Despite the persistent rainfall, people turned out in droves for Des Moines' 80/35 rock festival Friday, July 3. With three stages, two horsed officers (...they rode horses...I don't know the correct term for that...) and all of Locust Street lined with tented vendors, folks had their pick of entertainment, whether they purchased a wristband for admission to the main stage (and headlining acts) or not.
Honestly, the people to people-watch were just as entertaining--if not more so--as the musical performances. There were topless women with flower-painted boobs; seriously plastered/seriously stoned hipster-types; bros who just got off of work slugging back beers with their buddies; families with small, rain-drenched and shoeless children; and (of course) us totally normal press folk.
Take, for instance, these beer-slinging pirate dudes. Why were they dressed like pirates? WHY WERE THEY DRESSED LIKE PIRATES?! There were no pirate-themed events. No pirate vendors. Nothing. Just...pirates. But hey, everyone can like rock 'n' roll, right? Even pirates.
Of course, there were the famed topless women, breasts galore covered in body paint in the shape of free-lovin' flowers. Their power to turn head was undeniable. And unsurprising. But damn, girl, wasn't it cold in the rain?
Most of the people attending were just like these concert-goers below. Screaming, drenched, swaying to the music, et cetera. Outlandish sunglasses, plastic bags doubling as raincoats and various tight t-shirts/tight jeans combos dotted--nay, littered--the crowd-scape.
And what do all the pirate people, flower people and people people have in common? They all hit the Locust Street beer-and-burger vendors--or the hummus-veggie-wrap vendor (singular)--and they all rock out with their, um, individual personalities out at 80/35 in Des Moines this holiday weekend.
(Photos courtesy of DI photographer Christy Aumer.)
Well despite the steady rain, day one of the 80/35 music festival was a success. I stuck to the main stage all day, and the acts were better than the turnout at Billy Mays' funeral. Things kicked off at four p.m. with Tilly and the Wall, an indie group out of Omaha that's known for ecletic attire and tap dancing. I have absolutely nothing bad to say about Tilly. The group connected really well with the audience, and made the show feel informal, fun, and just a damn good time. The crowd that came to cheer on Tilly was so eccentric and they gave off a really chill vibe that made the overall atmosphere even better. Matisyahu, the Hasidic Jew rapper/beat boxer/reggae singer/country-star/flava flav stand-in (just kidding on the last two)followed Tilly, and he was surprisingly good. Well, until he sang the same smooth reggae tunes over and over again and lulled me into a slumber and I was forced to take refuge in the nearest Starbucks. Quite the different crowd out for him than Tilly...definitely the hippie style, but still, such a fun group of people. Stephen Malkmus and The Jicks followed up Matisyahu, and it was a surprisingly un-entertaining show. Sure, the tunes were good, but the sound sucked. The bass was too loud,the singing was inaudible, and there was very little crowd interaction. I mean, the atmosphere still rocked, but there was something missing from the overall performance. That something could have been band member's that got along, practice-time, or desire to be in Des Moines. Not impressed, Steve. OK, so let's talk about Public Enemy. The hip hop stars, with Flava Flav in tow, were supposed to take the stage at 9:30. Well, it was nearing 10:30 when Chuck D started doing his thing. Oh, and Flava Flav? He was in a "hospital" in "Nevada" for "exhaustion." Really, Public Enemy? Really? OK so Chuck D still rocked it, with or without his clock-toting cronie, but it was definitely a disappointment. Regardless, the crowd still rocked out, and your wonderful arts staffer's ears may never be the same again. It was unfortunate that by the time Public Enemy was really going at it, the rain was pouring down and made things a little unpleasent. Could have been worse though. Overall, a great first day at 80/35. Let's just hope the rain holds off tomorrow. Regardless, your loyal staffers will be updating the blog tomorrow night, and watch out for a constant stream of fabulous twitter updates from dailyiowanarts.
--Rachael (who was really hoping Flava Flav would throw her his clock)
While the folks who paid enjoyed their Matisyahus and Malkmuses, the rest of us poor folk enjoyed some damn good music on the side stages.
At 4:45, William Fitzsimmons took the Mediacome stage with his soft, acoustic melodies about loss and love -- and giant, motha fuckin' beard. The crowd seemed to enjoy what they heard, and it seemed to increase with his set. During Fitzsimmons' set, the rain picked up. His soft styles went well with the mood of the drizzle.
Talked a little with William after the show, and he seemed to have a good time. He was happy people came out even in the cruddy weather.
