THE STRIP DISTRICT TRUMPETER

by Dylan Schaeffer

 

Take a stroll down the bustling Penn Avenue in Pittsburgh on any given afternoon, and amid the city sounds you hear a trumpet wailing away in smooth jazzy tones. Looking around, it’s impossible to tell where it’s coming from. That is unless your curiosity gets the best of you and you follow the sound, taking you down 17th street, almost the entire way to Smallman. There, you’ll find Glenn Surgest sitting on a stoop, blowing on that horn like his life depended on it.

I sat down with Glenn, who I had not previously met, to talk about his street performance. A week from turning 58, Glenn realized in only the past few years that street performance was one thing that was able to fill his life with joy. His inspiration to play, he told me, is the complexity and beauty of waking up alive every morning.

“A lot of people walking around don’t even realize that things could end,” Glenn told me. “They don’t even realize that they’re alive and that life is short. It’s like a match – you strike a match and it burns and… it’s gone. It’s like you’re a fly and you only got one day to live and you don’t even realize it.” The substance that fuels Surgest’s performance is simply that “you got to live while you have the chance.”

While some people throw tips into his jar, I got the impression that Surgest was more interested in the experience of playing to the public. He told me that the interaction with people was a very “real” experience, filling his life with happiness and meaning.

While street performance is something Surgest enjoys thoroughly for its own sake, he told me that he has been a gigging musician for years and that the street performance kept him constantly growing as a musician. Recently, he appeared with vocalist Kea Michaels at Biddle’s Escape in Regent Square in Pittsburgh, where he says he plays fairly often.

Surgest, a very outgoing and friendly character, seemed equally as much a philosopher as he is a musician. Overall, we talked more about how to live a good life than we did about his music.

“It all comes down to the choices you make,” he told me. “You can be in a situation and do the right thing or the wrong thing. Things can always be better and you can always choose to do the right thing in any situation. People wake up every day and say ‘today’s a bad day,’ and you tell them ‘you woke up though. You’re alive,’ and they just look at you like [you’re crazy]. You just got to make the best of what you have.”

While Surgest would rather play to a live audience than make records, he told me where to go online to find a song he recorded with friends. He said that he doesn’t own a computer, so his online presence is almost non-existent. The one shining example of his work that exists online can be found here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ujHMWb0VcQc

If you’re ever in the Strip District and hear the trumpet calling through the streets, I would highly recommend following the sounds to enjoy even a brief moment of Glenn Surgest’s music. If you happen to strike up a conversation, tell him where you heard of him. I’m sure he’d be happy to hear it.

CONCERT PREVIEW – TURKUAZ AT THE REX

by Dylan Schaeffer

Fresh with the excitement of releasing a new studio album, New York funk powerhouse Turkuaz has hit the road once again. The band will be performing at The Rex Theater in Pittsburgh on April 19, 2014. The band’s new album “Future 86” was released April 1st and continued their legacy of soulful funky rock with world-music undertones. The album was the first in their catalogue to feature guitarist Craig Broadhead and vocalists Geneva Williams and Sammi Garrett, who have been touring with the band for quite some time now.

When asked about the origin of the band’s unique name, guitarist and vocalist Dave Brandwein explained that it translates to “Turquois” in Turkish. It was the name of a restaurant that he and founding members would spend their time at “being hermits” while attending Berkley College in Boston. During this time, Dave and several others would spend a good amount of time jamming with other musicians and recording through the school’s record label.

Dave stated that, in one sentence he would describe the band as “a hard-touring, Brooklyn-based power funk band, whose stage show combines influences from all over the board into an explosive auditory and visual circus, and full-on assault on the senses.”

With previous recordings, it is easy to see the funk influences of Sly and the Family Stone and Parliament. However, this new album, in Dave’s own words is “more of a rock album than anything we’ve recorded before,” stating that its influence came from “playing a lot more live shows.” Despite this, it is definitely one of the funkiest things you will hear all year. Fast-paced, high-energy rhythms propel the vocal harmonies, organ wails, and perfectly-placed horn blasts. It’s insanely fun music, sure to get you moving in ways you never thought you could.

As the band tours around 180 days a year, it is quite obvious that Turkuaz has worked extremely hard for everything they’ve been given. Last time Turkuaz came through Pittsburgh they played at the Thunderbird. However, due to their constant touring schedule, they’ve been amassing a larger and larger crowd in every city, requiring proportionately larger venues. This is the first time will have played at the Rex.

