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All things music - the bands, the crowds, the festivals, the magic.
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I'll admit it. I have an unyielding obsession with anything 80's. Sour Patch Kids, Soap-On-A-Rope, Alf lunchboxes, The Cosby Show - you name it, I probably spent a good portion of my measly $20/week allowance on it.
It goes without saying that when Rock the Bells blew into Miami's Bayfront Park Arena, I was happier than Angela Bauer when she walked in on Tony Danza, wet, lathered up, and showering on "Who's the Boss?" This year's lineup featured a unique hybrid of old skool denizens: Mos Def, Kidz In The Hall, The Pharcyde, and headliner A Tribe Called Quest. The New Regime received equal billing with the likes of Nas, Raekwon, Ghostface, and Philly ingenue, Santogold. But, it was De La Soul that had me turning cartwheels. In the three days leading up to Rock the Bells, I practically danced all the way to work with the best of "3 Feet High and Rising" blasting through my headphones. De La, you see, represents much that is cyclical in this world - the youth and vigor of D.A.I.S.Y, the rampant, viral social dillusionment in "De La Soul is Dead," and the Walmart-friendly McRecord that was "The Grind Date." After months of sieving through tired Billboard chart toppers on the radio, I was antsy. Rabidly hungry, in fact, to sink my teeth into some good music.
On Saturday afternoon, The Israeli Princess and I pulled up to a veritable explosion of politically high-minded rhymes. By the time we scrambled onto Bayfront Park's grassy knoll, M-1 and stic.man had launched into "It's Bigger Than Hip Hop." Saying that the crowd was pumped would have been a gross understatement. Even the Heineken beer guy had spontaneously hiked his shirt up to waist-level, and was chanting along with the crowd, "One thing about music, when it's real they get scared/Got us slavin' for welfare/Ain't got no food, clothes, or healthcare." Indeed. All around me, young city hipsters with asymmetrical bangs were looking bored and sardonic, while the South Dade contingent thronged the grounds with easy grins and warm beers. I blinked. Were those....J Crew couples, with starched cotton shirts and khakis, bopping to "Till We Get There?" Check. And was that an overweight goth kid with nose-to-navel piercings, ala Wichita, Kansas, sharing a j with a Mr. T lookalike? Check. The crowd was clearly as diverse as one could get, and yet, the common denominator at this show turned out to be neon Converse high-tops. Everyone was rocking them. I looked at my feet, then over at The Israeli Princess'. Flip flops. Ruining Presidential elections and street cred since 2004. Next up was Brooklyn hip hop impresario, Mos Def. He took the stage to thunderous applause, wasting no time in informing the crowd that "Corporate forces is runnin' this rap ***/Old white men is runnin' this rap ***/Viacom is runnin' this rap ***/Mos Def is runnin' this rap ***." And run the rap *** he did. The former Black Star frontman launched into his sleeper hit, "Brooklyn." The rhymes were the same - a trip down memory lane, the recollection of Izod shirts and his childhood in Bed-Stuy. But gone was the steely, sometimes hard-edged inflection in his voice. Mos Def seems to have embraced his status as one of the Founding Fathers of Hip Hop, and as a result, has emerged as a seasoned performer who is finally comfortable in his own skin. Nearly ten years later "New World Water" was just as fresh as I remember it. The quirky, tinkling riffs actually sounded better than when "Black On Both Sides" hit record stores in '99. To my right, the girl with the long pink dreads sighed, closed her eyes and leaned back on her beach towel, soaking it all in. It made me think of a conversation that I had with my nine year old nephew. "Mos Def? Who's that?" "Only one of the most gifted hip hop artists, ever." "I don't know him. He must be old. I like T Pain." I watched the 16 olds around me dance barefoot, toes curling in the grass, while Mos Def ripped on contemporary rappers "moving fast, but thinking slow" in "Close Edge." Mos Def may be old, but that cat gets better with age. Take that, T Pain.
