Before I get to the live review of the sets that I saw
during 2012’s 80/35 Festival, I have to mention the events preceding it.
For those of you not familiar with this obscure music
festival held in Des Moines ,
Iowa every summer around
Independence Day, let me share the particular. It’s in the downtown section and
they close off a few blocks in the area, have vendors and booths line the
streets, and there are two separate stage areas playing music of the
alternative variety.
I’ve been accused of being a buzz kill when visiting this
even in year’s past, but I’m a moody fucker and I follow the Osmond’s mantra of
one bad apple don’t spoil the whole bunch.
I’m also a cheap bastard, so when I learned of this year’s
line-up, I didn’t see a lot of bands that made me want to fork over the “early
bird special” price that they offered. At that time, there were some bands that
I wasn’t interested in and one-Death Cab For Cutie-that I’ve seen twice before
and my affection towards them has kind of run its course anyway.
Then some of the open slots started to fill up and I noticed
well after the discounted ticket period that the opening night of the two-day
festival had two bands that I needed to see: Dinosaur Jr. and Fucked Up.
While I’ve seen Dino previously in the most intimate of
settings, I’d gladly pay to see them again. And I get the impression that
Fucked Up aren’t going to be around for much longer, as each of the band
members get older and start examining other life options, most of which don’t
entail performing in a band with an incredibly obscene band name.
Moreover, if you appreciate David Comes To Life as much as I do, you kind of want a band like
Fucked Up to reach as many people as possible. You get a little bummed when
their name alone prevents a wider audience from learning about them, because
the truth is, we need more bands like Fucked Up, challenging people in
the same manner that punk rock challenged me when I was a youngster.
Plus, I heard that they were just an awesomely great live
act.
The great news was that Fucked Up would open this year’s
80/35 Festival, and Dinosaur Jr. would immediately follow them. This meant that
I didn’t need a weekend pass at all, just the one-day pass would be fine, and
there was a good possibility that I could be in the comforts of my parent’s
house before the nightly news came on.
So I waited, patiently scanning Craigslist for one-day pass
deals that only seemed to get better as the date approached.
On the night before the Friday opening, an ad appeared in
the local section of the website for exactly what I was looking for: a one-day
pass for $20. To see two bands for $20 was a great deal, I thought, so I made
contact with the seller.
A response came back from a chick named Astrid, which made
me think of Hamburg
era Beatles, which made me feel pretty good about the entire transaction. On
the morning of the festival, I prepped for the two-hour travel time to my
parent’s place with a swing by the bank and a quick torque of the wheels that I
had rotated a hundred miles previously.
My phone buzzed that I’d received a new email, and I noticed
that it was from Astrid who explained that she wouldn’t be able to meet me to
purchase the ticket. She graciously just gave me the link to her ticket, which
contained her name on the actual ticket image and stated on the “instructions”
section that I needed to present a photo id or the credit card used to purchase
the thing just to gain access.
This is the part where I tell you that the people actually
taking the tickets for the 80/35 Festival don’t give a shit if your name is
Astrid, Todd, or Charles Nelson Reilly. The volunteer staff seemed completely
chill, and upon entry, my ticket was quickly scanned and the obligatory access
bracelet was attached to my right wrist.
Maybe it was the heat that caused everyone to create a drama
free environment in what was already a very oppressive one, temperature wise.
You see, the Midwest had been enduring a weeklong
heat wave during the festival, most assuredly concerning the promoters that
everyone would just stay home for fear of that pesky heat stroke.
A sponsor handed out empty water bottles and the city opened
up a few hydrants with makeshift water refill stations, making sure that if
anyone was going to collapse from heat exhaustion, it wouldn’t be from their
neglect.
Photo by Tony Galloro courtesy of amesprogressive.org |
Walking up the closed off street to get to the main stage
area, I could hear the sounds of guitars and screams of “Dying on the inside!
Dying on the inside!” bouncing off the brick buildings of downtown Des Moines .
I found a spot directly in front of the stage (I’d put the
crowd at conservative number of 150-200 deep) and gazed upon the image of a
shirtless Damian Abraham screaming at the surrounding buildings, housing a
bunch of financial institutions like Wells Fargo and other wealth management
corporations. I smiled at the thought of someone stuck at work a little late on
that Friday afternoon, distracted by the punk rock band from Canada playing
just outside their window.
It wasn’t long before Damian found his way off stage and
into the crowd, giving a sweaty hug to anyone who poured water on him or rubbed
ice on his hairy back. He seemed like a big, gentle bear, appreciative of the
few who had braved the heat to see them. His stage banter included an update on
his family, an appreciation of cheese curds (thereby becoming totally relatable
to his Iowan fan base) and a quick story of a Canadian punk band that
influenced him.
Quick side note: a friend of mine in college had a
collection of punk and hardcore songs as performed by Canadian punk bands. I
think it was designed as some introduction to Canadian punk, but one of the
songs-I remember the name of the tune was “Equal Time”-featured a slam on the United States
at the end of it. The singer declared “You fucking Americans/Can’t even read”
at the end of the song, to which my friend and I felt was a pretty chickenshit
way of trying to disrespect our country. We were like: “Dude, you’re from
fucking Canada !”
trying to point out the folly of his complaints. Just for reference, have you
ever noticed how many Canadians get busted in bait cars? At least in America ,
we have enough smarts to take our keys with us and lock the doors.
The band looked miserable, particularly Sandy Miranda who
appeared on the verge of passing out during a few moments.
Abraham was the biggest sweat lodge of them all, climbing on
top of camera towers and, eventually crawling on the ground back to the stage
as the band was reaching the end of their set.