With their constant touring schedule, I was curious about whether Dave had any favorite memories from any of the cities they visited. He shared with me the following experience:

“Once we showed up to a gig in Hood River, Oregon, with no idea what to expect. There wasn’t a stage, or really anywhere to put us.. and so we had to set up on either side of the entrance door.. Horns and girls on one side, and rhythm section on the other side, facing each other. The bar probably held about 75 people, and I’m pretty sure we had about 150 people in there, half of them standing and dancing on tables, not to mention the other 50 people right outside on the street dancing. As people came in and out for drinks, they were literally walking right in the middle of the band, and it was insane; also an unforgettable experience. Though we’d prefer a big stage and sound system in any situation, this is an example of one of those crazy gigs that just ends up being one of the best memories from the road.”

 

As a band who just emanates electricity and fun, I’m quite sure they’ll get The Rex popping at its maximum energy capacity. Tickets are $15 at the door and $12 in advance. I would not doubt that this show will sell out, so be sure to get your tickets soon!

Just as a little preview for how well these guys command that funk:

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CrPlic5OS3Y

 

Read more about Turkuaz at their official page: http://www.turkuazband.com

Check out the event page and buy tickets here: htt://www.showclix.com/event/s20140419turk

MIXIFY SPOTLIGHT

by Dylan Schaeffer

 

So, I’ve got a hypothetical situation for you folks: your favorite artist just announced that they have an extensive tour. With excitement raging within you, you eagerly click the “see dates” link, only to discover that they completely skip over your city. Without any dates within a reasonable range, your excitement nosedives into disappointment. Does this happen to you? It sure as heck happens to me on a weekly basis.  With some of the latest developments from Mixify, however, this may become an event of the past.

Mixify is a web-based audio and video streaming service that caters to artists. It allows the artist, primarily EDM DJs, to perform live to people in other cities, states, and even countries. Since 2012, Mixify has been finding ways to connect artists with audiences in new and exciting ways. I sat down with CEO and founder Dave Moricca to discuss the technology.

“So, we offer two different products. One is the live streaming service for EDM DJs, which includes everything from bedroom DJs to more mainstream artists. The other is Clubcast, which is a two-way, live service.”
Clubcast uses state of the art video and audio technology to broadcast a live performance in real time to a completely different city. An entire venue full of people can view the artist’s performance live, in HD, on a massive screen in the front of the venue. At the same time, the artist is able to see the audience as well, allowing for a completely interactive experience.

Depending on the bandwidth of the network they’re working with at the time, Moricca states that latency between the actual performance and what the audience is only within one and seven seconds.

With this technology, the Mixify crew has brought performances from artists such as Flux Pavillion, Bass Jackers, and Le Castle Vania to audiences who would otherwise not have the chance to see them.

Mixify started this service in Boise, Idaho when promoters ran into issues coordinating an event, as it was not possible for an artist to be in town to give the performance the people wanted. Mixify provided their first Clubcast experience and, realizing the potential of such a service, began to provide it to artists all over the country.

The Mixify team is trying to build more markets throughout the country for their services, with Cleveland being the next stop in their journey. With Pittsburgh having some fantastic venues and a huge demand for live entertainment, there’s always the chance that Mixify will bring this experience to the Steel City. Keep an eye out and stay posted for more details!

Check out Mixify’s constant streams of live DJ performances at www.mixify.com

Neutral Milk Hotel COMES TO PITTSBURGH!

By: Dylan Schaeffer

 

 

 

Tickets for this show were entirely sold out, and for good reason. Neutral Milk Hotel, after their 1998 album “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea” became an indie hit, was largely absent in the public eye. With no official announcements, no fanfare, no last big hoorah, the band seemingly dropped off the fact of the earth in its “indefinite hiatus.” The album was hauntingly beautiful, bringing an incredibly fresh, low-fi yet perfectly-full sound filled with cryptic messages and super-powerful expression of the inexpressible.

Working backwards seems to be the adequate way of exploring Neutral Milk Hotel, as Aeroplane is the most accessible and fleshed-out, with a tangible yet unexplainable overlying theme. Their first full-length album “On Avery Island,” released in 1996, explored the same headspaces, but seemed less whole as an entire piece when compared to Aeroplane. The music has the same feel and general sound, however, and is a must-hear for anyone who appreciates Aeroplane.

Front man Jeff Mangum alone released several EPs under the name “Neutral Milk Hotel” as well, including “Everything Is,” “Hype City Soundtrack,” and “Ferris Wheel on Fire.” There are also several rarities amongst these.

With singer/songwriter Mangum at the helm, the band’s songs contemplate the complexity of life and death, love and defeat, the mundane and the magical. During their nearly 16 year hiatus, many fans came upon this music in their own time, giving them enough time to bring their own meaning to the music and discover its mysteries. Many did so never thinking that, perhaps, the band may one day return.

Yet, with the April 2013 announcement that the band would reunite, fans scrambled to grab their tickets before it became sold out, knowing that the music they’ve held so close to their hearts would finally be heard live in a room full of the initiated. It was no surprise that, in many cities, tickets sold out within minutes, one such venue selling out in 10 seconds.

