The Good,
The Bad
and The Iggy
Bumbershoot ’05 Festival
Seattle, Washington, USA
September 2-5, 2005
Garbage + New York Dolls + The Donnas + Mavis Staples + Kermit Ruffins + Little Brother + Zion I + Razrez + M. Ward + The Ruby Doe + Anna Oxygen + Maktub + Stan Ridgway + Chris Stamey + Smoosh
Iggy & the Stooges + Michael Franti & Spearhead + The Decemberists + Ted Leo & The Pharmacists + Dashboard Confessional + Okkervil River + Aqueduct + Brazilian Girls + Earlimart + Sonny Landreth + Buckwheat ZydecoBy ROY PEARL
Stooges pix by PETER WHITFIELD
Seattle’s Bumbershoot Festival runs for four days and features 20 venues, over 2000 artists, plus numerous beer gardens and the kind of cheap-ass gastrointestinal atrocities usually found clogging arteries in county fairs. It’s an ear-busting marathon that demands cast-iron resolve and quality footwear (strenuous wind-sprint training is optional, though highly recommended).
This year we bookended the long weekend by attending Friday and Monday, while saving some cash by neglecting the Saturday and Sunday. Of course, that meant missing solo shows by Elvis Costello and Trey Anastasio (but on the bright side, it meant missing solo shows by Elvis Costello and Trey Anastasio).
Friday:
Got on the grounds too late to see the Gruff Mummies (a local '60s influenced punk band), so ended up starting the fest at the EMP's Skychurch with Sub-Motive (a local trio), who were - and I mean this in the nicest possible way - shitty and insufferable. They sounded like a half-baked emo band with the world's wankiest guitarist. Things picked up slightly whenever the bass player sang, but his more pop-oriented songs were continually ruined by the guitarist running all over them. We briefly escaped the Skychurch and washed the aftertaste of Sub-Motive from our skulls by heading straight for one of the outdoor beergardens. 2 o'clock on a sunny afternoon is as fine a time to start drinking as any.
Next, back at the Skychurch, we saw Anna Oxygen, who was fairly accurately described in the program guide as a cross between Madonna and a Jane Fonda workout video. That admittedly sounds like it should be godawful - and it is, but in a completely delightful way. She was dressed in what looked like terry cloth gym shorts, with a fuzzy owl mask on her head, singing and dancing to the rudimentary beats from a laptop set up behind her. She's either extremely courageous or barking mad. Each year at Bumbershoot there's always an unexpected highlight - a couple years ago it was my introduction to the Boss Martians, this year it was undoubtedly Anna Oxygen.
The Skychurch comes equipped with a bar so with the aid of more liquor we stayed around for the next act, Smoosh. Smoosh is two sisters - a 13-year-old singer/keyboardist and an 11-year-Saold drummer - and, it turns out, they're a huge draw. I suppose it's more out of curiosity than anything else, because their music to me sounds like it came straight out of the Precious Virgin Sidestage from Lilith Fair back in '95. Impressive, I suppose, given their ages, but not impressive enough to stop us from finally leaving the confines of the Skychurch.
Next up at the outdoor Backyard Stage, we took in ex-dBs semi-legend Chris Stamey from our vantage point in yet another beergarden. I loved the dBs, and Stamey is armed with truckloads of talent, but he just refuses to stick to what he's good at - which is melodic pop. Instead, he pretentiously refers to himself as a "folksist" and stretches his voice beyond its limitations while stubbornly avoiding hooks and melody. Definitely a letdown – though I understand the original dBs are touring again, so maybe the old dog has finally learned some old tricks.
From Stamey we trekked over to see ancient local busker Baby Gramps with a backing band that included a musical saw. It was interesting enough, but the clock was ticking and we had to make it to the Mainstage in time for the New York Dolls.
I've been waiting 30 years to see the Dolls, so my expectations were unfeasibly high. This incarnation of the Dolls may be more of a tribute act than the real thing but, hey, I’m totally cool with paying tribute to these guys. The band sounded great - even though Steve Conti is too good a musician to ever approximate the sonic chaos of Johnny Thunders - and it was a blast of outright nostalgia to see Sylvain and Johansen enjoying themselves so much onstage. Johansen, so frighteningly skinny he resembled a scarecrow with all the straw knocked out, mugged and smoked throughout the set, while Sylvain seemed genuinely happy to simply be there. The crowd was full of grey hairs, young punks, and pseudo-glam costumery (I even caught a glimpse of a chick who – I swear - was a dead ringer for Sable Starr) plus a surprising number of kindergarten-age children sporting Ramones t-shirts.
