Matt Schnable and Mark Capon, aside from being very friendly and hard-working music fanatics, know how to throw a dynamite party. They opened Harvest Records on August 14, 2004, in West Asheville, NC, and as the 5-year anniversary of the store approached, they decided there was no better way to celebrate than to organize a 3-day music festival and invite some of their favorite bands. Transfigurations was born. In a time when record stores are struggling for their lives, it's inspiring to see Harvest Records and the artistic community they have fostered thriving. Transfigurations was Schnable and Capon's way of patting themselves on the back and, more importantly, giving back to those customers and friends who have made such a vibrant community possible.
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DAY ONE
The sun snuck out and warmed things up as MV suggested easy living through the car-speakers and my posse and I zoomed down Interstate 40, making our final descent into Asheville. About 35 miles out, the mountains revealed themselves above the tips of the thick tree-wall that lines the road, allowing the clouds to come down easy and rest upon their peaks. It was my first time in Asheville, and it immediately struck me as a magical place with a great spirit. The downtown streets are filled with sidewalk cafes and interesting movement: A guy dressed as a nun rode a modified high-rise bicycle cranking “Dominique” through a radio attached to his handlebars; there were street musicians around almost every corner; leisure seems to be emphasized in an almost Andalusian fashion. This liveliness is largely non-existent in Southern cities, which is what makes Asheville such a special place among its more conservative and dull neighbors.
After supper at a spot called the Laughing Seed Café, I was gassed up (literally) and ready for the kick-off. The Grey Eagle is a venue that, thanks to the Harvest Team, has been bringing interesting music into Asheville and the South for the past several years. This has surely been no easy accomplishment, for nationally touring bands have been skipping over many Southern cities for forever, and it is quality venues like The Grey Eagle that ought to serve as a model for others hoping to put themselves on the map.
Things got off to an awkward start as local band Floating Action took the stage. If any band sounded like they didn't quite fit in with the rest of the weekend's left-of-center lineup, it was them, but I can understand the symbolism of the opening band being a local one. Their beer-soaked, bar-band rock seemed to get the locals stoked, but I was eagerly waiting for their set to end.
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Up next was Atlanta's Coathangers who got things off to a proper start with their contagious energy and PR-attitude. Drummer Stephanie Luke is exciting to watch, namely because she has realized an almost perfect form: hunched over the kit at just the right angle, long arms flailing, hair everywhere, pounding, and growling. Scramble, their 2009 LP, doesn't quite capture the live rawness, but their gleefully angry stage presence made it clear that the live moment is the best way to experience the band.
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I have been patiently awaiting a chance to see Kurt Vile & The Violators, and the audience seemed to hold the same anticipation as the band set up a labyrinth of chords, pedals, and samplers. Vile stepped out first for a few solo songs, squeezing out effects-drenched notes from his acoustic, covered in thick hair, and pleasing the crowd with his lyrical maneuvers. He was eventually joined by The Violators, who launched into several tracks from The Hunchback EP and a few choice cuts from Constant Hitmaker. The Kurt Vile tracks took on a much heavier sound with Jesse Turbo (who also went momentarily free on a saxophone) and Adam Granduciel's rocked-out droning and Mike Zeng beating the hell out of his kit. When a few audience members called out for “Freeway,” the band reluctantly satisfied the request. The reluctance, I think, shows that Vile's creative capacity is already starting to run circles around the mind of the average indie square, and those who get stuck on a single are sure to miss the larger picture he's painting.
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DAY TWO
While walking the streets of Asheville the next afternoon, the discourse that formed in my head on DAY ONE about the “magic of Asheville” quickly started to disintegrate as I penetrated deeper into the New Age underbelly of the town. I can't completely trust a city that has more than two bookstores that have more texts on their New Age than their Philosophy shelf. I noticed several advertisements for local “metaphysicians” — a label that will make anyone slightly schooled in academic philosophy vomit — that offered aroma therapy and other hippie solutions for enhancing whatever secret part of the body is trendy among the bad readers of Eastern philosophy that month. In front of one bookstore, a musician played some sort of meditative-trance-whale-sound music while a dreadlocked young girl gazed into his eyes. The image was terrifying (and any good Nietzschean knows that passive nihilism is always cloaked by the Pied Piper's spiritual-bliss and naïve Schopenhauerean Eastern-flirtations).
