2008 Festivals

If you only stick to the music area, Clinton State Park is not very impressive. But when you drive down the line a bit, you’ll find

a tremendous lake and vast display of tall trees.

After a few days of being surrounded by people,

it’s serene to see something natural. Clinton

State Park also contains 2 Frisbee Golf Courses,

hiking, swimming, and pretty much anything

outdoorsy that you’d want to do. It’s a cool place,

and worked out well for the festival.

Wakarusa was well planned and well executed, despite inclement weather that could have been proved to emit a collective dissatisfactory conclusion on the entire festival. It lacked the frenzied atmosphere of a Bonnaroo, (it has roughly 1/4th of the people) and was generally relaxing and fun for most.

After traveling around the lake and watching bands in the smaller stages, Keller Williams played a reggae set with the Transmitters.

Keller and his mates didn’t have much of a stage

presence, and kind of just stood around during

their set. Keller is an impressive musician,

and seems to have grasped his niche well. But,

like bluegrass, jams rot like milk if it doesn’t

resonate well in your eardrums.

At this point, a good portion of the crowd

had fled. Those there to see the Lips, STS9, or

others, and those there to see Emmylou Harris

might have cried themselves to sleep. The veteran hippie wanderers, not having

Next, That One Guy was playing at a smaller stage. He played an eccentric self-made instrument, hailed as the “Magic Pipe” constructed of plumbing pipes, string, parts of a violin, and all sorts of different features.

He was a one-man-band, playing his Magic Pipe,

which emitted a bass, a snare drum for rhythm,

inane techno sounds, and what could be a

soundboard for children’s programming. He wrote

goofy, funny songs about everything from Butts to

Fruit, and I think Sylvester Stalone was in there

somewhere. He was far and away the most

original act I saw at the festival.

His set, like Limbeck’s moons earlier, was cut short because of lightning miles away. Minutes later, rain came screaming down, and the wind picked up like you imagine it would be in an ultimate showdown against a weathered seaman. BDM raced for the relative safety of the Press Tent. Within minutes, the premises was cleared, as all those remaining had clung to the perceived safety of tents, committed a quick suicide, or just said fuck it and left. Even the Press Tent opened a brief wormhole of John Lennon’s philosophy, as it was filled with all sorts of people. Lightning that grabs headlines on slow news days would crash down, seemingly close, reverberating down your spine and evoking child-like instincts. BDM was on a tight schedule, and the artist we had most been wanting to see, Emmylou Harris, had cancelled because of an illness. After the press tent had twice been soiled, the cosmos briefly opened and gave us direction. After a mad dash through the raging forces of nature, BDM was rolling through the Kansas wilderness.

The atmosphere of Day 3 is considerably calmed compared to Day 2. There are two plausible explanations for such a dramatic drop-off in collective enthusiasm: the lineup is considerably better on Friday, and/or there are some who know nothing of the practice of endurance. Some get a sensory overload at the prospect of drugs, booze, music and like-minded folk all around, and go nuts. After two days without any restraint, you may experience a crash. Most often it would occur in fresh-faced college students, in whom hedonism is so deeply ingrained, that their only predilection is limitless stimulus. It’s a sad and hilarious thing to see.

Ozomatli was the first major band to take the main stage. Clap your hands, we’re from L.A. Their fan base were primarily dancing free

spirit families, seasoned, grizzled hippies and whoever

waded in the sea of people. Folks with a certain chemical

balance would indiscriminately swing their limbs, their

nostrils flared, and they temporarily felt like kindred

spirits with Jimmy Buffet, because the musical approaches

were similar. I guess you might call their music funk, but

they tried to sound like an African tribal noise machine,

with their infusion of reggae, rock, hip hop, and Clap your

hands(We’re from L.A.) They sang a song with Katrina

inspired lyrics, “Let the good times roll, let the sad times go.” Indeed. Many seemed to enjoy their easy style, and assured themselves they were indeed cultured. Clap your hands, we’re from L.A. They are a poorly-connected man’s Manu Chao.

