As always, what you can always bank on San Francisco-wise in October is Indian Summer, and a decided lack of Karl The Fog, making a perfect setting for Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival. Made it up for the final day of this years edition, and navigated both the crowds and a crowded schedule to get a well-rounded taste of music in just a few short hours. Leading off the day was Poor Man's Whiskey, who, out of all the talent assembled, could justifiably claim home field advantage, as they've appeared here for roughly 2/3's of the festival's existence. Sure crowd pleasers, they got the joint fired up and set the tone for the day.
While his roots and skill make him an accomplished arranger, Randy Newman shines most darkly on his own, just a guy at a piano, spinning out his inimitable tales, covering his songbook from early days of providing hits for others, ("Mama Told Me Not To Come") to his golden age ("Six Feet High and Rising") to his Pixar period, leavened with his own deprecating manner.
The significance of the NOLA flag planted at the Towers of Gold stage revealed itself fully with the arrival of Big Freedia, Queen Diva. Backed up by an amazing dance crew, it was an irresistible set that compelled even the unwilling to shake that ass. Capped off, of course, by drawing enthusiastic audience members up for the closer, our National Anthem, "Ass Everywhere".
Drenched in sweat, the next logical choice was to make the brain work as hard as the butt, and for mental calasthenics, it's hard to top the work of Ornette Coleman. A reunion of his Prime Time band from the 70's, led by Jamaladeen Tacuma, was notable enough, but adding in guest firepower in the form of tenor man David Murray, Wallace Roney, and Marc Ribot tipped the scales to the very outer limits.
If you take enough left turns, eventually you'll come back to where you started, and the sweet comedown of Courtney Barnett and Kurt Vile was the perfect salve. The pair came together in Australia, and a meeting of like minds blossomed into a just-released album. Backed up by the Sea Lice, including Sleater-Kinney drummer Janet Weiss, they made a winning go of their very first show, wowing the huge crowd that packed the Swan Stage, stretching back as far as the eye would permit. Combining songs from the aformentioned LP with covers of each other's material, it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Walking away from Swan, it didn't take long for the roar of a full in-flight Bob Mould Band to catch the ears. The row of Porta Potties that demarcated a space where you could hear both bands was something to behold. Backed by a rhythm section of Jon Wurster and Jason Narducy, Mould raged through the sun and his mountain of a catalogue, without a breath between songs, to provide a jagged and uplifting coda to the day.
To celebrate release day and kick off the tour for Beauty and Ruin, Bob Mould landed in LA, pulled his rhythm section, (the law firm of Wurster and Narducy), in from Europe, and proceeded to lay waste to Amoeba Hollywood wth a 10 song set that continued this year's trend of "Instores Requiring Earplugs". This is something of a golden age for Mould, (no pun intended), in a career that's seen its share of blinding light and fallow moments, and the latest rise can be traced back to the moment the rhythm section snapped into place. In the smoke-filled hard bop days of the mid-50's, under Miles, the trio of Red Garland, Paul Chambers, and Philly Jo Jones was known simply as The Rhythm Section, and a case can be made for bassist Jason Narducy and drummer Jon Wurster as the indie rock equivalent. Narducy's roots stretch back to Mould producing Jason's band Verbow back in the 90's. When Mould saluted his own Workbook with a 25th anniversary show at San Francisco's Great American Music Hall in February, it was the Verbow combo of Narducy on bass and Alison Chesley on cello accompanying him, returning the gift. Along with his Split Single project, he joined Wurster in Superchunk as bassist on their most recent tour. While we're not quite ready to ordain him Philly Jon Wurster, (geographically correct though it may be), the powerhouse drummer from Superchunk has gone on to sit in with a number of bands, always raising up whatever situation he's dropped into. The combination of the two has, to say the least, rejuvenated Mould's sound, keeping up with his fiercest guitar tangents, but most importantly, adding a swing and buoyancy to songs that could easily turn leaden. Once the foundation was laid, Mould has worked backwards and forwards, rewriting his own history one blast at a time, revisiting his older songs while turning in new work that ranks with his best.
