids get
psyched up for the revolution and then go out and fucking do it. Since
I was 16 years old, this is the mental image I've carried with me of what a
Mission of Burma performance must be like.
As a former New England prep school inmate who spent the majority of senior
year screaming along to "Academy Fight Song" (I still regret not choosing "I'm
not judging you/I'm judging me/My academy" as my senior quote), I've held
Mission of Burma sacred for years. When I heard about the band's 2002 reunion,
I was dubious, but the new material didn't disappoint. With such high
expectations and nothing to mitigate against them, I was completely unprepared
for the total "so what?" that was their concert.
Maybe part of the blame should be laid on the openers, Major Stars, who were
certainly capable of killing the mood. There was already some tension going on
between the band and the audience, who apparently weren't too excited about
mumbled vocals and anonymous hard rock guitar with some screeching and a few
interminable instrumental solos thrown in here and there. There was a
noticeable lack of polite applause between songs. Before the final song of
their set, the lead singer asked whether we were "super-psyched" for Mission
of Burma. Met with the first hearty applause of the night, she quipped, "It's
good that you're super-psyched for something." I'm super-psyched to point out
that the only thing worse than a band that can't keep the audience's attention
is a band that blames the audience for its inability to keep their attention.
Before Mission of Burma took the stage, I made the mistake of assuming that
the rest of the super-psyched audience and I were on the same page, namely,
the page that said, "I am saving all my energy for MOB." When they started to
play, I realized that there was just no energy in the room at all — none from
the audience and none from the band. While the band's instrumentation was
tight and the new songs blended well with the twenty-five-year-old classics,
the show felt like a failure because they couldn't generate any excitement
onstage or in the crowd. The decision to play two sets only highlighted the
problem, as the songs in the first half of the second set blurred together
into a twenty-minute stretch of monotony, and no one in Mission of Burma was
engaging the audience at all. A band with that kind of incendiary passion and
intensity just doesn't work when the passion and intensity are taken out of
the equation. There was no furiousness, no intensity, no epic moments, and no
die-hard radicals. There wasn't even any dancing. People weren't going to
leave this show and set government buildings on fire; they were going to go
home, smoke a joint, sleep for 12 hours, and maybe blog about the experience
in the morning.
The most depressing moment of the night came when Mission of Burma actually
did decide to interact with the audience, prefacing one song with the words,
"Fuck Bush," and following it up with the thought, "You have to write pissed
off songs. That's all you can do, right?" Those statements crystallized what
had been wrong with the performance all along. "Fuck Bush." So what? For an
intensely political band who, 25 years ago, gave us the lyrics, "my father's
dead/But I don't care about it/It happens anyway/On the edge of Burma," the
only real content of that statement was the subtext that Mission of Burma has
lost its relevance.
This all adds up to what I can't get over when punk, underground, and
otherwise independent or politically-minded bands from twenty to thirty years
ago reunite. With few exceptions, the reunion is cynical, commercial, and
supported by companies diametrically opposed to the bands' original aims
Clear Channel and
Ticketmaster, anyone?). It seems obvious that every time a band that's all
about revolution and anti-capitalism reunites two and a half decades later to
put on a half-assed show sponsored by exploitative corporations, that band is
co-opting their own subculture and selling out the very kids they once
radicalized. Mission of Burma, savior of my boarding school days, is
unfortunately no exception.
Photo: Mark Belinsky
