While line-ups are the most important part of the music festival, it is the time at which they play that will determine your enjoyment.
You plan the best you can for months. You make a hypothetical schedule out of the little information you know. You know the day they play on, and depending on their status you can sometimes determine what stage they will be on. Mix in what sort of live show they have and what genre of music they are and you have an easily predictable path to glory.
Then a few days before the show you get the real schedule and the pruning of your dream tree begins.
The more music you listen to, the more often a vortex is going to fuck you up. For most people, the choice between Coheed and Cambria, Snoop Dogg, and Band of Horses is clear-cut. There aren’t many indie hipsters that get down to “Gin and Juice” while studying Coheed’s ridiculous Dungeons & Dragons in space lyrics. For me, it meant scrambling to see all of it and ending up not seeing enough of one of them.
I hate when the vortex is during the very last acts of the day. A few years ago, Coachella gave the choice of closing my Saturday with The Black Keys, Tiesto, The Rapture, or Cornelius. Luckily Cornelius turned out to be a winner, but missing The Rapture in the dance tent and Black Keys at such an awesome time slot made it all bittersweet.
I lifted this from the Coachella boards after the 2008 schedule was revealed:
“ Fuck man Bjork, DJ Shadow, and Gogol Bordello are all playing at the same time.”
The nature of these festivals makes such complications unavoidable. Think of it as a necessary evil. Remember, it ALWAYS COULD BE WORSE.
ALWAYS.
Here are some of my personal Vortices of Doom!
Gogol Bordello vs Mastodon vs Avett Brothers – Metal vs gypsy punk vs punkgrass, went from Mastodon to Avett and missed Gogol completely.
Beck vs Les Claypool vs Disco Biscuits vs Cypress Hill vs Medeski Martin & Wood – Started at Beck, walked by Cypress, saw some Les, and finished with MMW. Sorry Disco.
Jack Johnson vs Keller Williams vs Iron and Wine – A bit of all three
Massive Attack vs Mogwai vs Coheed and Cambria – Mogwai into Coheed. Really sad that I missed Massive Attack 😦
Someone’s vortex at Bonnaroo 2009 HAD to be Girl Talk vs Oakenfold vs Pretty Lights.
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Still reading?
I typed in “VS” into Google Search, and was amazed how easily Google shows you naked people. Anyway, I came across the dumbest picture I’ve seen in a while.
When I started this blog, I proclaimed to tell wondrous stories of live concerts. Although I’ve mentioned a few moments here and there from the hundreds of gigs I’ve attended, I’ve yet to really go into detail about an entire experience, start to finish, that gives a whole story.
I checked my account today, and I have successfully sold my 200th album:
Colonel Claypool’s Bucket of Bernie Brains – The Big Eyeball in the Sky
For the uninitiated, the insanely long-winded band name and the comparatively short album name is the product of the best fringe artists of our time. Starting with the man, the myth, the legend: Bernie Worrell is the Hall of Fame keyboardist and composer, most famous for his work with Parliament-Funkadelic. His keyboard work sets the tone for this jam album from start to finish.
Secondly, we have Brain. Bryan “Brain” Mantia is an amazing drummer that has toured with a bunch of bands, most importantly filling in behind the kit for Primus during the mid 90’s. Also, I met this man once while he was buying a beer at Bonnaroo and he was nice to me. Woo!
Next, we have Buckethead. Granted, the majority of you reading this know me, and if you know me, you know Buckethead. If you’ve stumbled across this slice of the internet and have no idea, well, we would need all day to explain the mastery of the man from Northern California. He is a golden guitar god, who can sweep better than a maid, crawl up and down the fret better than a spider, and does it will with a stoic mask and bucket donned upon his face and crown.
Finally, the “Colonel” in the equation is Les Claypool, the bassmaster extraordinaire. His wrangling of fellow musicians brought this project to fruition, and for that, I am eternally grateful.
The origin of this band is a thing of magic and mishap. At the second Bonnaroo Festival, way back in 2002, the three members not named Les Claypool were all set to play with their band at the time, Praxis. The ringleader of that band, Bill Laswell, was unable to perform, leaving Les Claypool with the great idea of having those three gents perform on stage with him. No rehersal, no material planned, no idea of what to do, except do what they all did best. They jammed the night away, and that show will go down as legendary.
After that night, they decided to record an album and hit the country, going across 18 states on the storied C2B3 Tour, with a fateful stop in San Francisco, the night before Halloween in 2004.
I’m sitting in my room, waiting for my my buddy Sam to come pick me up in “The Boat”, his Lincoln Towncar and battle machine that took us to many a show. When he finally arrives, a new face is in the passenger side. His name is Nick and I’ve never met him, but he’s cracking open a wine cooler ten minutes after we leave my house on our way to BART. This is the begining of disaster for this gent.
We head over the freeway to the closest BART station, load up our pockets with the food and drinks we’re gonna consume before the show, and again Nick is favoring some of the alcoholic beverages. I got to get the lowdown on this guy from Sam.
“He’s my friend’s brother. I don’t really know him that well but he wanted to go to this show, so, he’s got a ticket and is gonna go with us.”
No biggie. New people are always welcome, especially at a concert. But this guy, oh man…
So we’re on BART, and the dude is drinking some more. He’s a light build, sort of a Revenge of the Nerdstype of frame. We pull up to the Market street station and head above ground to find our way to the venue. On the way to the Warfield, we stop at Subway to get some food. Nick decides to buy just a 32 oz. drink and fill it halfway with Coca-Cola…and half with Vodka. He proceeds to tell us time and time again that he hasn’t “drank in a long time.” When people tell you that, it’s foreshadowing in the most obvious sense.