With no other show on the schedule save an appearance on Conan, the band was fully locked in and focused. Kicking off with "The Descent", from 2012's Silver Age, the die was cast as they moved on to tracks two through six from Beauty and Ruin, in that order, with "Little Glass Pill" setting up the sideways blowtorch pop feint of first single "I Don't Know You Anymore", clearing the decks for the full throttle punk charge of "Kid With Crooked Face", and it could have been the mid-80's all over again, or '94. At every station, Bob Mould has been there in the background, and while not a household name, it's hard to swing a dead cat without coming across an indie band that doesn't owe some small debt to the man. "Nemeses Are Laughing" and "The War" set up the conceptual thrust of the LP, and just when a normal instore would have petered out, Mould never looked back, tapping into the Sugar songbook for a volcanic take on "Hoover Dam", before returning to the business at hand with new tracks "Tomorrow Morning" and a hard charging "Hey Mr. Grey". Finishing things up, he dusted off another Sugar gem from Copper Blue, "If I Can't Change Your Mind". As much as the guitar shock and awe that preceded, the song was a potent reminder of his gift for melody. Beauty and Ruin is out now on Merge Records, and the band is on tour this summer-they'll return to Los Angeles in September for two nights at the Roxy.
Setlist: The Descent Little Glass Pill I Don't Know You Anymore Kid With Crooked Face Nemeses Are Laughing The War Hoover Dam Tomorrow morning Hey Mr. Grey If I Can't Change Your Mind
i.e. Saturday...Saturday...Saturday... Final word about day one…in case I forgot to mention, it was (mid 80’s) the most temperate day ever in years of Coachella going. The move up of the festival one week forward really paid off, and by the time McCartney hit the stage that night, the temps had backed off to around 60, which means chilly out in the desert when one is dressed for 100. Veterans, of course, always stash a hoody, (especially skinny veterans). Saturday was a return to form, in every sense, with temps reaching for the century mark at midday, and a lineup that wouldn’t quit from the word go. None the worse for wear from Friday’s adventure, I hit the tents to open Saturday, picking up post position in the Gobi Tent for Norway’s contribution to culture, Ida Maria. The crowd in the tent was huddled toward the front, scavenging all the available shade, which was just as well, since the main stage featured Billy Talent, Joss Stone, & Paolo Nutini consecutively…making a stellar case for shade, if not vast quantities of alchohol. The tent was about half full when Ida Maria hit the stage, raising the curtain on day 2 with an energetic set, mostly her debut album from last year (in Europe), or brand new (here). Her band came full throttle, 3 deep & her, and they brought an extra edge to the songs, notably a spirited run through ‘Oh My God’, and ‘Stella’, but the highlight, interestingly enough, was a heartfelt take on ‘Keep Me Warm’, which despite the slower tempo, gained a rough intensity among all the rockers… First conflict of the day sprung up next with the Liars on the outdoor stage…but, having just seen them open for Radiohead last fall, (and the fact that it was outside), made the decision to maintain my hard earned spot at the front of the stage for Bob Mould an easy one. Mr. Mould has already lived a few lives, what with notable bands in both the 80’s (Husker Du), and 90’s (Sugar), and a steadfast solo career in between them and since, so in terms of a set, I had no idea what to expect, but I was pretty sure, given the bootlegs I’ve heard, that intensity wouldn’t be an issue.