Then, we grabbed some veggie hummus wraps. Pretty good... and not too badly priced. I think it was 5 bucks.
Modern Skirts took the stage a bit late, scheduled for 5:45 but getting started around 6:00. However, they brought a lot of power with their shortened set. The boys from Athens punched the audience in the face. They were definitely not afraid to rock and my ears prove my point. They label themselves as "pop," but their show was about as far from pop as you can get. It was some straight up, rock 'n' roll. Even after fighting a few equipment problems, and getting on a little late, they proved to know how to rock the balls off the 80/35 side streets.
At this point, the rain was getting a bit much... so with a bit of down time between sets we made our way over to the Starbucks down the street and had a good sit, some coffee, and let our ears ring out and clothes dry off.
At about 9, Cedar Rapids based House of Large Sizes continued the Mediacom Stage's theme of the night and rocked the shit out of their set. With only 3 members, they gave a performance defining the word power trio. The side street was the most full it had been all day, and each head trashed as the group rocked. I hadn't had the opportunity to see these guys when they played Iowa City last week, so I was thankful for this chance. They really impressed me, and were one of the most lively shows of the night. Iowa rock roots at its finest.
Tomorrow, the side stages have some big names: Baby Teeth, Cymbals Eat Guitars, Margot and the Nuclear So & So's, The Envy Corps, Brother Ali, and many more. If you don't want to shell out the 40 bucks to have some sophomore girl in high school blow weed in your face while listening to the mid 90's hits of Ben Harper, come on out to the side stages and enjoy some good ol', rock 'n' roll.
After I finished cleaning my apartment tonight, I hopped on the computer and checked out some headlines. I saw MGMT recently released their newest music video, "Kids." You may have seen a video with some face painted wolf lookin' people singing the song over the past year, but that's not the official video... this is:
I was about to go to bed, when I saw an article mentioning how Alice in Chains released the single "A Looking View" on iTunes and Amazon.
For those not in the know, Alice In Chains' last self-titled album was released in 1995. The band split due to Layne Staley's increasing drug problem, which ultimately led up to Staley's death.
14 years later, the band is back together with vocalist William Duvall and planning on releasing the new album Black Gives Way to Blue.
So how is the first single from the band after all these years?
Fuckin' brilliant.
The seven minute track opens with one of the band's heaviest riffs ever. Alice In Chains has always been a darker band after releasing Dirt, but this is a whole new beast.
William Duvall comes in sounding eerily like Layne Staley.
"Hear footsteps creak the floor/the shadows give away/someone outside the door/won't let him in"
More heavy guitars from Jerry Cantrell and some powerful drumming and bass from Sean Kinney and Mike Inez.
Soon Cantrell is delivering his signature backing vocals, which sound as good as ever. Cantrell is one of the most criminally underrated guitar players of the 90's. I would argue he blows Kurt Cobain out of the water.
The chorus is catchy and there are loads more vocal harmonies throughout the song.
Words cannot describe how awesome this track is. Check it out for yourselves! Video will be released sometime soon. I'll put it up on the blog as soon as it is.
Alice in Chains is back! Layne Staley would be proud.
UPDATE: Check out the song below now. You can also listen on aliceinchains.com.
Let me start by acknowledging I am no more qualified to eulogize Michael Jackson than anyone else. That's exactly why he is a legend: Because we all have a strand of memory tied to Michael Jackson. Whether you had a friend who could Moonwalk, or your first love wore only one glove, or the first fright of your life came courtesy of the "Thriller" video.
John Mayer once said, "I'm a big believer in a different Jimi Hendrix than most people." I think I'm a big believer of a different Michael Jackson than many people, so I'm going to post my favorite song of his as my tribute to him.
When I was a kid, I was obsessed, OBSESSED, with Michael Jackson. I just found my VHS of Michael Jackson: Moonwalker in my garage last week. I was more than a fan. True story: While all the little girls in my third grade class were drawing pictures of fairies and princesses or whatever little 7 and 8 year old girls draw during free time, I wrote out the entire tracklisting on the then-new Michael Jackson HIStory boxed set. And I'll never forget, when my "friend" (or so I thought), Allison Tisack, saw what I was doing and said, "You're so weird." It only solidified my imagined bond with the King of Pop. That happened in the early/mid '90s, when Jackson's inarguable legacy had already been tainted by tabloids and tarnished by his transgressions. Yet I had no shame. All I knew was that he made the greatest music my single-digit-aged ears had ever heard. It was funky, it was infectious, but it had SOUL. And man could he dance.