We hop in line and start munching, meeting some other friends while waiting for the doors to open. Nick looks terrible by this time, having consumed probably a liter of alcohol by 6:00 pm. My friend Travis and another group of folks showed up just in time to see this guy acting a fool, looking like a sailor on shore leave. The worst part was all of these new people that showed up were people I didn’t know, but were friends of friends, and somehow assumed that this Nick guy was MY friend, thereby making me look like an idiot by association.
“Hey, I don’t know this drunk-ass. Ask Sam!”
Time goes on and it’s starting to get dark…and Nick is starting to do some heavy breathing. After about 13 of those, the fun starts. Sam stuffs the guy’s ticket in his hand tells him that if he has to puke, he can come back in and find us. I doubt Nick even knew what was being said to him, as minutes later he’s yakking in front of The Warfield, their staff, and the hundred or so people in line.
Then, Erik blurts out the best line ever…
“Come get your shoes shined!”
We’re laughing, he’s puking, and the staff is getting pissed. They rush him out of line and down the street, chastising this idiot and told him he ain’t comin in until he sobers up a bit. The doors open and we all go in, sans Nick, but his story is not yet over.
The group was now down to seven from it’s original eight, and as the remaining crew took the front of the stage, right by Buckethead’s amp, Erik’s girlfriend, Jenny, was of age and went to buy some beer. She comes back, hands the beer to the underaged Sam, and goes back to buy another for Erik, who is currently in the bathroom. Jenny comes back, just in time for a security guard to come over and ask Sam where his stamp was. They give stamps at the door for those over 21 to quickly identifiy who can and who cannot imbibe the alcohol, and Sam was stamp-less. When Jenny comes back, trying to difuse the situation, explaining that she asked him to hold it while she went back, the guard smirks and goes “So you gave this beer ot a minor. You’re both out!”
Now we’re down to five, as Erik is coming back from the bathroom and we’re trying to explain why his girlfriend is no longer there. After about two seconds of thought, Erik storms out of the crowd to try and get his girlfriend back.
And then there were four…
The opening act, Gabby La-La takes the stage, and Travis, Josh, a ladyfriend, and myself are all staring at each other, trying to piece together what the hell just happened and why we’re the only ones left.
Time passes…..and more time passes….still no Sam, Jenny, or Erik…and, not surprisingly, no sign of Nick.
Out of nowhere, Erik is behind us. The band is still playing, so communication is a little rough, but he still looks pissed and his better half is still missing.
The opener finishes, and it’s still the The Jackson 5 hour, with friends and cohorts missing.
Then, like a biblical prophecy, the Jesus-looking Sam returns, with Jenny by his side, both wearing different clothes than they came in with. When they got kicked out, the guard told another guard to remember those two, and to not let them back in. Sam tried to make a stink, but thought better of it, knowing his chances of re-entry would be dramatically lower the more guff he gave.
They went back to the vehicles, threw on a sweatshirt, and concocted a good plan to come back in. When they showed back up, they made sure the El Capitan that threw them out was nowhere in sight, and Jenny worked her charm by explaining they were told to return their camera to their car as it was not going to be allowed for the night’s proceedings. The dude believed them and they walked right back in.
But still no Nick…
The show was brilliant. A blistering opening number, a mesmerizing instrumental (featuring opener Gabby LaLa on Sitar), and a tightly woven setlist, still remembered as one of the best shows any of us present had ever seen. I grabbed the setlist from the stage after the show, and still have it to this day.
But, poor Nick did not see the show. All Nick saw (besides puke and little birdies above his head) was the BART station, which in his drunken stupor meant home. He stumbled down the escalator, dragged himself to the train, and hopped on board, ready to meet us back in Pittsburg after the show was over.
After a night of rocking and rolling, we go our seperate ways, and Sam and I are curious to see how Nick survived the night. We look outside, and there was no Nick. Down at the BART station, still no Nick. We hop on the train, head back to the Bay, and, once again, no Nick. No Nick by the car, no Nick by the phones, no Nick anywhere.
Since we took BART, all of Nick’s possessions were locked up in Sam’s car, inculding his phone, wallet, and backpack. We head back into town, dine on the ritualistic Denny’s meal (Meat Lover’s Scramble, no eggs), and laugh the night away.
The next morning, Sam comes to work and plays a voicemail for me. The missing Nick was alive and well. Well, sort of.
Turns out, he did hop on BART, and while it was the right train, it was headed in the wrong direction, spitting him out in Millbrae. He gets off the train, looks around, realizes his folly, and tries to get back on to come home. Bad news for him, as that was the last train of the night so he’s got to set up shop overnight.
He sets his watch for 5am (first BART run), passes out in a bush, and wakes up with a gigantic headache and a hankering to get home. He goes to the BART window, asks why they still have the gates locked, and is informed that it is daylight savings time, so he will have to wait another hour.
What luck!
An hour later, he hops on BART. Two hours later, he arrives home, with no money, no phone, and no ride. He calls a cab, has him drop him off at home, where his parents have to pay for the Taxi, then calls Sam, thanking him for a fun night.
None of us ever saw Nick again after that. Maybe for his sake, that’s a good thing, as I’m sure the amount of shit we’d give him would make a toilet jealous.
Metal Riot
Where music goes to die 