Leftover Salmon followed, a bluegrass jam band from Boulder. The fields were flooded with dreadlocks, yellow beards, self-rolled cigarettes, and elementary school art teachers. You need a pretty particular taste in music to love bluegrass jams, because the impressive banjo and mandolin playing paired with the backcountry inflections get a little monotonous after a while. Songs don’t have to be 3 ½ minutes to be good, but it’s no coincidence that many are.

There was a scheduling conflict when Ben Folds and Sound Tribe Sector 9 were scheduled to play at the same time. BDM thought long and hard about how to best serve the music fans, as both have impressive fan bases. STS9 came out to a dedicated crowd. One of them asked the crowd if they were ready for some Sound Tribe. Judging by their number and exuberance, they were. They played their brand of computer music, with repeating, deep pounding bass lines and occasional real instruments. They were alright, but figuring we could watch someone fuck around with their laptops just about anywhere, we ran over to Ben Folds, and luckily caught most of his set.

His name evoked some nameless memory

from my past, and I thought he had been fairly

big during his heyday. He played a melodic piano

and sang with his spongy, hippie voice that

sounded perfect in the lofty plastic walls of the

Revival Tent. STS9’s blurring bass pulsated

through the airwaves, a large advantage to

being on the main stage. He was very impressive and sounded like a hippie version of Billy Joel.

Sometimes, during the festival, you would be overrun with fleeting feelings of universal brotherhood, one that didn’t brand them all as lazy hippies, but some kind of idealists that are trying their best (maybe it is the fucking corporations, man!) You’d be taken over by the notion that most of them are at their core good folks, maybe just a little impressionable, maybe just a little smelly, and not all simple brained college kids trying on the hippie façade because of its accessibility. But to counter those out, you’d have the shattering realizations that the festival is also a pump into the Lawrence economy, figures on a tax sheet. You couldn’t but help notice the beer distributor or various car companies advertising plastered everywhere. It got a little ridiculous when between sets, the MC would even mention the sponsors. You’d get filled with simmering rage when the same people who freak keep their hands on their ACLU card at the glimpse of a cop take your bag and touch you before you consent to any kind of search, and to make sure you buy whatever the distributors are selling inside. Some bands spoke out against it, some probably realized its futility.

Tuesday displayed markedly improved weather, with manageable temperatures and the occasional cool breeze to wipe the sweat off your brow. When we first arrived, we stopped by the press tent and chatted with Wayne Coyne, lead singer of the Flaming Lips. A very down to Earth fellow, (or spacey, depending on how you look at things) talking to him you get the sense that Rock and Roll moderate fame has not altered his views, his self-perception, or the way he treats people in the slightest. He talked about how sitting in a field, smoking pot and bitching about politics is not changing the world, although it may seem like it at the time. He stressed the importance of getting involved in your community, to assure that your neighborhood looks out for each other, regardless of who is occupying the Oval Office. Sure, the Nation section of the daily paper is sexier than monotonous stories of proposed construction and passed bylaws, but we all fail to realize how much more the latter affects daily life and how we can affect it. He talked about the intimacy of festivals like Wakarusa, the futility of preaching “Fuck Bush” to the audience (something he’d later contradict,) how musically the Lips have not undergone any dramatic changes. He talked about not considering himself a musician, but just a music fanatic that is lucky enough to do it for a living. If you’re never seen Wayne speak, he sits cross-legged, letting his hands reinforce his talking points and getting excited and philosophical about most any question the press threw out to him. He is officially one of the best Humans you’ll come across.

Built to Spill was the first major band to take the main stage.

Unfortunately, they took the stage during the sun’s most

malevolent phase. They played a full set in every sense

of the term, putting their triple-axe style on display.

When some bands attempt it, the sound waves seem

to scramble around confused, running headfirst into

each other and sounding like shit. Built to Spill is one

of the few bands that can do it well. They also put their

semi-notorious trademarks (in certain circles,) in the

display case, that being Doug Martsch’s timid yet grungy

vocals and the lone fuzzy guitar solos. It seemed they

played mostly newer material, but it was just as good

as when the songs they wrote when they were indie

heroes. The crowd was somewhat apathetic, but

mostly from dehydration, hangovers, comedowns, and heat fatigue than a lack of interest in the music.