The high point of my day arrived when De La Soul took the stage. They opened with "Rock Co. Cane Flow", the wryly sardonic ditty about a hip hop act that achieves and super-stardom, only to be dogged by "news vans" and the folly of "lights, camera, action", until it's "too old to rhyme, too bad, too late." For anyone else who wasn't there to witness the magic, De La Soul was anything but too old, or too late. Alongside Ghostface, they killed with "He Comes" and "Shopping Bags (She Got From You)." Next to the frozen lemonade stand, a two year old girl was firmly esconced in a spirited pop and lock showdown with her father, while Black Sheep belted out the immortal lyrics that everyone born before 1980 knows: "Engine engine number 9/On the NY Transit Line/If my train goes off the track/Pick it up/Pick it up/Pick it up!" Watching them, I realized that this was how the gift of good music gets passed down, from generation to generation. Not through slick marketing campaigns, or viral Youtube videos. Not through celebrity endorsements, or the latest focus groups. Not even through us. Good music lives on through two year old kids, who, on a hot Saturday afternoons, decide to kick off their sandals, let the breeze run through their hair, and dance unashamedly to That One Great Song. And in the summer of 1989, wasn't life a lot simpler?
"You can get with this/Or you can get with that." See, kids? This is the infallibility of good music - it actually makes sense.
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In between sips of free Cafe Bustelo, a veritable dance riot exploded in front of me. Raver chicks ran toward the Main Stage, their skirts flouncing. Frat boys, eyes glazed over with Red Bull and E, loped slowly toward the fray. Everyone's hands flew up to the sky, furiously beckoning. Colombian flags unfurled. And for good reason, too.
Erick Morillo was in the house. He launched right into "Dance I Said," which reminded me of summer nights spent at the Pantages in LA. His numerous appearances as a host on MTV Ibiza seemed to have made their mark on him. He displayed remarkable stage presence, at once exhalting the audience to "get the fvck and dance," at other times chilling us all out by spinning weird ambient techno tracks. Some music pundits have been quick to dismiss Morillo as a NYC clubkid. A flash in the pan. He deserves more credit than that. He is, after all, the same guy who churned out "(I Like To) Move It, Move It," that deliciously annoying reggaeton-infused club anthem. Next up was Armin van Buren, Dutch wunderkind from Leiden. It is hard to describe van Buren's sound, so let me walk you through a food analogy. You know how when you go to Haagen Daazs, and they just happen to have your favorite French Vanilla ice cream? And the guy behind the counter decides that you're cute, so he follows it up with caramel, hot chocolate fudge, and ANOTHER TOE-CURLINGLY GOOD SCOOP FOR FREE? And just when you're swooning from the anticipation of all that sugar, he tops if off with gaily colored sprinkles? That's how we felt, listening to Armin van Buren. "Burned With Desire" was sweet and soulful, as was "Zocalo" and "If You Should Go." The Marmot rather enjoyed his set, which is to say, he didn't make an excuse to run off to eat sushi again. At this juncture, special mention should be made of the stupendous art direction at Ultra. Mini-oasis were scattered throughout. We saw a white leather chaise lounge here, an intricately carved cocktail table there. In the VIP area, there was a quaintly-lit statue of three frolicking white elephants, each bedecked with tiny Christmas lights and glitter. Even better, there was a small gothic sanctuary, with perfectly aged wrought iron structures and a four poster bed with a charcoal black bedspread. In short, it was as if Iggy Pop suddenly had a hard on for interior designing, and went nuts in your friend's backyard. The overall effect was breathtaking, slightly irreverent, and, judging from the glazed looks of three nice Midwestern girls that I met - Ultra Strange. Later on that night, Moby, Ultra Strange and Ultra Hyper, took to the stage. By that time, I was already buzzing off three vodka cranberries and restlessly jumping from foot to foot. Flanked by green laser beams and scantily-clad concert goers, he launched right into "Feeling So Real." Not one of my favorites - in fact - a song that ranks up there with "Who Let The Dogs Out" for being the most annoying. But the positive energy was so overwhelming that I stopped thinking, and just DANCED. In the midst of my sweaty, arms-out jig routine, Moby suddenly cut into "Piano and Strings," an uncharacteristically low-tempo track for him. I stopped suddenly and looked around, convinced that people would break out in anarchy, now that their frenzied dancing had come to a halt. They didn't. In fact, there was a distinctly kumbaya-type vibe that settled over the whole place. One might say that Moby had achieved the ultimate dj's Nirvana. Total surrender, no questions asked. Such is the beauty of music, when thousands of souls collide at Ultra.