So I bought my ticket, and I took the ride.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

As we piled into the Carnegie Music Hall of Oakland, it was immediately apparent that every demographic was represented. Young and old, tidy and unwashed; we all gathered to be a part of an evening our hearts and minds had drawn us toward for years.

Fellow Elephant 6 label members Elf Power took the stage, strumming straight folk-rock into our eardrums. At parts, it got very psychedelic and off-the-grid in its musical styling. As I don’t usually stray into indie-rock too often, I was very impressed with their heartfelt ballads, churning easily back and forth between mellow and energized.

During the break between sets, the entire theater fills in minus ten or twenty seats. With the sold out show, I can’t help but feel sorry for those who were, for one reason or another, unable to make it to this event. As we all anxiously wait, we are reminded by a disembodied voice that this show has a zero recording policy. No audio, no video, and no pictures are to be taken.

Jeff Mangum takes the stage, grizzled-beard encircling his face, tawny hair sticking out all directions from under the Castro ball cap that conceals his eyes. His earthen-brown sweater decorated with floral patterns around the neck gives him this vaguely neo-shamanistic appearance. The lights of the stage darken everything except his figure. He gets his acoustic guitar ready, slowly and deliberately, drawing the silence out longer and longer. It appears that he knows how long we’ve waited and how eager we are. He toys with that anticipation.

After a short greeting to the crowd, he breaks into the hard strums of “Two Headed Boy Part 1.” The crowd roars with delight, and immediately simmers down, soaking in as much of the experience as possible…

Well, I should say, most of us appear to feel that way. Throughout the crowd, blips of light illuminate the faces of those texting or browsing the internet with their phones. It immediately becomes obvious that, to security, this is indistinguishable from recording.  They sweep over the crowd with super-powered flashlights, blinding huge chunks of the crowd for the sins of the few. Many realize what they’ve done and stop, with several ignoring the beam directly in their eyes to continue their business. As one who has waited a large chunk of my life for a moment such as this, I’m outraged at the lack of consideration amongst some of the patrons.

Mangum stops playing entirely to directly address the “Mister Security Guard Man” in his mellow, almost sleepy voice, declaring that he appreciates their actions but addresses that it’s distracting from the performance. He states that, in simple terms, if everyone just enjoys the moment for what it is then we won’t have to be bothered by the distractions. The crowd, once again, roars.

As he plays, the crowd is as silent as can be. The amount of reverence for this man and his music is almost too palpable. Eyes are unblinking, bodies, not moving. We are glorified sponges, soaking up everything being laid out in front of us.

As he plays, Mangum gives Two-Headed Boy a bit more of a vocal twang than on the album, leading me to wonder if his vocals had changed since 1998. As I would later witness, this was a one-off incident.

As on the album, Two-Headed Boy flowed seamlessly into “The Fool,” for which the rest of the band filed onto the stage to play the foot-stomping sea-chantey of a tune with quite a bit of “funeral march” influence. It was played nearly identically to the album version, but with much more “OOMPH.” The crowd sways back and forth, entranced.

In between songs, Mangum again moves slowly and deliberately, creating a silent space. Throughout this, audience members brave or foolish enough to interrupt yell their thoughts toward the stage. It was a very strange environment, as the nearly 2000 of us were able to hear what any individual at any time was saying. Shouts of song requests (mostly “I Love How You Love Me” and “Naomi), as well as random declarations (“Best band in the WORLD!” and “I LOVE YOUR SWEATER!”) pierced through the almost- sacred moments.

Mangum barely reacted to these moments, but let out a genuine smile each time while averting his eyes from the crowd. I got the impression that he created these moments purposefully, in order to absorb the love emanating from the masses before him.

Before starting the next song, he stated in his quiet and collected tone “sing along with this one if you want,” and then broke into “Holland, 1945.” This powerful fan-favorite from Aeroplane got the crowd seriously moving. Together, we sang the twisted tale of a family broken apart by the Holocaust to the jovial and foot-stomping electric sounds.

The moment it was over, the crowd explodes once again in praise. The band basks in it.

During most of the show, the focus darted back and forth between Mangum and multi-instrumentalist Julian Koster, who looked like he popped right out of a cartoon carnival. He moved strangely with his lopsided blue winter hat bobbing around, almost child-like in his nature. His true moments of awesomeness came from his ability to play the singing saw.

For those of you who have never heard of the ability to play a singing saw, it is literally the act of creating musical tones from a handsaw, which is bent to change the pitch and vibrated with a violin bow. In Neutral Milk Hotel’s music, Julian shines through the music on the saw, creating eerie-yet-sweet melodies reminiscent of a children’s Halloween song.