What I think says even more about Michael Jackson than his music, or his actual words, is the response to his death. Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube are ablaze with tributes. R&B and pop radio are awash in adulation. Yet had the news been anything else Jackson-related, the response would have been eye rolls and yawns. Don't forget, this is the man Jay Leno built a late-night career on. Yet Michael Jackson is responsible for the best-selling album of all-time (and arguably one of the best, in terms of quality, albums of all-time). So while statistically, one in every 60 people on the planet own a copy of Thriller, on any other day you'd be hard-pressed to find one in 60 people with kind words about Michael Jackson. Yet here it is now: a world almost wholly mourning the loss of a genius.
And he was a genius. Like John Lennon, like Elvis, Michael Jackson was iconic, and fucked up. I'll save why I think he lost it for another time, but the truth is: Genius and madness are fraternal twins. They're definitely closely related though not exactly the same. In Michael Jackson, they occupied the same space. But what's important is what he gave the world, and not the price he paid for giving it.
In his later years, he set fire to the image he'd once worked so hard to maintain, eroding his credibility and leaving only soot-soaked signs of his past. But he will always be an icon. It wasn't easy to stand by him, and many of his true fans deserted him. But I truly believe we never stopped listening to his music. The music, so often unlike the man, spoke for itself.
What has died with Michael Jackson is so much more than potential, though I know I would have loved to see a comeback and it seemed likely with the London tour dates. What has died with Michael Jackson is us. It sounds trite, I admit it, but a collective part of our cultural consciousness is gone. Michael Jackson was the crossroads of so much in our lexicon. A comment on Michael Jackson was a comment on race relations, celebrity, aesthetics, art, and how we dealt with it all. And as has been made abundantly clear, many if not all of us have a Michael Jackson story, a personal connection with the man or his music.
Meryn, who still plans to walk down the aisle at her wedding to "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough."
So it's Friday night and I've noticed we have all been slacking on this here blog. While you are getting ready to go out and drink moderately and responsibly you should watch these videos of a reformed Faith No More playing at this year's Download Festival.
If you don't remember Faith No More was big in the early 90's with "Epic" off of The Real Thing getting tons of radio airtime.
Now that your memory is refreshed here are the new videos.
You'd think what I would remember most from the 2009 Tony Awards (which aired on CBS June 7) would be the performances. After all, it was a year filled with ridiculously talented actors and musicians. But no, that's not what stuck with me. Instead, it was the shoddy microphone work.
I hope the soundboard operator got canned immediately following the show.
The opening number, which included every nominated musical act for the evening, kicked off with Elton John singing a number from "Billy Elliot the Musical" (you remember the movie: the one where the little boy from the UK wanted to dance but his pops thought boxing was the way to go...yeah, now it's a musical), and his first two stanzas were un-mic-ed.
If you ever doubted that Sir Elton still had the music in him, you should've heard him belt out that first bit of "Electricity"--he filled that hall. He is the consummate performer.
The next noticeable atrocity happened mere moments later, when the opening number presented the folks from the revival of "West Side Story". While the gangs went all "beat yo' ass" (musical theatre-style--meaning tight pants, coiffed hair and power stances), a perky little blonde backstage had her mic turned on too soon. You can hear her clapping, followed by a pep talk, followed by clapping, followed by coughing, followed by lip trills, followed by more lip trills, followed by more lip trills....and then someone very kindly informed her that she was audible. So she shut up until she stepped on stage, approximately twenty seconds later.
Next up (we're still in the opening act, by the way), we have Bret Michaels and Poison, introducing "Rock of Ages"--an 80s rock music musical (why did we need one of those, again?)--and they only let him sing the first verse into the bridge of "Good Time" until they put up a recording. And it was noticeable. Don't believe me? Take a listen:
(Evidently, Michaels also is suffering from fractures and brokenness...of some sort. Unruly sets: The performer's worst enemy.)
It goes without saying that when ensembles were on-stage, the sound balance was just awful.
(By the way, is there anything Allison Janney can't do? She's in Dolly Parton's hit musical "9 to 5". Or Liza Minelli, for that matter. Say what you will about the woman, but she's a legend, absolutely timeless and born for the freakin' stage.)
Let's move into the actual awards show, hosted by his Holiness, Neil Patrick Harris. (What, you thought that was the end of the mic mistakes? Ha!)