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40 minutes. That's how long it took me and my husband, The Marmot, to get from our apartment on South Beach, to the Ultra Music Festival at Bicentennial Park. We eschewed driving there. The thought of fighting it out with 50,000 concert revelers made our knuckles turn white. The pound, pound, pounding of bass was audible even as we were passing over the McArthur causeway. In the sunlight, the white sound stage tents beckoned like giant elephants. And just like that - we weren't in Miami anymore. Gone were the white linen pants, the Manolo Blahniks, the high-priced escorts, and their rich Brazillionaire sugar daddies. In their place was a teeming mass of humanity - dressed, pierced, colored, and dyed to fly their freak flags high. We saw a trio of raver goths, who looked as if they had fallen into a spring sale at Hott Topic and weren't able to climb their way out. One of them looked like a cross between Marilyn Manson and Lindsay Lohan during her 80lb coke whore stint. He teetered over everyone in his platform foam shoes, and bore the supercilious expression of a London Tory barrister. "Jesus, does that guy even have bowel movements?" I wondered out loud. No sooner did I say that, than when The Marmot pointed at the Main Stage, and went, "WHOA!" I looked. It was some sight to behold. Tiesto was in the midst of spinning Carpe Noctum, that ubiquitous raver's anthem - and the crowd was ALL OVER that sh1t. Picture a sea of flailing arms and vibrating bodies, all electrified by the same beats. Imagine a million voices going "AHHHH!!" simultaneously. Multiply that image a thousand times over. That's how crazy Ultra was. Everywhere that we went, the sickest beats followed. We weren't able to catch Danny Tenaglia's set, but local talent Rabbit in the Moon more than made up for our disappointment. Frontman Bunny spun "Deeper" - a track featuring what sounded like Benedictine monks on acid - and the texture, the melody, the sheer beauty of that track made me so damned happy that my mom didn't accidentally drop me on my head when I was a kid and make me deaf. Because it is times like these that I thank the powers that be for the redemptive quality of music. Bunny continued with the 80's inspired "Come Alive," to which the kid next to me responded to by busting into The Robot. Later on at the mash-up stage, Turkish delight, Erol Alkan wowed many by spitting out early 80's and 90's cult favorites with his signature ambient sounds and moody lounge track overlays. No pop cultural stone was left unturned, no one-hit wonder too cheesy for Erol. During his hour long set, he sampled tunes from Kylie Minogue, Madonna, Lionel Ritchie, Michael Jackson, and Rick Astley (yes, THE Rick Astley). As if we weren't already thrilled with the surfeit of pop ballads, Erol took his craft one notch higher, and went Full Tilt Indie. For 20 blissful minutes, we were treated to the his masterful mixes featuring The Scissor Sisters, Franz Ferdinand, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and LCD Soundsystem. Two stages over, Carl Cox, the Crown Prince of Ultra's first day, was holding court with "Ain't it Funky Now?" - one of the singles off his Second Sign album. There is a very palpable difference between a dj who enjoys critical acclaim, and one who has commercial acclaim. The former is usually a nuclear-pale, rake thin character named Dieter from West Berlin, who likes chain-smoking cloves and frowning a lot. Conversely, mainstream dj's usually have lucrative record deals, date Croation supermodels, and make a living from spinning tried-and-tested, danceable pieces of crap. Carl Cox is one of the visionaries who has managed to achieve both. I heard him spin 10 years ago at The Palladium in LA. His work is just as fresh, cutting-edge, and masterful as it was when he burst on the scene during the Second Summer of Love. During the bossa-nova influenced "Space Calling," we saw the reluctant goth kids get up and DANCE. So maybe they weren't exactly hopping onboard the Love Train. No matter. Those slight, almost imperceptible foot taps told me more than I needed to know. Forget what the tabloids are saying about his new stuff. Carl Cox is here to stay, and if the energy at Ultra is any indicator of his relevance, he will be redefining the face of electronica for a very long time.