After Holland, 1945, the band disperses once again into the shadows while Mangum energetically strums “A Baby for Pree/Glow Into You.” As this song was from “On Avery Island,” and not “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea,” I expected the crowd response to the opening lines to be diminished. However, the crowd once again treated this as another glorious blessing handed down from the gods.

Keeping on the “On Avery Island” theme, the band comes together once again to play a fantastic version of “Gardenhead/Leave Me Alone.” Mangum then does a solo performance of “Everything Is” off of his EP with the same title.

Again, he prompts us to join with him in singing. The first chords of the opening song of Aeroplane “King of Carrot Flowers, pt. 1” ring through the room. As I look around, nearly everyone is participating in the sing-along. The group-effort aspect made this song’s messages hit much harder, as it allowed every single person to ponder the cryptic lyrics a little more. It allowed for the dichotomy of the emotion in this song to fully sink in.

“When you were young you were the king of carrot flowers/ And how you built a tower tumbling through the trees,” we all sing, in the moment, feeling the sense of childlike joy brought onto us by these words.  “In holy rattlesnakes that fell all around your feet.”

“And your Mom would stick a knife right into daddy’s shoulder/ And Dad would throw the garbage all across the floor/ As we lay and learn what each other’s bodies were for.” There it hits: the realization of how powerfully these lyrics can pull you from one side of the emotional spectrum to the other so quickly and without notice, on top of the jovial-sounding chords.

“And this is the room one afternoon I knew I would love you/ And from above you how I sank into your soul/ Into that secret place where no one dares to go,” we sing. Back we go, into shining ideas of first love and emotional connection.

“And your Mom would drink until she was no longer speaking/ And Dad would dream of all the different ways to die/ each one a little more than he would dare to try.” And once again, it hits. We’re in the thick of it, inside this headspace that seems simultaneously holy and sinful.

Immediately, he breaks into “King of Carrot Flowers pt. 2,” in which the most debated lyrics of Neutral Milk Hotel open the song. “I love you, Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ, I love you, yes I do.” In a band that leaves almost everything to the imagination lyric-wise, this outright declaration of love of a singular religious figure seems to leave fans scratching their heads. It is impossible to say whether this is a direct declaration from Mangum, from one of the characters of his songs, or neither. Yet, to the already-initiated, this makes no difference.

We lull around in this heavy fuzz, until the inevitable lead-up of craziness that introduces “King of Carrot Flowers, Pt. 2,” and as the lyrics state, “Up and over we go.” Much of the crowd cannot control themselves. Swinging, bobbing back and forth to the raw energy this song produces.

Then, just as on the album, we swing gently into the (sort of) title track, “Aeroplane Over the Sea.” Note for note, it is indistinguishable from the album version, but with the raw emotion of every instrument pumped up a few notches. The sound of Julian Koster’s singing saw sends chills down my spine.

The last line of this song is completely belted, both by Mangum and by many members of the audience. “Can’t believe how strange it is to be anything at all.”

The band, once again, absorbs the incredible amount of gratitude put forth by the crowd as they erupt in applause.

Next up is the song of a love that is breaking, “Naomi,” from “On Avery Island.” This is one of the few songs with deeply depressing lyrics that doesn’t mask it with a sugary sweet musical arrangement. This song is infectious, and I realize halfway through that I will probably never hear it live again. This adds to the depression behind it, but I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.

The somber tone continues with “Ferris Wheel on Fire,” from the EP of the same name released in 2011, and then “Oh Comely,” from “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea.” Perhaps sensing the sadness that these past songs inherently own, the band changes pace, and up we swing again into the energetic and bouncing “Song Against Sex” from “On Avery Island.” Immediately after this, we go back into more somber tones again with “Ruby Bulbs/Snow Song, Pt. 1.”

The band says their thanks and walk of stage. Had there been no encore, I think most everyone would still be quite pleased. For a moment, I wonder if there even will be an encore, as they’ve been out of the concert business for so long that it’s still mysterious as to what the idea of a full performance means to them.

Some patrons start leaving after a minute or two, unaware that the lack of house-lights strongly hinted at more to come. I can’t help but think of how unfortunate this is for these people, as the band gave one hell of an encore indeed.

The band comes out, with Julian Koster sheepishly crouching over amongst them, taking the microphone for a moment to give a very awkward “thank you!” before sitting down and picking up his saw and bow one more time. This time, the band was joined by Elf Power member Laura Carter playing the electric saxophone. The band broke into a bold and boisterous “Ghost,” which again had the crowd jumping and swaying.

Immediately from this came the untitled track from Aeroplane, which is a jaunty, swinging, animated instrumental track with many layers including keyboard, singing saw, electric saxophone on top of the usual instruments. Played a bit faster than usual, it seemed to grow dizzy within its own energy.