BDM talked to a couple of members of Built to Spill after their set. BDM was under the impression that they were centered around the Seattle scene, which is only half true as half are Seattle folk and half are Idahoes. A cameraman, also talking to them talked about the grunge scene, and they commented that grunge had been going on for a longtime before it was commercialized and popular (onstage and off, one of their main areas of focus was commercialism), that it just hit at the right cycle of the cultural space-time continuum. Their advice to bands that are just now starting off is this; don’t, grow a garden. It was hard enough when they started about two decades ago, and it’s only getting harder. They talked about Doug Martsch being a “moderate force of nature,” and how he creates the atmosphere for all of the albums, even if he doesn’t write everything and often shakes up the lineup. The annoying cameraman scared them off when he talked in an embarrassing circle, asking what message they had for their fans. “No.” See ya, Built to Spill (look for an album of jams coming out soon from them.)

Buckethead followed Built to Spill, coming out in his

trademark goalie face and a white bucket. He was doing

The Robot, which was fitting considering he played

seamlessly; an unbelievable guitar player. He writes

in perfect music theory, and his rumbling intros and

squeaking solos are fascinating. If you have ever

picked up a guitar for more than thirty consecutive

minutes, you have immediate immense respect for

the man. For the better part of his set, you wouldn’t

notice the absence of vocals and words, as the drums

went right along and the bass popped in and out perfectly. He played things that would make you shake your head in amazement and guitar teachers “get something out of their eye”. There’s something affecting about watching someone that has completely mastered their craft, something about watching one of the best strikes you hard down in your gut. His up-and-down picking style was in perfect synchronicity with his fingers that were slapping the neck of his guitar. As incredible as he was, the last fourth of his set was monotonous and tiresome. Even when he’d inject a dose of signature weirdness, such as a masked man rushing out and playing an out-of-tune mandolin or a gorgeous blonde performing an interpretive dance with an Asian fanning device (I will have infinite respect for the man if that’s his wife or mistress,) the end of the set was a bit dull. He revived the crowd temporarily, however, when he threw out goodies to the crowd out of a large bag and played “Purple Haze.”

If he came through a Heartland chimney, the freak would be shot on sight.

If he were ever to get together with a Roger Daltry type that could write, he would be unstoppable and transform overnight from a modest Rock novelty into a contagious sensation like smallpox. It doesn’t seem to be his style, though.

Sometimes you would be lucky enough to witness a Hurricane of beautiful dancing women: a swirling circle of sunglassed and scantily dressed hippie-ladies letting their hips do the talking, winking, smiling and laughing, engaging you into imagined deep conversation. Their arms were wailing gracefully, acting as antennae to a satellite boring girls don’t receive. It’s hard to tell if they’re under the influence of drugs or the atmosphere, or both, but such thoughts only slither through after observing the spectacle. It was mesmerizing and exciting and sensual. If you could forecast this kind of storm, major universities would have to offer it as a major. It’s a beautiful thing that just doesn’t often occur in the world of civilization, modesty and shame.

Cake was scheduled next, but after a flight delay,

Galactic took their place on the main stage. They

were a pleasant surprise to anyone not familiar with

them. A fusion of jazz, funk, and rock, they had a pretty

original sound. Everything was novel: The lead singer

had urbanity to him yet a sense of melody, a rap-talk

style; they had a blue-faced saxophone player that was

incredible, and the bass and drums acted as super glue.

It, like Buckethead, eventually ran its (Frisbee golf)

course, but there for a while they had everyone’s

attention and make Cake an afterthought and dessert instead of their original role of being an appetizer. Next was the headliner, the Flaming Lips, one of Q Magazine’s 50 “Bands you Must See Before you Die…Ah yes…

Whether or not folks have heard the Lip’s music, or seen them live, they probably have some preconceived notion of what a show of theirs consists of. They are, nowadays world renowned showmen, garnering a reputation for intimacy and spirituality and odd vibrations. BDM’s neighbors, while claiming to know two of my personal heroes that vacated Virginia at some point, talked about the sheer spirituality they took from a Flaming Lip’s show, and how the band had changed their lives, got them through difficult divorces and the difficult and soul-pressing difficulties of providing for a family. Without seeing the Lip’s, it’s hard to believe any of that can be true. It’s just 2 hours of Rock music, right?

