As I write this, I'm sitting in a parlor lit by dingy chandeliers at 3:17 a.m. Bodies are strewn about on various couches, possibly too gone to enjoy the tuneful serenade of several drunks molesting a raised grand piano. Plastic foliage stands guard as stiffly as it did on its approximate purchase date of Christmas Day 1961, and fake Chinese pottery ensures beyond a shadow of a doubt that all kitsch-related bases are covered. The atmosphere is comparable to a college radio station orientation kegger with fantastical talent-buying powers, held in a cavernous funeral home. In short: a little weird.
An unfortunate navigation mistake cost me the Drones and the Feelies, but I scampered in just in time to catch the full brunt of the Dirty Three's performance. A well-composed mixture of folk, rock, classical, jazz and "other," the group's songs center on the intense violin lines of Warren Ellis, who swayed and kicked his legs like a grungy court jester. Equally as many eyes were on Nick Cave despite his stern composure at the piano; Cave's world-wizened mug alone is enough to fascinate. Single, mournful melodies (which my friend pronounced "kinda nautical") built to crashing crescendos of drums, guitar, and Cave's percussive thundering. "I wanna set the record straight," Ellis said at one point. "We are not responsible for emo."
Suicide scaled things down just a bit with their giant synthesizer singer set-up, with Martin Rev bashing out massive soundscapes from his instrument. Alan Vega yelped and crooned through their first EP well enough, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't at least a little disappointed to see none of his legendary antagonistic aggression. All those punk documentaries created unrealistic expectations in my young, impressionable mind.
I almost skipped Panda Bear to keep getting drunk in my room, but caught the second half of him sounding pretty much as I'd expected, i.e. like an extended intro to any song on Merriwether Post Pavillion. Not bad at all, just not as great without the whole collective of animals. He should, however, get props for having the most blatantly vagina-esque video projections of the day.
I took a break from the music to catch some comedy selected lovingly by David Cross. Eugene Mirman went all kinds of bad places, but I think he was onto something when he concluded from various Biblical evidence, "God is a 12-year-old boy with Asperger's." Explains so much.
I was psyched to see David Cross do his thing live, as he's amused me countless times via the TV. Unfortunately, tonight his thing consisted of getting embarrassingly wasted even for a comedian and forgetting the second half of every other joke. He managed to make it through on his natural LOL-ness, but it was kind of a bummer to see him so far from the top of his game. My friend Amy, who has more concern for others than I, worried aloud as to David Cross's well-being. Maybe that hair graft sapped Tobias' strength irreparably.
The Jesus Lizard delivered as top event of the day. I mean duh, they're the freaking Jesus Lizard. David Yow kept shouting "happy 9/11, everybody!" which was, um, totally punk or whatever, but harshed the mellows of many. There were great shrieks, unintelligible rants, sick guitar solos, stage diving, and even a moderately violent mosh pit. Everything that had scared/attracted child-me when I first saw the band on Beavis and Butthead seemed intact. Between yelling provocatively and crowdsurfing in a crouching position, Yow paused to reassure The Dirty Three. "Don't worry, Warren," the sweaty old man growled. "Slint was responsible for emo, not you guys." Glad that's cleared up.
Photo by http://www.flickr.com/photos/nickhelderman/