A revival of the classic "Guys & Dolls" put up a number at the Awards, featuring the estimable Tituss Burgess as Nicely. And as soon as he started singing, the bead mic attached to his forehead just...died. In a crackling, annoying, dying sort of way. Some lackey (well, a lackey in a suit...hmmm) runs out with a wireless mic. Right before that happens, you hear said lackey, in a nasal East Coast accent, say, "Am I goin' in wit' it? Am I goin' in? I'm goin' in!" Good for him. Fifteen seconds of fame; goin' once, goin' twice.
The terrible screen-to-stage translation, "Shrek the Musical", was another early-in-the-song fail for Sound Dude. A screeching chorus gal found herself mic-ed a bit too hot. (Plus, Lord Farquaad--a booming, baritone Christopher Sieber--had fake legs... Instead of being cute, it was, um, distracting. And, frankly, poorly executed.)
The one stand-out performance of the night came from the rock musical "Next to Normal", showcasing an hallucinating suburban housewife, her frustrated husband and her dead (and studly) son. Though "Billy Elliot" swept most of the big awards, "Next to Normal" nabbed Best Actress in a Musical for the very talented Alice Ripley, a fabulous performer (as seen in the clip below), as well as Best Original Score and Best Orchestration. I'm completely in love with this show--and definitely daydreaming of a roadtrip to NYC.
The ever-awesome Neil Patrick Harris showed off his vocal chops in the comedic mockery of a final number, closing the broadcast as the credits rolled. Who doesn't love NPH?
Moral of the Tony-2009 story? Check the résumé creds on your soundboard op. Fo' realz. Oh, and go see more musical theatre.
I am but a man. What a proud, proud man. What a proud, proud man.
I went to Madison with a cohort of two of my closest people this last Saturday night to visit my friends in the band, Portugal. The Man. I use the term "friends" sort of loosely in an Andrew W.K. friends-not-fans sort of way. They sold out a tiny bar on Mifflin Street (one of the endlessly confusing one-way streets in Madison) called Cafe Montmartre or, for the tongue-heavy, Cafe Momo. The place was packed. So packed in fact, that when we showed up a half-hour late due to aforementioned one-ways and a hang-up in the parking lot, we were hardly able to make it in the door even with our will-called tickets. I stepped 4 feet inside the Cafe Momo and was stopped by a wall of bodies pulsating on the entry ramp. I turned to my right, and couldn't see the singer/guitarist of the band, John Gourley, in his usual facing-the-side of the stage position with a hood or hat pulled down low because the newest member of Portugal. The Man (Zoe Manville)was aptly shaking a tambourine in front of my face. That's right. This band uses the tambourine, and they do it well. Every time.
What a proud friend they've made me. Since the days of Church Mouth, their 2007 release, I've been itching and waiting for this band to make it happen. And I think it has. I'm officially a fanboy who has melted into the sea of heads that sell out the show and sing their vocal chords to shreds with episodes of thrash in between grandiose hand gestures while others content to find a spot with good sonic balance succumb to what I have come to call the acid sway. There is not a soul standing still at this concert. Not ever.
But they've always been good live. This is the 5th show over a course of 3 years that I've had the pleasure to see. They are even more relentless than ever with their touring, including European getaways and festivals left and right. But, like I said, they've always been good live. I mean their extended jams invite, nay, demand a fresh audience every night.
No one who really likes Weezer, Nirvana, or Sublime tribute bands is going to like this. If you saw Paramore and thought they were really great, you probably won't like this band. The songs never sound the same on stage, and sometimes the sounds change with a violent jolt that knocks you off-balance for a bit. But it's always a hell of a ride with the extended riff-heavy jams and seamless splices of "One is the Loneliest Number"in the middle of their original songs.
But they've always been good live. What really makes my fanboy juices flow is the new album coming out on July 21st entitled The Satanic Satanist. The cover art is absolutely astonishing with complicated fold-outs that create a layered landscape over a CD that becomes part of the artwork as it is inserted. The vinyl, unfortunately, will not be so decked out, or perhaps more unfortunately, except for in Germany. That means me and my fellow fanboys are going to have one bitch of a time getting our hands on what has to be described as, at least, a great piece of music. John Gourley, the lead man, actually invited my buddy to the van after the performance to let him feast his senses on the only copy of The Satanic Satanist to be printed as of now. I can nearly guarantee that my friend has yet to wash his hands. The band has always been great about talking with fans outside after the shows. I think it's partly just to air-dry their sweat-drenched clothes and have an excuse to not help the roadies load up. I can't blame them, though, as their set looked even more tiring than ever. But they've always been good live.