First red flag went up during soundcheck…I had made a point not to be directly in front of his stack of Marshalls, but when the drummer test.cracked his snare a few times, I felt my hair move. Uh oh…It was then that I remembered a vintage Mould quote where he stated that his idea of a perfect show was a stadium with his band Sugar at one end, and My Bloody Valentine at the other. I hastily went digging through my pockets for earplugs, but they were safely nestled in the suitcase, since MBV, (the one time I knew I would need them), wasn’t on until Sunday. Failing that, and with no shame whatsoever, I quickly improvised, tearing off the filters from two cigarettes, shredding off the paper and wadding them into my ears, gaining an approving nod from the grizzled hipster behind me. Sometimes you have to do it old school style… Other generational note…at this point, I noticed a covey of teen girls, (14ish), materialize in front of me, which was odd to say the least. I felt like Marlin Perkins, and loosened my ‘earplugs’ in an effort to overhear the conversation and gain clues as to what could possibly explain there appearance here, of all places. I recognize Mr. Mould as a kingpin of the college rock era, a towering figure in the indie.nation, and a building block of the culture that helped first spawn Lollapalooza, then give birth to this very festival, a veteran of the ‘D.I.Y. tour the country in a van ethic’, but how had this possibly crossed down to the teen generation of today? Interesting… My answer came when one of the irrepressible sprites pointed to a quiet figure curled up against the stage next to me, roughly my age, slouching under a baseball cap pulled low. She then pronounced, ‘I’m here for Dad’s band, but I’ll meet you…’ Hee hee. Dad rock, sweet…It’s all relative, I guess…
My reverie was interrupted by the emergence of the band, Bob bounced out, now gray of beard, but buff and ready. He strapped on his guitar, smiled at the crowd and said ‘hey’, and proceed to blow the doors off the place. He opened with ‘The Act We Act’, the first song from the first Sugar album, then proceed to mix up Sugar and solo tunes, including two from his brand new ‘Life & Times’. His backing band was ferocious, and kept up w/him through the changing tempos and moods…
When he did break into the Husker Du songbook, it wasn’t just surfing the greatest hits…’I Apologize’ from New Day Rising was the first salvo, followed so closely by ‘Chartered Trips’ from Zen Arcade, that it’s captured as one…at this point the middle of the tent was absolutely frothing bedlam, and he eased off the tempo (somewhat) with a heartfelt shredding of ‘Celebrated Summer’, also from ‘New Day Rising’, then shifted into ‘Makes No Sense At All’ from Flip Your Wig, and brought things to a close with the title track of ‘New Day Rising’…exiting the stage in a hail of feedback.
Drained and confused, I stumbled to the back of the tent & collapsed, sweat soaked and thoroughly sated. Half an hour later, Blitzen Trapper eased into their set of tunes with a slower Southern gothic vibe, and in all fairness, I tried. I tried hard…I had been looking forward to them, and I wanted to like it, but…Mr. Mould had reduced me to rubble, and I just wasn’t taking, so I wandered off in search of the next thrill…
And to plot and plan…Dr. Dog didn’t make the cut either, and the sunshine kept me away from the Drive By Truckers, so it turned into a food/refueling break to get back some badly needed energy, and in the spirit of Morrissey, I sought my solace in Big Willie’s BBQ.
The five o’clock hour offered the worst pileup of the whole weekend, in terms of tough choices…at five minute intervals, Henry Rollins, Amanda Palmer, and Superchunk. Oh the humanity! Just saw the first two of the three last year, so I choose Amanda over Henry, (sorry big guy!), then drifted down to brave the outdoor stage for Superchunk. Amanda was in fine form, the strains of 2001 serenaded a parade of bodypainted volunteers whose torsos spelled out AMANDA FUCKING PALMER, and then she appeared, and it was on… I guiltily snuck away to catch Superchunk, and was not disappointed. They hit the stage with a high energy level in the peaking sun, and tore up a set that spanned their whole career. Even I was dancing across the back lawn to our generational anthem ‘Slack Motherfucker’…
Meanwhile, back at the Gobi…I arrived right in time for Miss Palmer’s endgame…diving into the crowds to the tune of Wagner’s ‘Ride of the Valkries’, and ending up propped up on the crowd at the back, whereupon she proceeded to whip out a ukelele and lead the crowd in a rendition of Radiohead’s ‘Creep’.