Personality Crisis, indeed. The encore was a blistering version of “Human Being”, and the sight of a new generation of young’uns moshing to that old anthem brought a tear to my eye… or that might just have been spittle from the baby bouncing on the shoulder of the mother in front of me.
We then raced over to the NW Court Lounge to see Stan Ridgeway. Ridgeway has developed into quite the raconteur over the years, peppering his set with hilarious anecdotes and extending songs with pointed rants. He even played his old Wall Of Voodoo chestnut "Mexican Radio" as a sort of cajun reel. He also played faves "Drive, She Said" and the spooky-ass WoV version of "Ring Of Fire." Fun stuff.
The day closed for us back at the Mainstage with Garbage, which was a bit of an anticlimax for the day. Oh sure, Shirley Manson did her best, parading her flat bum around in tight denim shorts with her name inked across the ass, but it was all a tad too rote. This band is in a major rut. We left early, figuring it would behoove us to keep our buzz going in a bar off-grounds.
Monday:
The day started with the Decemberists on the Mainstage. Their brand of overly literate (some might say precious) indie-folk didn't translate well to a stadium environment. By four or so songs I was bored out of my brain, wishing for Shirley Manson or even Baby Gramps to make an unscheduled appearance. No such luck.
We left and ended up back at the Skychurch, this time with the Charming Snakes. They were something of a trainwreck, but they were a fun trainwreck - which was a breath of fresh air after the staid professionalism of the Decemberists. After three sloppy songs the bass guitarist looked out at the crowd and said "how much longer do we have to play?" The answer, unfortunately for them, was 35 minutes longer than their setlist. That was our cue to leave.
We wisely stayed away from Dashboard Confessional at the Mainstage, opting instead to check out the Be Good Tanyas while sitting at the Backyard Stage's beergarden. Seemed like about a thousand people had the same plan - and that was our first inkling that this day was far more populated than the Friday had been. We managed to steal a table, and listened to the placid alt.country of the Tanyas without being able to see them.
Our plan was then to head to the What's Next Stage to catch Earlimart, then stay in the beergarden until the following act, Ted Leo and the Pharmacists, but the enormity of the crowd scuttled our schedule. A huge line-up for Ted Leo had already started - an hour before he began - and so we had to break our Bumbershoot rule of "no queues." It almost wasn't worth it, because Ted Leo's first few songs were obliterated by feedback. Once the techs got it under control, however, Leo put on a typically rivetting show.
We left Ted Leo to get a taste of Brazilian Girls at the Bumbrella Stage, which was a mishmash of bossa nova and disco and godknowswhatelse. Not at all my cup o' pee – but I wouldn’t mention that to the huge throng of people assembled and grooving on the grass.
From there we waded through more crowds to see Okkervil River at the Backyard Stage. They were hit and miss, reminding me of a morose, gothic version of the Old ‘97s. They certainly gave it everything they had, with vocalist Will Sheff unafraid to hit notes that have historically been rejected by human ears, but overall they don't seem quite ready yet.
Afterwards we chilled out at the NW Court Lounge, listening to French chanteuse Keren Ann lull the crowd into a blissful persistent vegetative state.
We then trudged back through the hordes to the Backyard Stage for Tegan And Sara's chirpy mix of folk and tick-tock noo wave. Suffice it to say, I rechristened them Alvin and the ChickPunks. I’m sure any Avril Lavigne fans in attendance were delighted.
We just missed Mudhoney back at the Mainstage (I told you – wind-sprint training is recommended), but got there in time for the weekend’s main event: Iggy and the Stooges. Iggy was in fine form, prancing like a rhythmically-challenged gay derelict suffering from the debilitating effects of electroshock therapy, screaming at security to let the crowd jump onstage (and subsequently disappearing under a mass of at least one hundred moshing fools), and always threatening to lose his pants.
On this night the Ig decided against exposing his 58-year old meat whistle to the world - and for that I will always be thankful. The all-ages crowd went absolutely apeshit for the grinding riffs of those first two Stooges albums, and an encore of "I Wanna Be Your Dog" sent everybody home buzzing.
I always thought rock nostalgia was the domain of babyboomers unable to let go of their fixation for the Beatles or Beach Boys or Deep Purple Mark MMMXVIII - but here we are in 2005, with Mssrs. Thunders, Kane, Murcia, Nolan, and Dave Alexander all long dispatched to dust and memories, and goddamn if their respective bands didn’t turn in the highlight sets of the festival.
So happy anniversary, Bumbershoot. We’re getting old.VIEW PETER WHITFIELD'S PHOTO PORTFOLIO
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