I'm watching a "College Life" marathon. Because I'm a masochist. While Miss MeleaAndrys brilliantly tackled the show in The Daily Iowan's pages, I'm here to hold up my end on the web. After half an episode, four years in high school with soon-to-be Badgers, four years of friendships with actual Badgers, and two visits to the campus with a third on the horizon, here's what I know so far: the University of Wisconsin is my smallpox blanket.
Earlier this summer, I received a Snuggie from a Badger. I hugged said Badger, while he was in his matching Snuggie, to show my appreciation (and also because I wondered if the static electricity would be enough to stop my heart). In doing so, I covered my Snuggie in dog fur. I'm highly allergic to pet dander. My eye turned dare-I-say cardinal red (maybe more familiar to readers as one of the University of Wisconsin Madison's school colors) and I began to scratch and sneeze. A wonderful gift soon became my physical downfall. My Snuggie became a smallpox blanket (though not to equate my allergies with the plight of the Native Americans, but just a metaphor too appealing to resist).
Likewise, Madison (the UW campus in particular) has so much to offer, and good intentions (to educate, serve as the state government's core, and be a cultural center). So I go to the city (or the show "College Life") seeking a good time, some entertainment, and maybe a little enlightenment, yet all I end up with are skin legions and questions.
(I wanted to put a picture here, but I realized a photo of someone with smallpox is too disturbing, and I don't take pictures, so any photos of me in Madison are someone else's property and I can't afford to be sued. Imagine me having the time of my life inserted into an episode of "College Life.")
Now I'm watching the election episode, "College Life"'s attempt at depth. Iowa City is no better than Madison, I'm not making that argument. But oh wait, Kevin just got kicked out of his dorm (Spoiler Alert). Why juxtapose the two events? Because that's real life? No, that's "College Life." And move away, because I'm about to experience my vomit life.
I can't stay away from Madison because it's intoxicating. The people are great, the atmosphere is downright addictive, and there's fun on every corner. For real. But for visitors, it fades. Just like the warmth from a smallpox blanket slowly turns to chills as your immune system deteriorates.
Again, maybe my Madison experiences are tainted by issues outside of Madison itself (who's to say if one of my close friends attended Purdue I wouldn't feel the same about West Lafayette, Ind.?). But there's something about the stale, beery air and the reflection off Lake Monona that breeds poor decision making and clouds judgment. Maybe I knew the blanket would give me smallpox, but I was just so happy to get a gift I cuddled up to it anyway? I knew "College Life" would sap my brain cells and spare time, but I can't resist observing the environment responsible for so many of my moral missteps as it claims others. Consider it the appeal of shared experience.
As Kevin (who is no doubt a bonehead, Mr. Let's Play Beer Pong in the Dorm) packs up to move out of the residence hall he was kicked out of, I can't help but understand. No, I don't have sympathy (so I'm not a good person, you knew that coming into this), but I get it. I pride myself on at least appearing tough (see previous post about my shero Mary Shannon). But under the right circumstances (some Beatles tunes, a few bottles of New Glarus Totally Naked, and the view from a balcony at Equinox Apartments) I could indulge my inner Madislut. Yet being a semi-adult in a controlled environment now (or living in Iowa City, where I have family and thus some duty to at least maintain some semblance of a good reputation) makes these situations highly unlikely and also easy to control. But in Madison, I don't doubt every young Beyonce turns into Sasha Fierce. Kind of like how you end up sitting on the lap of that unapproachably hot guy from high school as together you approach second base, or spend the wee hours in the dorm room of some girl you met earlier that night under the guise of "brushing your teeth" (never mind that you didn't bring your tooth brush or toothpaste, but I digress).
The only thing is, Beyonce has to live with Sasha Fierce's aftermath. When a college student's promiscuous drunken persona emerges, the timid partial adult within has to clean up the mess. And State Street is LITTERED with ephemera from parties past. I left a piece of my innocence in the Qdoba on State Street. Look around that beautiful terrace and you'll find some joy I shed. And I'm not alone. Kevin just happened to leave his in a dorm (though after three episodes I still can't figure out which dorm it is, but for the record, I made all my residence college faux pas in Chadbourne).
Maybe I shouldn't be so quick to judge the "College Life" cast members. I spent a few days in their shoes, save for the cameras to document their downfalls (all I have are still images and memories too colorful to forget). Plus, if any exposure to smallpox means contamination, how long we're exposed becomes a semantic argument, a useless distinction. I'm planning to return to that beloved bad-decision breeding ground, sans inoculation. Who am I to judge?
— Meryn, who's pretty weak for one Badger in particular...