This flowed beautifully into the final track of Aeroplane, “Two Headed Boy pt. 2” in all of its haunting glory; beautiful, kind, slow, gentle, and desperately, intriguingly melancholy. The crowd stood stone still, many with closed eyes.

“In my dreams you’re alive and you’re crying.”

The emotional depth of this song beautifully sums up Neutral Milk Hotel’s works, bringing the entire concert full-circle. And yet, they played one more song.

“Engine,” a rarity and an outtake from the original Aeroplane release brought the concert to its end. With Koster and Mangum alone on the stage, sliding through the slow and mellow chord changes, it was a fitting end to a fantastic performance, almost giving the image of a triumphant hero riding off into the sunset after a turbulent encounter.

The lights went up, and the faces in the crowd spun around in circles, giving the expression of the inexpressible. We were all there, alive, in that moment; a moment that seemed to shape our hearts and minds forever. Still in disbelief, many seemed to not want to leave, perhaps hoping to absorb some of the remaining energy left in the hollow cathedral.
_____________________________________________________________________________________

I will leave you on the following note: If you’re even remotely a fan of Neutral Milk Hotel, you cannot miss their live performance if you ever get the chance to see it. As with their music itself, the live show is wonderful, mysterious, joyful, saddening, loving, and turbulent. You will not walk out of the theater the same person.

HOOPLA IN THE HILLS FESTIVAL REVIEW

by Dylan Schaeffer

 

 

DAY 1

The drive to Athens, Ohio took about 3 and half hours from Pittsburgh. However, without a legitimate address for the venue, we had to bum around the town for about an hour, looking for clues as to where to go. I had a hunch to just drive from downtown Athens down a random road, as the event page stated that the venue was less than two miles away from University of Ohio. Starting there, we wandered about for a bit, knowing full-well that the limited daylight would create issues when we go to set up our gear.

After a surprisingly short 20 minute cruise, we round a corner on a back road to see a line stretching about half a mile out of the venue, spilling onto the highway. A team of what appeared to be outside-help, perhaps volunteer firemen by the look of them, stand at the end of the line bark orders at drivers. We make it past the gate at the end of the driveway, and we come to a dead stop. Traffic goes on past line of sight, and getting into the actual venue before sunset seems less and less likely.

After what feels like days, we finally make our way past the front gate and into the venue, where we are immediately misdirected by event staff and left to find parking over a steep hill. An issue with the Paypal ticket purchasing system slowed hundreds of cars to a snail’s crawl, creating a multiple-hour wait for every patron.

Spirits seemed high, however, through the dammed river of bodies and metal. It was obvious that the staff were equally-pestered by this mistake, relating to the frustrations of the patrons as they ran will call tickets to cars.

Prior to the event, the promoters posted that there would be bottle fill stations for patrons who decided to bring their own bottles. I decided to pursue this endeavor immediately after setting up, in order to reduce garbage and save money. However, no one at the event seems to know where this fill-station is. I decide to ask the folks at the main info tent, who tell me that there is no bottle fill station, but that there is a gas station up the road where you can buy cheap water.

“So, can I drive there?” I ask.

“Oh. No, there’s no reentry for cars,” he replies.

“Can I walk there then?”

He pauses for a minute, and looks down at his shoes. “Yeah, there’s no re-entry.”

I walk away, realizing I’d have to spend over $40 to make sure I stay hydrated all weekend. With better event coordination, this could have easily been avoided. Not only is this a monetary issue, but a health issue. Many others had come to the event with very little money and no water in the promise of getting free water all weekend. The risk of dehydration at this festival is quite a bit higher, creating liability for the festival promoters.

I finally make my way to the main stage around 9 pm, having had no daylight to all me to explore the grounds. Up over the hill from the main stage, the line of cars still awaiting entry seems endless.

The main stage is fairly unique in its arrangement. Inside this massive canvas tent, hundreds of the initiated bounce gleefully to the sound of Phutureprimitive. A Technicolor laser show bounces off the corneas of every individual, oozing across the wall in complex patterns. This music is some great, funky, wobbly groove-step.

Looking around at the patrons who’ve made it in already, it’s quite easy to see where the “hoop” in “Hoopla” comes from. Nearly every female has her trusty flow-circle bouncing and swirling to the deep groovy rhythms.

The sound booth is placed very awkwardly in the main tent, about 15 feet back from the main stage. This creates a strange sort of distribution in this area, with the complete die-hards crammed awkwardly in front of the sound booth and the casual listeners grooving slowly in the 50-or-so feet behind it. This creates a huge rift in energy.

Between the crowd and the acts on the main stage are multiple artists, siphoning some of the amazing creative juices flowing from the stage to fuel their painting. They splash together their own unique blend of the cosmic headspace, seemingly creating a visual representation of the collective flow.