- Early Show:
After a spot of food, I entered the Diana Wortham Theatre, a cozy performance space that sits in the middle of downtown Asheville in the Park Place Science, Education and Art Center. The sign on the front door claimed Brightblack Morning Light would no longer be playing and Meg Baird, from Espers, would be performing a solo set instead. This cancellation made the night much sleepier than I was expecting, as I settled into my seat feeling unprepared for a long evening of mostly folk music.
Meg Baird opened up and immediately slowed down the evening with several very long folk songs. Her voice is enchanting and finger-picking delicate, but it's just not my speed on a Friday night, or any night, I guess. She was joined for a few songs by The Violators' Jesse Turbo, who blew softly through a reverb-drenched harmonica.
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Steve Gunn picked up the pace, for me at least, since I have a soft spot for the Takoma School-Fahey-Basho-Jones-Rose guitar sound, but I could tell the audience was growing restless. Gunn moves up and down the neck strategically and builds up a robust orchestral drone for the listener to get pleasantly lost inside, but following Baird, this could've been tedious for some. He was joined by Espers' cellist Helena Espvall, who contributed to a song that went on about five minutes too long. I saw some nearby necks snapping back from a quick doze off into the void.
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Espers took the stage next to deliver their brand of mainstream folk. If it wasn't for the drumming of Violator/War On Drugger Mike Zeng, I think most of the audience would've drifted off into sleep-world and never returned. I was also kept awake by the mysterious fringed-out-leather-hip-pouch that Greg Weeks wore. What does he have in there? Rosemary and thyme? Potions? Hemlock? An ankh? A lightsaber? The persistent mystery aside, Weeks' oftentimes funny stage banter stood out against the 'lude coma that had swallowed up the rest of the more-nostalgic-than-alive band.
There was a little kid sitting behind me and during the intermission. I overheard him repeatedly telling his mother that if he didn't go home and get to sleep soon he was going to scream. I think he was onto something.
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The night was singlehandedly rescued by the captivating one-man performance of Bonnie “Prince” Billy, who managed to express the rich soulfulness of his music and, I blame Asheville for this language, his being. Between songs, the head-shaven Oldham told stories, like the time he went to Illinois for a silent meditation retreat that turned out to be run by fascists, then fled to Asheville, where he ended up at a Smashing Pumpkins concert, and finally found himself on the set of a Kanye West video. He came onstage with a notebook overstuffed with papers containing song lyrics, but ended up taking many requests from the audience, including one delivered via a paper airplane. He played tracks scattered throughout his vast discography, and I was especially happy that he performed one of my personal favorites, “New Partner,” from Palace Music's Viva Last Blues. Not many musicians can keep an audience begging for more with just a voice and a guitar, but after more than an hour and a half of stories and music, the audience was professing their love to Oldham. He responded that he wished the love was physical. I could have listened to a few more hours of his songs, and if I had seen him after the set, I might have personally filled up his physical love lacuna.
- Late Show:
By the time we walked out of the Diane Wortham Theatre, after the fantastic Bonnie Billy performance, it was 12:30 AM. I'm old. I was tired. I skipped the late show (start time: 11 PM), which featured Ice Cream—a Floating Action side-project — and Budos Band.
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DAY THREE:
- Panel Discussion and Films:
After a crucial breakfast at Early Girl Eatery (I also ate dinner there later in the day), we made our way to the Fine Arts Theatre, just blocks away from the Diane Wortham, for what turned out to be one of the highlights of the weekend. Eric Lyon from AshevilleFM – who should be streaming the event on their website soon – chaired the conversation with Eric Isaacson (Mississippi Records), Lance Ledbetter (Dust To Digital), Nathan Salsburg (Twos & Fews), and Hisham Mayet (Sublime Frequencies) about the fascinating world of feverish archivism. Each discussant brought along a short video to share their recent projects and journeys into the margins of music, both past and present.