11PM rolled around, and we were famished. A cursory glance at the array of food choices confirmed our worst suspicions - that while the organizers of Ultra did a bang-up job putting the lineup together, the quality and variety of food sucked @ss. Not only were the kabobs undercooked - the vendor was selling two anemic looking sticks of chicken for $9. But all was not lost. Especially when you're a Melodytrip correspondent. One flirty smile and a shameless flash of my press pass later, I was sitting pretty in the VIP area, sipping on a vodka-cranberry and nibbling on sushi. A soft breeze blew in from the bay. I relaxed, and stretched out on my bean bag. Membership has it's privileges.
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There are some things that Miamians dread more than paying taxes and blue balls. To name a few: being passed over for Homestead Exemptions, bad arroz con pollo, power outages during hurricane season, and the onslaught of out-of-towners descending upon Winter Music Conference.
For music lovers, however, the pain-in-the-ass factor of traffic congestion, no parking spots, and coked-out revelers is outweighed by the sheer awesomeness of WMC's closing party - the Ultra Music Festival. UMF 2008 marks the festival's 10th year of existence. This commemoration is by no means insignificant. After the First and Second Great Waves of Electronica (marked by the likes of Swedish Egil and Paul Van Dyk, respectively) so many insipid, big record-contract DJs jumped on board that music reviewers were all but writing Electronica's Obits. In the immortal words of Eminem, "
You don't know me, you're too old/Let go, it's over, nobody listens to techno." He's wrong. Somebody listens to techno. At least 50,000 people people, to be exact - and this number keeps growing. UMF has changed locations from South Beach, to Bayfront Park, to Bicentennial Park - all to accommodate the swelling masses that keep back for more D and B, more juice, more of those crazy blips and bleeps and Things That Make Us Go Hmm.
This year, UMF's organizers have outdone themselves again. The lineup reads like a techno-head's wet dream. Tiesto, wunderkind from Holland, will be headlining on Friday night. Joining him will be Carl Cox, M.A.N.D.Y, James Zabiela, and Justice. I have heard many acid-house and break purists decry the increasing encroachment of trip-hop and jungle techstep in UMF's recent lineup. My take is exactly the opposite. Where Carl Cox and James Zabiela have stagnated in their ceaseless, tiresome repetitions of a formulaic sure-thing, pioneers like Danny Tenaglia and Rabbit in the Moon have branched out onto exciting new ground. To whit, luminaries such as Paul van Dyk, Layo and Bushwacka! and Goldie will also be rounding out the electronica spectrum with their own brand of genius.