At 10, Phutureprimative is over, leading to some nice Lettuce being played over the speakers as some “loading music” to get ready for the next band. While most have migrated to busier areas, a select few stick around, either to secure their spot for the next act or to enjoy the sound of Lettuce through some top-notch speakers. By the expressions created by some of those around me, it’s clearly a mixture of both.

I have no idea who goes on next. With most festivals, an event calendar is included with their ticket purchase, yet no one seems to have any idea where to find the schedule. I don’t blame the event coordinators though, as I believe many factors were working against them from the get-go. With the ticket fiasco and random mumblings of “…cops trying to shut us down…” it’s clear that their plate is more than full.

Dancing bears and stealie skulls are within visual range at all times. It is clear that this festival brought out the hippiest of the hippies; only those willing to brace the frigid nights and omni-present mud sustained the trek…

… and they all made it, smiles on every face, and eagerness in every soul.

It’s 11:30. After meandering about, making merry with the food and craft vendors, we find our way to the main stage again. Our newly-found band schedule tells us that Phutureprimitive is on now, even though we watched them set up and take down their gear already. Apparently, an issue with the band Cornmeal flipped the schedule all around, creating confusion amongst those who came to see specific acts. Random conversations with patrons let me realize that I’m in the minority, caring more about who plays when than most everyone else.

This tent if filling out nicely now, smattered with moving tapestries of Technicolor. The music takes on a wailing, churning vibe, taking the previous acoustic brightness of the Appalachia to the furthest reaches of the cosmos.

Cornmeal is now on. It’s very heavy, jammy bluegrass, which at times goes so electric that to think this song started as a bluegrass twang seems completely Ludacris at this point.

I wonder what this means for the rest of the weekend. Will all sets be bumped? This seems like something people would like to know, but I’m not sure that this information has been displayed freely. No one seems to mind though. Everyone is smiling, dancing, attentive…

Rumpke Mountain Boys go on at 12:45. They state that the delay is due to another band, not having shown up yet. They state that the other band will go on when they show up. This whole thing adds to the confusion of the lineup for the weekend. I’m sure I’m not the only one disappointed in the fact that I’ll have to just stick around the main stage all weekend just to make sure I catch all the acts I paid to see.

I’m quite sure that this delay is due to the hell-on-earth that is the slow-ooze of traffic still perched upon the hill above us.

Rumpke Mountain Boys’ raspy, upbeat bluegrass is played to a mixed audience, half-bopping to the fast Appalachian guitar strums and the other half resting from the day’s journey. It seems that most are taking an early nightcap, which I see as a wise decision. Tomorrow is filled with more acts than you can shake a rage-stick at.

DAY 2

Last night, we froze to the bone. Even after 4 layers of blankets on both sides, it was nearly impossible to fall asleep. As I prepare for the day ahead, I stare into the sky to try and get a glimpse of what the weather will be. The sun stays bashful, never fully bathing the venue in its warmth at any point.
We head to the main stage to try to get a break from the icy wind. The act in front of me is blowing everyone’s minds.

“Thank you everyone! We are BOOMslang…. BOOOOMslang,” a member shouts in a southern twang. They have some serious energy about them. The funky, popping, grooving bass lines run quickly and easily under the wailing organs and guitar arpeggios. These guys know exactly how much pure electricity they have at their fingertips, and they toy with it gleefully.

The easy-flowing, high energy jam breaks away later in their set to take on a much more prog-rock feel. Their jams lead up to this great resistance in tone and rhythm before giving way to a glorious, reaching major over-sweep. Then, it all breaks into freefall; every note breaks free from the barriers they themselves tirelessly built.  At one point, I believe I’ve found the basic structure of their jamming that allows them to easily create these holy sounds; However, mere minutes later my theory is proven wrong by their next movement. Where I think something is an impeccably-rehearsed set, I am immediately proven wrong by the sheer amount of fluidity and “watch-and-go” between them.

I take a look at the schedule again. At this point, I realize that it makes absolutely zero sense. At the same time as Boomslang, Rumpke is supposed to be playing on the stage not ten feet away. As with any smaller festival with a limited amount of organizers, it is understandable that a time and stage discrepancy is going to come about at some time.

In this game, every rule seems open to interpretation.

As Boomslang finishes up, I can’t help but realize the incredible amount of sonic exploration they create as a band. In much of this exploration, they have immense strength.

Rumpke tunes up again.

“Good mornin’ everybody!” one of them shouts from the stage. It’s worth mentioning that, at this point, it’s 3 pm. Their opening song seems tired, perhaps in its own emotional signature, or perhaps because the band is undergoing the same stresses as the rest of us. The weather at this point is strange, simultaneously growing sunnier and colder.

