*In association with DIRT FROM THE ROAD
In Chicago covering Riot Fest; the legendary alt/punk mega festival. I find parking in a spicy neighborhood, where local dudes in construction vests are hustling cars to park on their street. The roads and houses have seen better days. Technically, it’s free street parking, but a guy named Otis recommends I pay him $10 to watch my car. I happily invest. Many other teens and adults in Home Depot orange vests are running the same hustle; pay for free parking. One old lady has an unlicensed bar on her porch, yelling “shots! beers!”
Entering the mighty gates of the fest, a John Stamos statue made of butter greets you. Unsurprisingly, it is the world’s largest. There is a beer shop modeled after the convenience store in the indie film, Clerks. Tiny prop houses all in a row, an “old west” village vibe. A Dolorian from Back to the Future sits between them.
The men at the information booth look confused when I ask where the press tent is. I wander the fields in search for it. There is free water and beer in there. The holy grail.
I walk past a 60-year-old man in a Rancid t-shirt, he is crying intensely. It’s 3pm. Too early for a bad acid trip. Seas of aged punk rockers make pilgrimages to various stages. Pink-haired ladies in their 30s with black skirts maneuver toward an electro-rock band called “Health”. Carnival tents and beer stands enclose the grounds. Friendly, tame crowds. Far different from the bedlam of Bonnaroo where youth and drugs and chaos run the show.
It takes me an hour to find the press tent. I stand in line behind a guy wearing a shirt that says “Show Me Your Butthole”. I wonder who he writes for. A greasy band in leather jackets stands in a semi-circle, calculated in their nonchalance. The guys from Spoon are milling around. They always look good. Subtle rockstars, not overdressed or over done up. It’s always a thin line to walk between not trying and trying too hard. Spoon nails it.
Coming off a heavy head cold, my energy is low, so I sit in a plastic chair and take notes on the scene. It’s a different scene from my last press tent appearance at Lollapalooza in 2011. There were huge buffets and open bars. All the heavy hitters were in there; Black Keys, Frank Turner, the Walkmen. That was music journalism’s last reign of super power, before streaming gave the power-to-decide back to the people. Initially, I was happy to see music journalism fall, but now I’d like to see a revival. There is too much music all at once, people need help curating their playlists. They need music-obsessed-martyrs who spend the long hours sifting thru record bins to find the gold. They need a music journalist to do the dirty work for them.
Later: Pavement is the worst band in the world. They’re also the best band in the world. They haven’t sang in key since 91’. A perfect disaster of slacker rock. They basically invented it. If a foreigner walked in on a Pavement rehearsal, they’d think they were at a high school talent show. The only issue is Pavement does not rehearse.
“They are sabotaging the show on purpose” says the John-Fogerty-lookin-guy next to me. Probably the only band on the planet who could pull that off. All that said, the show is great and the sea of 10,000 people sings along to “range life”, “cut your hair”, and other underground cult hits. Their last show ever. Lead singer Stephen Malkmus seems irritated at his bandmate shouting backing vocals far too often. Way over quota. It does feel as if a middle-aged drunk guy from the mosh pit was let on stage.
After a healthy dose of Manchester Orchestra and Spoon, I find the need to make something happen. I wander the backstage areas and into the guts of the compound, behind the infinite crowds and wattage and volume. No one seems to want to stop me. I wander far enough until I’m in a circus tent lit with string lights. It looks like a carnival from the medieval period. Revelry and merrymaking. I don’t think I’m supposed to be in here. Howlin Pele Almquist from The Hives is getting a massage. The remaining non-sober members of NOFX hang at the artist bar. They have seen some miles. Aging models with lip filler and fake boobs sit cross legged at the cocktail area. A jacked and tan guy is talking to one of the ladies who is staring at her phone. He preservers anyway.
Desperate to wake up, I order a whiskey coke. The elixir drips life back into me. If this was 2011, I’d be schmoozing with the Hives, with NOFX and Spoon, but I just don’t have it in me. I quit schmoozing 7 years ago and the payoff has been great. Less pressure. Perhaps I’ve grown cowardly.
Later: the artist bar has been fancy, but I’m here to see BECK. One of my first favorite bands. First time seeing him. I shamelessly worm my way up near the front. Some tall farmer dudes are ripping a joint next to me. They offer, but the whiskey is serving me well enough.
“Devils Haircut” blasts off as the opening song. BECK Hanson is on a riser and fails to get back to the mic in time to sing, exposing his backing-tracked vocals. The vocal double fattens up the sound, and I’m on the fence about it. You just gotta let that stuff go with arena-acts. They gotta make it sound like the record. The sound is tremendous. The band is tremendous. “New Pollution” is the second song. A dance party breaks out. A lad next to me offers me Molly and LSD. Nah, I gotta drive eventually.
More hits ensue; a few cuts from BECKS “sex rock” album “midnight vultures” keep the people in a frenzy. I dance with an old drunk lady for the bridge.
The big slide guitar riff from “loser” is on a backing track. I guess it’s so iconic they need it sounding exactly like it did on the radio in 94’. BECK gets out of breath for the rapid talk-sing lyrics, but no one minds. A 15-year-old girl next to us sings all the words with her mom. Three generations all going full BECK.
I receive inside information that “Where it’s At” is the closing number. When the first chord hits, I bolt to the exit to beat traffic. The neighborhood is electric and the bootleg shops are in force. More unlicensed sidewalk bars. “Shots! Beers!” They yell. I make it back to my car. My car-guard, Otis, is nowhere to be found.
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