The jewel of UMF's lineup, however, is arguably BT. Like Malibu housewives who all flock to the three plastic surgeons, run-of-the-mill DJs are also guilty of drawing from the same tired, ever-shrinking pool of samples and re-samples. Who hasn't heard every incarnation of Cystal Method's "Don't Hold Back" and "Block Rockin' Beats" on network TV? Yet, BT manages to rise above this sea of mediocrity, periodically churning out truly inspired, multi-textured tracks. In fact, for 90's Clinton-era kids like us, BT's continued maturation as an artist and performer mirrors our own gradual learning curve about Life. When "Ima" dropped in 1996, I was a freshman kid at college, blasting "Blue Skies" through my headphones and crossing the quad to get to my Criminology classes. When Tori Amos crooned "let's go/let's go/let's go/to this magic wondershow," I'd look up into the face of another gray California winter, scowl, and wonder WHAT THE FVCK I was going to do with double degrees in Liberal Bvllsh1t Drivel. Then, 2001 rolled around. At that time, I had graduated from living off-campus in a ratty apartment, to rooming with Tequila Chica in a 2 bedroom rathole in Santa Ana. In between margs with her and writing mindless corporate datasheets, I would put on "Emotional Technology" and indulge in my elaborate pre-date rituals. This included belting out "simply being LOOOVED LOOVED LOOOOOVED" and asking Tequila Chica obsessively if she thought that my cheap Maybelline mascara would melt during a candlelit dinner. And lo, the crashes. Those horrible dates were so perfectly underscored by the moodiness of "Emotional Technology." I drove home one night with "Dark Heart Dawning" on repeat, in disbelief that Mr. King of Persia "wanted me to be a good, self-respecting girl, and come home to meet his mother because we were on our fourth date already." In between BT's melancholy cellos and soaring celestial melodies, I made some sort of devil's pact with myself to always stay single. Because I NEVER wanted to be the girl that guys brought home to mama. (By the way, if you're reading this, Sepehr, you can suck it. And I want my Pulp Fiction DVD back). BT didn't come out with another album until 2006, when "This Binary Universe" was released as a score to That Heniously-Directed Halle Barry Movie. Here was BT's departure from the usual frenetic, synthetic sound that accompanied his earlier work. "Cop Killing" is one of the most hauntingly beautiful melodies I have ever heard, with bassy piano chords and chilly woodwinds. His use of the violin, flamenco guitar, and reversed beats on "Girls Kiss" sounded like an homage to staying still, not the cynical, I'm-Here-Today-And-Gone-Tomorrow wanderlust. Ironically enough, it was at Mynt, one of those ridiculously hard-to-get-into clubs on South Beach, when I realized that I was in love with my now-husband, The Marmot. The DJ put on "Job Hunt," and the irreverent xylophones played out over the sweetly melodic score, it reminded me of a lullaby. Something mellow and innocent that gave me peace, a hush deep down inside as I fell asleep in his arms. I went home uncharacteristically early that night and did a lot of thinking. I came to the conclusion that man, how cool was it that as a BT fan, his music had grown up along with me?
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Coming home from Langerado, is like telling Charlie that his beloved Chocolate Factory has shut down for the rest of the year. For 3 blissful days, my friends and I were steeped in the some of the best music that the world had to offer. Running from set to set brought on feelings of disbelief. "You mean, I get to hear MORE good music?" Oh yes, young grashopper. You do. Day 3 saw us waking from a haze and making RV scrambled eggs. RV eggs are the oh-so classy alternative to regular scrambled eggs, the only difference being that the portions are stretched by adding plenty of milk to feed the many hungry chillun. After breakfast, Arrested Development was first on our list. In the interest of self-disclosure, I haven't owned an Arrested Development record since I was a Catholic schoolgirl and living in Singapore, and Speech and Headliner were worth going to the contraband record guy for. They kicked off their