Downtime. Empty space. The crowd looks confused. This is broken by the dulcet tunes of Rumpke’s standup bass, mandolin, guitars, and fiddles.

Rumpke Mountain Boys are great, but they are a twinge twang-ier than I like my bluegrass to be. I don’t say this out loud, because I know this will be seen as blasphemy.

We make our way to the Artist Village Stage to catch Moon Hooch. The stage is seriously PACKED. For the first song, the energy of the crowd seems to outweigh the energy coming from the stage. The band is just warming up, however. For two sax players and a drummer, these guys know how to keep things rolling. They fit into their groove comfortably and with some serious style. The energy just keeps picking up, and picking up, and picking up until it’s seriously SOARING.

The low end grooves from the baritone sax is where most of the band’s flourishes mostly sit. Parts of this low end groove ride along the sounds of electronic bass tracks. At times, the sax gets so wobbly that the whole thing turns into a dubstep set.

It’s a straight low-frequency house vibe in here now. It’s unclear whether this arises from the instruments alone or a synth, as the inability to see more than two feet in front of me makes the sonic birth a mystery. Whatever it is, the crowd eats it up with gusto.

The band pops frequently between these low end growls of comfortability, reaching higher and higher toward the skies in their own due time, eventually coming to a great bright cosmic peak.

Their set has definite song breaks with each coming to end in a moderate amount of time. This is fairly atypical of the jam scene, but to me is a breath of fresh air. They do what they do well, and need no direction from other bands.

Their songs build these gentle platforms of bright melodic riffs, supporting the attention of the listener before collapsing into space. This sends the entire crowd into a momentary sensation of freefall regularly. In between these riffs, the deep dubby-grooves seem to unify and ground everyone taking everything to its foundation before, once again, building upon it.

The lungs on these guys… Jesus… Some of the flourishes on these songs are impeccable, and obviously require some serious bronchial fortitude.

Moon Hooch is driving the crowd completely wild. The look on everyone’s faces indicates that absolutely no one expected the Hooch to bring this level of madness to the festival.

Suddenly, an MC takes the stage, which completely changes the vibe of the set. An angsty sort of glitch-step fills the ears of the crowd, leaving some to bask in it and others to appear confused or lost. A momentary silence fills the tent as the song ends and the band prepares to set up the foundations of their next jam.

As the set ends, I leave the tent into the bitter cold with my companion Jessica Flowers. She has probably 5 less layers on than I do. I ask, “how are you not completely freezing right now?”

Her response: “Because in there, I was everything, and everything was me. In my mind, we were all wolves howling at the Moon.” This is an adequate description of Moon Hooch, indeed.

DAY 3

It’s a muddy, sloppy mess. It’s bitter cold with huge fat plops of rain creating swamps beneath our feet. We make it to the main stage just in time to see Michael Perkins. Despite the name, the set is actually Michael Perkins playing with his bassist. I’m incredibly surprised that the bassist’s name didn’t somehow make it into the band name as well, as he slaps, snaps, and pops that bass like popcorn. His playing sounds like Les Claypool in an alternate universe where he toned down the bizarre and pumped up the funk.

Perkins’ guitar playing sounds like a mix between Keller Williams and Bob Dylan. As they communicate with the crowd, it is immediately obvious that these are some seriously friendly and down to earth guys. They know just how awesome they are, but they don’t let on about it. As they play, Chris Berry Trio and Michael Kang go through their sound check on the main stage.

Perkins stops playing to talk to the other band, inviting them to sound check “with them” instead of “on top of them.” I was incredibly curious to see how this would work out, but CBT seemed to decline the offer.

The energy today is tired. Everyone seems entirely worn down. It’s not immediately possible to tell whether this is due to the weather, a lack of sleep, or if everyone is simply saving their energy for the great acts to follow. As the Chris Berry Trio sets up, technicians set up an aerial hop rig above the stage.

It’s too cold and rainy even for the main stage tent. It’s so muddy in here that I wonder whether the promise of warm refuge at night is still on the table. Previously, the event promoters stated that if it got too cold to camp outside, patrons could bring their sleeping bags and sleep in the main tent which was to be heated. However, at this point it was obvious that there was no outside heat being pumped into the tent, and that a sleeping bag would immediately get ruined in this muck.

We decide to miss the Chris Berry Trio for now, opting to catch him and Kang play with Eoto later, taking the gamble of hope in the weather.

Looking around in the cars we pass, I see many others seeking refuge as well, opting for crappy radio music and burned CDs instead of the fantastic acts playing not 200 yards away. The risk of frostbitten toes seems very real at this point.

The schedule for this night is STACKED. Zoogma, Eoto, Eoto special set with Chris Berry Trio and Michael Kang, Papadosio, and Cosby Sweater featuring Joel Cummins from Umphrey’s Mcgee. I know, in my mind, that if the weather makes me miss any of these that my time here will have been wasted.