The Lip’s came out with a backdrop of an 80’s looking television, projecting everything from a camera in Wayne’s microphone to rainbows to a picnic. They opened in typical fashion: Wayne was crawling around the crowd in a Hamster ball to the Tune of Race for the Prize” as confetti machines vomited copious amounts of orange and yellow glitter paper and streamers into the Kansas night, which the crowd swung at, landing a terrible percentage of net results. Freakishly large orange and yellow balloons floated around, being tossed around like currency, and a fervent swinger hitting a member of BDM in the face. They slid into a Led Zeppelin cover, telling the crowd they could slip out of their clothes for one song. The crowd laughed nervously, worried that a group would start an outbreak of clothes removal and their inadequacies would be widely exposed. No such thing happened, but the Lips played the cover interestingly and well, and toward the end, 5 or 6 moderately good looking girls skipped around fully nude on the stage, eyeing the crowd that was eagerly squinting their eyes and standing on their tiptoes, bopping up and down until the song was over. Wayne clapped and laughed on stage like a madman. I have the feeling many a men are hoping their tent mates nod off early, so they can visit their memory.

It seemed like at least 15% of the performance was Wayne talking which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, as the crowd seemed to eat it up, and only a few dissenters called him Bono. He spoke about the beauty of a festival, the beauty of helping each other out to make it work, and the importance to keep up the righteous work long after the last chord is struck. I have never seen such an intimate interaction between crowd and band, one that is unbelievably genuine. Even those who knew little about them seemed to immediately connect as easy as a magnet.

If you’ve ever listened to their records and seen them live, it sounds like two different bands. While their studio albums are still impressive, they are at their collective zenith playing outdoors to thousands of interested fans. It’s comparable to trapping lightning to get Back to the Future, a near impossible feat.

Not only was the set filled with weird and intriguing shit, they sounded great too. Although Wayne denies it, they’ve infinitely improved over the years. Their spacey guitar and random other sounds and instruments paired with Wayne’s smoker, raspy voice make for a marriage that seemingly won’t soon be annulled. “She Don’t Use Jelly,” “Free Radicals,” and the “Yea Yea Yea Song” evoked the most enthusiastic response from the already rollicking crowd. They’ve already been together more than two decades, and they, like whiskey or wine, have infinitely improved with age. It would be surprising if they are still not playing to massive, enthused crowds in another decade.

To some, it may seem ridiculous to get a spiritual fix from a rock band, but after experiencing it, you can understand the claims, even if you do not personally feel it. If you are a human of indiscriminate tastes, one that enjoys being entertained, provoked thoughtfully, laughing and pretending to understand absurdist art and most importantly, experience a sensory overload, go to a Flaming Lips show whenever they swing within a 250-mile radius of your place of residence. Your expectations will likely fail to alter your final perceptions.

Promptly after the Flaming Lips finished, Cake performed in the Revival Tent, a venue far too small for a relatively famous band. There was a murky ocean of hippies, with waves bumping into you as you attempted to wade through it. Cake was exactly as you would picture it if you’re familiar with a pocketful of their songs: the lead singer’s groovy, hip style of talking and the horn section giving it a tint of inventiveness. They nosedived, however, when they attempted a “War Pigs” cover. BDM learned that that particular Sabbath song is based on the pure efforts of Ozzy vocally expressing his wide ranging emotions and thoughts of a Bossman sitting in his office while under-educated and poor servicemen were being killed. Ozzy sang it with conviction, but John Mcree’s attempt simply did not mesh with feel of the song. Cake defied no expectations, as you probably would assume them to rule on their radio hits and the crowd to sink into a brief eyes-open nap when their new material or band non-radio songs made their way onto the set list. They were fine.

On paper, Day 2 was the most flexed muscle on the arm of Wakarusa. It certainly did not disappoint

As you may know, Brain Dead Media is heading off to cover the events of Wakarusa 2008. Departing at 2 A.M., BDM departed the comforting lights and flow of Denver into the dead East of the Heartlands… Ah yes.