Isaacson, who recently acquired some video and stacks of papers that will soon become a published Abner Jay autobiography from Jay's daughter, shared a great clip of Abner performing one of his one-man minstrel shows from the back of his portable home. Ledbetter showed a few minutes from the film Singing My Troubles By, which documents women musicians in Georgia, some of them ferocious banjo-pickers and all of them full of fascinating stories. Salsburg brought some great clips of renegade and moonshiner Hamper McBee, who sang a song about his frequent trips to the jail cell. Mayet brought along a short film titled Land of the Songhai that featured some great West African musicians performing both highly danceable and deeply meditative tunes.
For those unfamiliar with these labels, I sincerely suggest that you do some research. These folks are making the search easy for those of us who don't have the Socratic curiosity (or time) that drives them to do such noble music-spelunking. There isn't a single release on any of these labels that isn't worth checking out.
- Early Show:
Back at The Diane Wortham Theatre, Asheville's Villages were set to take the stage first. Ross Gentry's textural synth drones, in the style of Tim Hecker, were a refreshing way to start the evening, especially after all the guitar-picking from the previous night. The screen in the background displayed haunting images of forest nights, penetrated them with topographic tones, and set the stage perfectly for the next performance.
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Mount Eerie's set was one of the festival's best. Phil Elverum, performing alone with a guitar, managed to recreate the lovely terror of Wind's Poem. Mount Eerie's ontology is so robust and filled with secrets, to see Elverum navigate the trees, caves, twigs, moss and snow firsthand is a moving experience. His guitar tone perfectly captured the sound of the heavy, oftentimes punishing wind that blows though his work. Like Oldham, Elverum is a musician who has the power to captivate careful listeners with nothing more than guitar and voice.
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I've never understood why people are so into The Books, and this performance did nothing to sway my opinion. All but two instruments are programmed, and once the start button is hit, Zammuto and de Jong just play along with it. My girlfriend referred to it as karaoke. It's not very fun to watch, since the listener knows that the songs will sound exactly the same night after night. The inescapable structure is oppressive, and seems to contradict the images of real life, with all its aleatoric glory, moving on the screen behind them. It was pleasant at times to zone out to, but an unsatisfying way to follow the rawness and honesty of Mount Eerie.
- Late Show:
Moments later at The Grey Eagle, Jonathan Kane and his well-dressed band took the stage. 2009's Jet Ear Party doesn't even begin to do the band justice, but on stage, Kane's one-chord blues-for-long-dirt-roads deliver a sexy wallop. If Jim Jarmusch were to remake Road House, Kane and his band would have to create the soundtrack. I was waiting for a switchblade to slip out of the pant-leg of one of the guitarists. I like to think of the smile that never left Kane's face throughout the set as his way of telling the other bands that he was enjoying out-rocking them all. This was one of the best, and loudest, sets of the weekend.
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I saw War on Drugs in Penn Treaty Park, in their hometown of Philadelphia, just over a week ago, but they already sounded tighter and more ferocious. Mike Zeng clearly deserves the Transfigurations MVP for throwing down sticks with The Violators, Espers, and his War On Drugs brethren. The band blazed through most of the tracks on Wagonwheel Blues to a highly receptive and sing-a-long crowd. To me, most of their songs are perfect anthems for what the telos of the festival was all about, namely a celebration of the North American blue-collar underdog. More than any of the other performers, War On Drugs captured the political aspect of Transfigurations.
By the time Circulatory System came on, a large number of drunken fans started to rush the stage, causing my party and me to retreat to the back of the venue. All I could hear of the band was an inarticulate and overpowering treble sound. The crowd seemed to like it, some of them started spinning around in circles, but I went outside for some fresh air.
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When Akron/Family, the closer of the festivities, came onstage, the fans were all juiced up and crazy. The pacifists' spinning bodies and long hair was almost a relief from the terrifying image of all their white fists pumping up and down. A few of them were spinning glowsticks on strings, probably hitting the other ones in their numb faces. The band brought silly string and sang "Happy Birthday."
Rather than join those who would wake up the next day and forget whose birthday they were even celebrating, we decided to flee to Rosetta's Kitchen. I woke up the following morning happy to have experienced the (mostly) good music over the last three days, and proud that places like Harvest Records can thrive in a time of death for most good things that hold value. I eagerly look forward to the lineup at Harvest's 10-year birthday party.