It’s time to rest and trick ourselves into thinking we can store this mechanically-generated heat for later. No sign of the rain letting up after several hours. The true professionals are showing their unwavering appreciation in the main tent while the rest of us, spoiled by the comforts of the outside world, create our own entertainment by our own terms while cursing our respected weather deities.

I would like to say, for a moment, that these food vendors are legitimate culinary craftsmen. Last night, I spent $7 on a single grilled-cheese sandwich from the Midwest festival standby Meltdown. I got the verde grilled heese, which had pesto, mozerella cheese and tomato with a special blend ofherbs and spices on the bread. Every bite was a masterpiece of perfectly crisp seasoned bread enveloping a perfect amount of smooth mozzarella, tomato and pesto. Yeah, it’s “just” grilled cheese. But as any artist knows, even the simplest design can be the foundation of a true masterpiece.

Screw Subway. These guys are the true sandwich artists. Meltdown, if you are reading this, I tip my metaphorical cap to you.

It seems that people in my neck of the woods are getting antsy. Tents go down and mud flings about the air wildly as folks declare Mother Nature their victor.

As we venture into the misty bog of the main stage, my foot immediately lands in a deep puddle. I had thought that there would soon be dry ground. Without a single high spot outside of the stages, the entire perimeter of the main tent seemed more to be the lining of a very square pond. At least two inches of everyone’s feet sink into the water and mud, which is completely frigid. Only those dedicated enough are able to withstand the icy water sloshing between their toes get to enjoy the music.

In my “worst-case scenario” assessment of the situation, I realize that if a single electrified wire hits the floor that wire are all pretty much glorified toast.

If that’s not dedication, my friends, I’m truly not sure what is. I can only stand and ask myself, “am I dedicated enough?” It’s supposed to drop below 30 degrees tonight. How many of us are risking hypothermia to make sure our ticket money was well spent?

The Recipe is opening for Eoto. They have this real nice funky energy to them. Not quite electrified, but owning this sort of smooth-as-butter funk groove.

These guys tell stories about being on the road for the past 20 years, and their style and chops definitely show it. They keep a very nice groove throughout the several hundred of us foolish or brave enough to be standing in the swamp below.

A flag that says “Team Fun” waves in the middle of the crowd. How appropriate. Everyone has taken a crappy mucky mess with the highest of spirits, singing and dancing to the band. If anyone in the entire world deserves the title of “Team Fun,” it’s the folks in this tent right here, right now.

“It’s impossible to walk in this muck,” I hear the disembodied voice of Hunter S. Thompson state in my head. “No footing at all.”

My last pair of socks is ruined. My shoes, ruined. My spirits, dampened. I’m freezing to the core. My group decides that we will go back to the car to wait for Papadosio to play. With heavy hearts, we decide to skip Eoto and their special set with Chris Berry and Michael Kang.

It is literally impossible to walk anywhere. Every step I take smashes mud up into my feet further. It’s so cold that it feels that I’m on fire from the knees down. And then, taking everyone by surprise, huge flakes of snow float down from the skies. Slow and steady at first, the pace picks up until it cracks like frozen whips onto everything.

I missed every other act that night. Getting out of the car with my wet clothes was a recipe for hypothermia. I realized that I had not prepared for this festival nearly well enough, having to completely miss Papadosio and Eoto.

I rolled my windows down in an attempt to hear them play. The only two songs I could hear of Papadosio’s set were “Find Your Cloud” and a cover of Radiohead’s “Karma Police.” I was so disappointed that the only thing separating me from this music was a hill too slippery to climb and tiny icy knives stabbing at my skin.

I admitted defeat as cars slipped around in the mud, failing to get out. I put off my escape from the venue until the next morning.

DAY 4

I literally saw no acts today. I spent the entire day attempting to get my car out of the mud. While many people helped push the cars out, many more seemed aggravated that their belongings were getting an inch-thick coating of dirt. They would know, soon enough, how inevitable this was.

As six or seven people pushed my car, I made it onto the main road and didn’t look back. We just trucked it and didn’t look back.

The entire weekend was this sort of dichotomy. Thursday and Friday were beautiful, or at least beautiful enough to fully enjoy every act without wondering whether you were going to die in your sleep. Saturday comes along and pushes every single soul to its limit. By Saturday night, very few individuals took further risk to see their beloved acts.

Despite the ice, the snow, the mud up to your knees, the rain, the lack of water, and the ridiculous wait to get into the venue, everyone made the best out of the situation. The bands kept playing on.

In the words of the Grateful Dead:

“The fields were full of dancin’
Full of singin’ and romancin’
The music never stopped.”