With every venture off stage, the younger bums would start
to thrash. Before long, a swirling pit arose, which prompted the very metro
looking twenty-something to take notice. He locked in on Abraham, in what I
couldn’t decipher, was friend or foe. You see, I’ve been to shows in the past
where a few head knockers show up, with their only intent seeming to be to hurt
a musician or artist who is perceived to be of the more “physical” type.
Damian Abraham does not strike me as one of those artists.
The look of joy he had just watching the crowd work, basking in the moment
while staying close to the edge of any resemblance of thrash pit shenanigans.
He’d smile as the dervish gained speed, and then he’d focus his attention on
what I’d call the more literal fan base. The crowd members that knew every word
to every song, relishing the chance to scream a verse into Abraham’s
microphone, possibly even a cheek-to-cheek duet.
It was all there. And then it was over.
I swear the set was done in a prompt forty-five minutes. And
while I’m usually a fan of brevity and encores only when they’re deserved
(there would be no encore from Fucked Up tonight), I could have easily enjoyed
an extra hour of this band. Yes, I’d take the heat if that was the only
requirement, but I must confess that there is no human on Earth that could have
rocked as hard as Fucked Up did in this solar panel conditions for anything
much longer than what they gave Friday night.
See this band before you die or before they collapse under
the rigors of middle age responsibility.
How hot was it? I came well hydrated to the show and knew
instinctively after the Fucked Up set that I would require more aqua. I began
looking for those free water bottles that I kept seeing everyone use, so that I
too could take advantage of the blessed water courtesy of the Des Moines Water
Department, but after a few blocks I gave up. Just looking at the dead eyes of
everyone walking past the lefty booths and liberal causes was exhausting. The
representatives of these progressive and artsy spots barely wanted you to check
their displays out for fear of the additional body heat, and for me the feeling
was completely mutual.
One larger, heavily tattooed woman took advantage of the
increased traffic in front of her tent that she encouraged people to stop by,
sweetening the deal with an offer of “free hugs.” The exact type of hug was
bartered out to a crew of four young dudes, one of whom declined immediately,
stating the obvious “It’s too hot for a hug.”
Finally, my body realized that all of this walking was not
going a bit of good in keeping cool, so I broke down and spent the $3 bucks one
food vendor was asking for Aquafinas. By the time I got back to the stage,
securing a front row spot for Dinosaur Jr’s set, my water was already half
consumed. It forced me to refill my bottle and lose my sweet spot in the
process as the crowd had grown noticeably larger for J., Lou and Murph.
Photo by Sami Villwock courtesy amesprogressive.org |
Poor Lou Barlow came on stage to battle a slowly setting sun
with an ill-advised pair of black slacks and a black polo with thin red and
white stripes. With the sun came the sweat, and by the soft section of set
opener “Thumb,” Lou’s sweat began taking his glasses down his nose like a
waterslide, prompting Barlow to finally just put them on top of his bass amp
for future need.
Throughout the show, Barlow was the band’s primary
banter-maker, yelling at the sun for being too bright, challenging the
light-maker to a dual and encouraging it to go away. It caused him to refer to Des Moines as one of the
low points of his tour, not because of the city, but because of how shitty his
performance was because of the heat.
Personally, I didn’t notice that poor of a showing from him,
but it was clear that the heat would definitely contribute to the misery of yet
another bassist this evening.
Murph still does that annoying fill thing in between songs,
hammering out a brief beat, groove, or fill while Barlow drinks fluids and
Mascis tunes his guitar. He provided a solid beat throughout the set, but give
us some time to recuperate from the sonic assault of each song instead of
banging for the sake of making noise.
Because J. was certainly providing ample amounts of noise
with his trio of Marshall
stacks and a rack the size of a twin bed housing all of the dude’s fucking
guitar pedals. He started out a bit flat, but his solos began to get crazier as
the set progressed.
By the end of the set, the band brought out “Freak Scene”
which got a few ladies dancing. Whenever Mascis went to the “jugga jugga”
bridge part, he’d hit a pedal that made his guitar sound like a jet airplane.
I took an earplug out just to get a taste and immediately
felt sympathy for all the morons that came down without them. The crowd would
get worked up enough to start a bit a of jostling, before eventually getting
beat down by the added heat. The “troublemakers” were so polite that I saw a
crowd surfer reaching the end of the line near stage right, lightly smacking
the heads of two unsuspecting girls as he made his way to the ground.
The young man, being the polite young Iowan that he was,
apologized to the girls without saying a word or taking off his sunglasses,
offering a parting handshake before heading back into the pushers and the
shovers to locate his original crew.
I saw a couple in their early forties taking in the vibe
with their young teenage son and daughter, gently enjoying each other’s company
before the show. They looked very suburban, a picture of Mom and Dad bringing
their kids down to an old school alternative rock show to relive a bit of the
history when Dad had an airshift down at the campus radio station.
By the time of Dinosaur Jr’s set, that same Dad was
witnessed spending more time eyeballing the pit that had started immediately
next to his family, causing him to become the protector while Mascis bent notes
and damaged our hearing. It was a lovely bit of chaos and Mascis seemed to be
enjoying himself, as evidenced by a few extended solos.
And the dude seemed to barely break a sweat, and I was right
up in front to witness this as the god’s honest truth. Mascis hardly went away
from the back and forth rocking, eyes locked on the fretboard (when you could
see his eyes, that is) while smacking us in the face with an occasional scream
of his wah-wah. It was out of this world at times, and with the abrupt close of
“Just Like Heaven,” they were off stage after a tidy 80 minute set.
Simply wonderful.
Here’s a little clip of the musky scene back stage and
thanks to the folks at amesprogressive.org for catching some nice shots while my camera phone managed to catch nothing but smudges thanks to a nice layer of sunscreen covering the lenses.
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