It’s always interesting to float through various area codes and county lines and get a sharp dose of a different life( although surprisingly enough, the eastern glide produces the same effects in Kansas as it does in Colorado): vast flat landscapes, hundreds of miles devoid of any pillars to Western industry. A roll down as the crow flies line through the heartland is known to produce fleeting feelings of ultimate freedom, a brief Lewis and Clark revelation explorer, and known to produce many suburban brain painted walls.

When you’re floating through the roads of people’s lives, coasting down the highways they seldom use, you can obtain roadside information on their way of life. After departing the relative towering metropolis of Denver, BDM was placed in a temporary state of catatonia when the largest building was a 7-story bank, built on a foundation of silent despair and memos that resulted in a feigned laugh and a catastrophic blow to integrity. Denver’s no Chicagaaa, but compared to the deadlands of the eastern Heartlands, it’s an intricate mass stage of civilization.

Also adding to your perception of ways of living were innumerable preaching billboards on a soapbox which boxed out any debate. Cruising through the hills, you’d perpetually be bombarded by:

ABORTION

HURTS WOMEN

and

SMILE!

Your mom chose life (and so far you have too.)

Followed promptly by:

Adult Megastore XXX

The vast array of nasty action will melt your (beard and) face off.

After rolling down a painfully dull line, BDM finally arrived in surprisingly lush Lawrence after enduring the calm and cool of coalminer black night that turned into the somberness of stinging rays of light. A disappointing sight, that being a college town void of the “college”, filled to the brim with Applebee’s and Home Depots.

Wakarusa is held in Clinton State Park, an 8,500 acre preserve, featuring a lake and limitless amounts of green carbon producers and infinite expanses, a beautiful plot of land that is perfect for peaceful music addicts. Countless men with straggly dark hair and full beards were stumbling around and girls all about the earthy-look wandered around, starry-eyed at the festival atmosphere and creeped out by the many drugged-up check-outs.

The first band BDM caught was Limbeck.

An easy going group of Californee boys, they

wrote simple love songs and anthems in protest

of enraging L.A. traffic. The only word that

comes to mind is fine regarding the band, as

nothing permeates your memory or notes: it’s

nothing you haven’t heard on a corporate run,

simple rock-oriented radio station. They are

deeply influenced by Wilco in their country days, but they seemed to leave out the flavor of country but kept the composition and lazy execution. They were at their best when the guitar squeaked pentatonic scales and the drum kept it in rhythmic line.

A relatively minor night had been planned: the press tent wasn’t open; the main stage was shut down, and the festival as at a bout half capacity. Limbeck’s set was cut short by 30 minutes when their tour manager shoved through the band and said frantically, “It’s coming. Go to shelter. NOW.” The warning being heeded was a tornado and quarter-sized hail (to the chief.) What better way to protect yourself than a sheet of thin plastic above your head?

Update, 11 P.M., Thursday evening. This story has just been pulled off the wire.

Lawrence Tornado is Killer

By Zanzabar Hidell:

Lawrence, KS: A vicious tornado swung into Lawrence, Kansas Thursday night, and struck fear, hatred, and animal instincts into attendees of Wakarusa Music and Arts Festival. After several hours of drugs, sex, Rock and or Roll, the Tornado came hurtling through after terrorizing the fine taxpayers of Salina and Topeka. The Tornado, dubbed “Twister Sister”, caused irreparable damage, both physical and psychologically, as several young females have come forward and meekly announced the tornado had turn them from girls into women. At approximately 9 P.M., Central Standard Time, Twister Sister threw the “Revival Tent” carelessly into the air, taking with it a nameless backwoods jam band and its 17 followers. The survivors thought nothing of it, as they would have had the sensation either way. “Yea man, it’s just like Nature or God or the Universe popping up and saying ‘hey, man,’ know what I’m saying?” rhetorically asked an unidentified male. Hey, man indeed. Casualties are still being counted, and dental records will be examined when the Lawrence Sherriff’s Department can determine if any of the victims have experienced the science of Dentistry.