positive, Afrocentic set with the very apt "Lovely Day." One Love and Monto Eshe's voices were as mellow and strong as ever. By the time they got to "Mr Wendell." the crowd had tripled in size, and even the hardcore punks were caught up in their message of universal peace and empowerment. My friends, Guitar Hero and The Fiery Redhead, were adamant about seeing The Wailers perform. I only decided to stick around for 10 minutes, because The Wailers play at Miami's Marley Fest almost yearly. Turns out that this was time well spent, because That Crazy Orthodox Jew, Matisyahu, made a cameo appearance. As hundreds of delightful fans swooned in their Birks and hemp gear, Matisyahu backed up Elan in "No Woman, No Cry." And KILLED it. I overheard one very old Rasta guy tell his hippie paramour that "de son, he dey sing better than his fambly. True, sir!" Bob Marley died before I was born, but it was clear that his amazing legacy lives on through his music. Lunchtime brought with it a dizzying array of food choices. I wasn't too impressed with the Langerado vendors. We made sure to hit up as many of them as humanly possible. We waited till we were nearly falling over from hunger. We even gave ourselves a raging case of the munchies, but no avail - the offerings were a heartbeat away from airplane fly crap. The Thai vegetarian curry was congealed rice in coconut milk. The chicken on a stick was reconstituted meat, and severely undercooked. The chicken gyro smelled like a 13 year old, unwashed pitbull. Out of the entire festival, the only edible item was the $7 pizza slice, which we devoured with considerable resentment. Because hey, for $2.10, a slice on any random NYC street corner costs less and tastes better. Stuffed with sub-par mozzarrella, we headed caught us some Citizen Cope. We stayed just long enough to catch Clarence Greenwood's "Sideways" and "If There's Love" - both of them insanely sweet melodies about falling in love and going sideways, whichever comes first. Ben Folds played directly after him. Ben Folds of the genius piano key-pounding fingers and that plaintive, wailing voice, stretched out over soaring guitar chords. His rendition of "The Luckiest" made me wanna slap my mama upside the head. THAT'S how good he sounded. Thievery Corporation were likewise spectacular, with guest vocalists making their appearance in "Un Simple Histoire" and "Sol Tapado." The high point of their set, however, was during "Satya Shitvum Sundaram," when a female vocalist and her accompanying snake-hipped dancer whipped the crowd into a barely contained erotic frenzy. I didn't recognize a lot of their newer stuff, and was pleased to discover that they had branched out into more afro-funk material, as opposed to just bossa-nova and acid jazz. Then, at 11:30PM, 49 degrees Fahrenheit - 6 good friends waited in silent anticipation for REM to take the stage. REM has always had a special place in my heart. "Losing My Religion" perfectly encapsulated my teen angst years. My friends and I would stop, rewind, and playback certain verses on our Phillips tape decks. We were misunderstood! Disenfranchised! Marginalized! And only Michael Stipe KNEW HOW MUCH WE SUBURBAN GIRLS SUFFERED. I realize now that this was complete bvllsh!t. "Losing My Religion" was about Stipe learning how to play the mandolin, and losing his temper (or in Southern parlance, his "religion") in the process. Gee, thanks, Michael Stipe. Your song sent me down a bobsled of pouty teenage insolence, and a major in Social Ecology, but that's ok. You make amazing music. Clad in a green Obama shirt ("Where did he get that dope shirt?" I heard one guy ask), Stipe launched straight into "What's the Frequency, Kenneth?" and "At My Most Beautiful." "Electrolite" was belted out with barely restrained emotional anguish, and "Supernatural Superserious" was...Supercool. In short, their sound was as powerful as I had ever heard it. It is a wonder that they have stayed fresh, cutting-edge, and relevant throughout the years, without losing an ounce of their trademark sardonic irrelevance. The fact that I was singing the same songs as a 29 year old made me realize that their unique sound had aged beautifully. As I burrowed into The Marmot's arms for warmth, I hoped that we all would as well.
