After staying up well past sunrise Saturday night, I roused myself in time to see the Boredoms in all their glory. One of the more ambitious acts of the festival, BOADRUM featured nine drummers led by the Japanese art rockers in a composition that ebbed and flowed for well over an hour. A rack of guitars played with drumsticks added another visually and sonically dramatic element, the first teasing plunks eventually giving way to a satisfying bashing. There were loud parts and quiet parts, chants and shouts, metered silences and choreographed chaos. Seeing all those drummers arrayed around Yamatsuka Eye intently watching his every move was pretty arresting, if not quite as cool as their 77- and 88-drummer configurations of previous years, and it was a rad surprise when a fleet of helpers rolled another drummer in through the audience on a platform. In a rare dick move, ATP staff started breaking the band's equipment down before they'd finished, as they'd gone over their allotted time.
Deerhoof played one of my favorite sets of the weekend. Fronted by the sweet-voiced Satomi Matsuzaki, this band takes great delight in switching back and forth between sweet, poppy sections and weird stretches of jumpy guitar, noise, and feedback. And not just any feedback; this band plays feedback like an instrument, planning out their moves to get a more controlled result. Video projections by Martha Colburn added another layer of art, with scenes of domesticity gone wrong, pilgrims and Indians, and swirly things.
Next, I headed over to Oneida's Ocropolis, which transformed one of the resort's bars into a noisy netherworld for a whole 12 hours. The intrepid musicians were jamming with drummer Zach Hill of Hella when I stopped by, and the paper decorations, strobes, guitars, electronic manipulations and relentless percussion (to supplement Hill's pounding, someone was throwing cymbals at an upturned chair) created a compelling environment to hang out in. One band member saw fit to remove his clothing save a gauzy layer of fabric around his head. No-pants ghost slowly floated around holding a drum in front of, but hardly concealing, his immodest manhood. "He's playing the naked," my friend remarked.
I only saw about fifteen minutes of Boris, but that was enough to melt my mind. Proggy, evil, loud, awesome, loud. A lot of Internet lames seem to come out of the woodwork when I make fun of Tool, so I'm going to taunt them with the truism that Tool only wishes they were as good as Boris.
I walked back over to the main stage to see the only truly puzzling choice on the schedule, Crystal Castles. I like this fake band as much as the next blog house enthusiast, but let's get real: those trendy little shits should not be the main stage sub-headliners of a festival of rock legends. This was a weekend of special bands doing special things, and it felt a bit off to watch them hit "play" and give us a set of the same dark, electronic club pumpers that are on the album. Granted, it was cool to hear the songs over a chest-pounding sound system, and Alice Glass sure is good at jumping around and squealing like a demented pixie (though I'm not sure if her mic was out for most of the set or if she just didn't feel like singing). A raver chick with fairy wings was vibing out pretty hard in front of me. Maybe if I'd been more energetic, less sore, or on ecstasy, I would've gotten down too. As it was, the intense vibrations only made me sleepier.
I fled the Crystal Castles discotheque to see No Age play Husker Du songs with Bob Mould. Oh my fuck. Given relatively limited rehearsal time together, it was not going to be the most technically perfect act of the festival, but it captured a lot of what ATP is about: rock greats old and new coming together to create something people will talk about for a long time after. Dean and Randy both had these adorable "holy shit!" looks on their faces the whole time, as if they, too, couldn't believe this was really happening. They threw a few No Age songs into the mix, as well as a Ramones cover, and at one point Bradford Cox appeared to help on vocals. I talked to Randy at Bob Mould's bitchin' rave party later, and he told me how nervous he'd been. Don't worry Randy, you didn't fuck it up, unless by "fuck it up" you mean "totally kill it." Underground rock stars: they're just like us.
The Flaming Lips were everything I'd hoped they would be. Via the powers of video screen technology, the band entered the stage through a giant, glowing vagina. Wayne Coyne came down the birth canal last in a big, clear beach ball and crawled around on top of the crowd's outstretched hands. Streamers and confetti shot out of cannons, and yet more confetti came from giant balloons, which Coyne speared with his guitar when they got near him. Smoke and lasers filled the room. Girls dressed vaguely like furries danced on both sides of the stage. Coyne played a big gong adorned with neon lights. The whole thing was so intensely delightful I didn't know if I was going to laugh or cry. Coyne thanked fans and the festival's organizers in between songs. "This is the greatest collection of underground music that's ever been assembled!" he said. "This is the coolest thing we've ever done. And we've done a lot of cool things." The room had the feeling of a joyous church revival, only instead of finding Jesus, we were celebrating an abundance of wacked out, psychedelic rock and roll.
Coyne had us all think about world peace for a second and then sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" as an encore. It felt like New Year's Eve, Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanza, Hug a Unicorn Day and my birthday, all rolled into one. I couldn't believe another year of insanely good bands was over already, but took comfort in the fact that the night was really only just beginning.
Photos by Abbey Braden All Tomorrow's Parties 2009