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Saturday, March 8th, 4:06AM I can't sleep. Outside, in the hushed wilderness of the Seminole National Park, all is quiet. By 4 A.M, even the critters in the Everglades have gone to bed. But not our next door neighbor. Noooosir. In the northwest quadrant of the designated RV parking lot for Langerado, the RV next to ours seems to be housing a domestic dispute of sorts. As it appears, this dispute involves the hapless girlfriend, who is accusing her boyfriend of being a "heartless a$$hole who locked her out (of the RV) for 4 hours." The latter is slinging back with, "I was doing you a favor, you drunk ***!" Ah, the quiet gentility of RV living. As with all journeys, the trek from Miami to the Langerado Music Festival in the Everglades came with it's Special Kind of Crazy. To tell the story about how we got there would fill up a whole other blog, one involving our friend, the Sneaker Pimp, taking an accidental gasoline bath at the gas station, and then getting embroiled in an hour long pissing match with a surly work associate on her cell phone, while the rest of us weighed in unhelpfully. Then, there was the weather. Langerado nightswere C-O-L-D, with nightly averages dipping into the low 50s. All around me, skinny alfafa-fed hippies are huddling together, trying to stay warm despite the frost. But, challenges be damned. We came for the music. And the music, my friends, is what made this adventure so worthwhile. Day 1 of Langerado. We pulled up just in time to catch Matt Pond P.A. At the Chickee Hut in the far back section of Langerado, lead singer Matt Pond was in rare form, doling out his mantra of self-awareness in his trademark witticisms, "You should not sound like they do/You should want to sound like you." His trademark plaintive wailing was in full effect, as scores of music revelers nodded their heads in silent agreement. In between sets, I took stock of the Langerado crowd. Overdone piercings and tattoos, check. Dreadlocked hippies smelling of patchouli and bong water, check. Glam nerds, sweating bullets in tweed and corduroy, check. All the usual suspects were present, except....something was different about this Langerado. I saw more couples. I saw families with little kids in tow, sitting high up on their parent's shoulders, enjoying the music through ear plugs. I saw scores of frat boys with plastic bottles of Bud, one with a shirt that said, "Delta Upsilon - Better Fathers, Better Husband, Better Men." I saw beer guts, FUPAs, and too-tight suburban mommy jeans everywhere. It was official. Middle America had arrived. At the 311 stage, Middle America was out in full force. 311, itself a Midwest band (bright eyed and corn fed in Omaha, natch) attracted scores of college coeds and 30-something yuppies. They were surprisingly good. Nick Hexum's voice, over-produced and under-emotive on their albums, had a steely, raw edge to it that had the entire crowd on their feet, cheering. During their cover of The Cure's "Love Song," I realized that two days ago, power chords in a Cure song would have been deemed blasphemy. But 311 made it work. "Beautiful Disaster's" stuttering guitar riffs had me dancing while in line at the Port-A-Potty, while "Amber's" homage to surf rock sent me back to nights around beach bonfires in So. Cal. Would I call myself a 311 fan? No. But they definitely don't suck live. I spent the rest of the day wandering around the sprawling grounds. It took me on average of 10 minutes to get from one stage to another. With a total of 5 operational stages, hundreds of on-site staff, and 30,000 attendees, the sheer expanse of Langerado was downright intimidating. We knew that the Beastie Boys set was going to be slammed, so we didn't even bother with staking out a primo spot. More to the point, some of us were wondering if the Beastie Boys could still cut it. You know, being middle-aged, and all. How could they still be relevant, when License to Ill dropped more than 20 years ago? As it happens, not even the passage of time could stifle their frenzied Brooklyn energy. Mike D, Ad Rock, and MCA hopped around on stage like they were still 16 year old boys performing at their buddy's bar mitzvah. "Can't Won't Don't Stop" had the crowd chanting in unison, while "Intergalactic" had the Marmot and me doing synchronized kung fu kicks. Their set culminated with "Sabotage," the sheer brilliance of which had us screaming like it was the Second Coming of the Lord. At that point, it didn't matter that we were wet, exhausted, and stoned out of our minds. Our walk back to the RV went something like this: The Marmot: DUUUDE!!! Me: That was AWESOME!!! Sneaker Pimp: So. Fucking. Awesome. Fiery Redhead: Did you see Mike D's salt and pepper hair? The Marmot: DUUUDE!!! Such as it is when one fights for her right to party.
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Bring on the heat, the crowds, the bugs, the mud. Stock up on beer and
wet naps. Roll out the RV. Leave your Crackberry at home. Langerado is
here.
This year's three day live music extravaganza has switched
locales from it's original Markham Park location, to the Big Cypress
Indian Reservation. The only way to access the Big Cypress Reservation
is via Alligator Alley. Which means this - we will be in Butt Fucking
Nowhere. Now, as far as I'm concerned, Butt Fucking Nowhere is an
awesome a place as any to have a live music fest. Where I come from in
Southern California, any music fest where you're not placed in mortal
danger of dehydration or snake bites, is not a music fest worth it's
salt. For this fact alone, I am eagerly anticipating the hair-raising,
awe-inspiring, sensory overloading audio orgasm that is Langerado 2008.
Of course, I cannot speak of this exciting sojourn, without making
mention of my fellow travelers. There will be 4 other people vigorously
shedding their 9-5 corporate face masks along with me. They are: my
husband, The Marmot; my ad exec friend, The Fiery Redhead; her
boyfriend, Guitar Hero, and fellow blogger, The Sneaker Pimp. Their
musical tastes run the gamut from indie rock, to 80's cheese glam, to
hip hop, emo and world music. Fortunately, this year's Langerado lineup
promises something for everybody. That's right - even if all you listen
to are Billboard chart toppers and "best of" mixes, the Beastie Boys
and REM will still get you moving. Thievery Corporation will also be there, and I am dying, waiting, SALIVATING for them to play tracks off their latest album, "The Cosmic Game." Ever since wunderkinds Rob Garza and Eric Hilton teamed up, my life has become a Brazilian bossa-nova soundtrack, infused with moody female songstresses. Well, not really, but that's how good their newest tracks are. I caught a performance featuring Thievery Corporation, playing in conjunction with the Miami-based New World Symphony, and the effect was nothing short of astounding. Over the years, Thievery Corp has gotten progressively more experimental with adding orchestral textures to their songs. Their massive following attests to how accessible and moving this format is. Matisyahu, another fusion artiste, will be performing his signature medley of reggae and Hasidic Judaism. No newcomer to the spirit of Langerado, Matisyahu's performance at last year's show ended on a particularly high note. Against the backdrop of a setting sun, Matisyahu hurled out "King Without a Crown" with searing veracity, then went straight into a spirited, 10 minute horah with some audience members. That was the moment when my friends and I looked at each other and nodded silently, eyes slitty through a haze of a weed. Every young person who feels music in his soul, yearns to share this connection with others. Matisyahu is that person, so seeing him perform makes you want to, well, horah it out with a complete stranger. His latest album 'Youth" is a little more dancehall reggae oriented.The rousing exhalations to God have not disappeared. Rather, they are subsumed beneath a salute to the revolutionary spirit of young people. "What I'm Fighting For" is the perfect encapsulation of this rallying cry.
I saved the best for last: Matt Pond P.A. "Several Arrows Later" was released in October 2005, but I was blissfully unaware of their existence until The Marmot and I first started dating. He would plug in his iPod, crank up the speakers, and launch into Just How Cool This Fucking Band Is. It took a while for the songs to grow on me. Some of the orchestral instruments were overbearing, such as the violins in "It Is Safe" and the cellos in "From Debris". Pond's signature classic, "The Moviegoer," was synthetic and whiny, I felt. But one morning, over eggs and the New York Times, "Halloween" rang in from the living room. And that was when I caught on to the raw, emotionally charged wonder of Pond's voice. His scathing criticism of pop culture ("If you don't know or care you'll be alright/I heard it's modern to be stupid/You don't need to talk to look good.") is laid out over gentle hooks and tender melodic swells. There is no magic formula to this band's success - just a very raw, organic indie sound with lyrics that tug at your heart strings. Think Weezer, minus the power chords and nerd glasses. Two years later, I wound up marrying The Marmot. I wonder if he knows that Matt Pond P.A. probably had something to do with it. They are easily my most anticipated band of Langerado 2008. Will Ani di Franco freak out, as she always does? Will Les Claypool indulge in our love for all things retro, and play classic Primus? Will Ozomatli go heavy on the cumbia, and lighter on the dub? Who the *** knows. You'll just have to keep reading this blog.
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