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Terrastock: Why use two when one will do? A few words
by way of explanation, about the goings on themselvesTerrastock, for those
ignorant of this event (and believe me it was nothing short of an epic
event) was an ostensible benefit for the venerable magazine Ptolemaic
Terrascope, put out by a bunch of quite knowledgeable and generally affable
folks in England (amongst them being one Nick Saloman, Editor [he of The
Incredible Bevis Magic Muscle Frond fame] and one Phil McMullen (knower
of things musical long forgotten and current but obscure). Terrastock
took place in April of 1997 in the faraway (for me, anyway) wilds of Providence,
Rhode Island. Though it’s effectiveness as a fiscal benefit for
the magazine (thanks primarily to the intervention of the Providence Fire
Department, wanting their slice of what couldn’t have been a large
pie to begin with). As a gathering of musicians and music fans, however,
it stands quite nearly unparalleled in recent memory. Persons joined only
by love of music and perhaps tenuous electronic connections, who ordinarily
would be separated by thousands of miles of geography (coming from as
far as Australia in some cases) joined together to meet each other and
share in the partaking of a feast of musical delights. Amongst those would
be the stateside debuts of the Bevis Frond and Flying Saucer Attack (and
others such as the Alchemysts and Richard Davies); the re-emergence of
musicians long unaccounted for (one Tom Rapp of Pearls Before Swine and
an illustrious solo career, The Silver Apples, who merged electronic sounds
and psychedelic pop before just about anyone else; as well as Magic Hour,
who had called it a day some two years before). Egos were checked at the
door and it was perhaps the peak musical experience of my life at the
time (truth to tell, it’s hard to find one that tops the Bevis Frond
covering “Signed, D.C.” or the twenty-five minute onslaught
of the Magic Hour set that ended things). The crowd was well-behaved to
the point of civility, the vibe was great, the sound was as perfect as
you’re ever going to get it. In short, it would be very nearly impossible
to do better. Two Gentlemen from a Very Small Place Setting the World on Its Ear; or “Just Where the Hell is North on This Stupid Map?” This year’s Terrastock (and i do hold some small hope that this will become an annual institution) was held in the warehouse district (at least, it seemed that way to me) of San Francisco. Apparently there was a last-minute venue change which precipitated some problems that would continually make themselves felt throughout the festival. The most noticeable of these was the inability to find the venue (word to the wise: on the next map you make, please include the cardinal directions; it makes things much more easily navigable for the novice driver). The theater itself was in the middle of several acres of light-to-medium industrial facilities, bordered on one side by a somewhat murky channel that led out to the bay (said channel to be navigated on Sunday by one “Commodore” Alistair Galbraith of Dunedin, but more on that story later). The venue interior was divided into three main areas, four really, if you count the entry hall. The main stage was easily bigger than all the others put together. As far as i can tell, it never reached its full capacity over the course of things, but it would have been easy not to notice that while i was having my head ripped off by the likes of Masaki Batoh/Michio Kurihara, Bardo Pond and Pelt. One of the things that struck me immediately was the immense ceiling, which was near to forty or fifty feet by my best guess, making for a much more cavernous sound than at Terrastock. This robbed the place of some of the immediate intimacy that last year had. Trying to make up for that lack was a network of huge video projectors/screens, which displayed all manner of ‘psychedelic’ images mirrored over one another. Though the one i liked best was a screen showing the mic input levels as the bands played. Kinda like that section of Fantasia where the physical soundtrack becomes a player in the proceedings. We arrived in time to catch Fifty Foot Hose setting up and soundchecking. Good. We hadn’t missed anything, which was a possibility given San Francisco traffic and the 4pm start time of the event (ah, the life of a student and not having to slip out of the office early). After a quick run through the merchandise room and a couple of impulse buys (a sad scene which was to re-play itself a shameful number of times over the course of the weekend) we strolled into the second stage area to catch Brother JT (he of Vibrolux/Original Sins/Crush Nova fame) doing a (primarily) unaccompanied set to get the event rolling. JT is an American Original. If English eccentrics are likely to sing about gnomes and forests and swans, American eccentrics are marked by their love of garage band standards, songs about their rusting hometowns and paens revering sweetened snack foods. Rocking from side to side in his chair at center stage, JT shared His Vision of the world with a small crowd. A couple of technical glitches caused at least one false start (60hz hums not being the most attractive things to listen to), but things were soon rolling along with little delay. He found time to sneak in “Red Cathedral” (a personal fave) as well as giving the crowd a choice between a 13th Floor Elevators cover or a West Coast Experimental Pop Band cover. There were a handful of enthusiastic replies for “Elevators”! (i’d have to admit, i was as loud as anyone else). The capper, though, was his performance of “Moon Pie” (accompanied by a second guitarist and vocalist). JT preached his sermon to the (small but devoted) masses, taking the opportunity to bite a moon pie (well, a Little Debbie’s knockoff snack) into the shape of Jesus Christ, which then implored JT not to consume him. The outcome was inevitable. More was the pity, after that set, that i knew i would be missing Vibrolux on Sunday night. But like JT said, “You gotta love what you’ve got.” Indeed. Next up was Fifty Foot Hose, who might be loosely called a west coast response to the Silver Apples (i.e., weirdo psych supplemented with electronics, circa `67-`68.) I probably should have paid a lot more attention to them, but the thoroughly wanksome bass player drove me out of there. Which is really too bad, as there was more than enough rhythmic stuff between the electronics and the percussion as to make the bass more of a distraction than anything else. I’ve been told that their new lead singer is a sonic dead ringer for the singer on their `60s albums. I’d love to back that up with some solid observations of my own, but i’m not thoroughly familiar with their material. Complaint: between bands the sound staff found it suitable to play bad techno, Stereolab and crummy dub (as opposed to the good stuff). This served merely to irritate, rather than to set the stage for the bands to follow. I noticed this right after the 50 Foot Hose set and felt the same way about it all weekend long. That, and the DJ’s in the merchandise area saw fit to play loud enough to not only be ear-splitting within the merchandise room itself, but to be clearly heard on the main stage (which was as far away as you could get and stay in the building.) Aggravating. At least the staff got ‘em to quiet down for the Loren Mazzacane Connors set, which alternated between near-silence and clamorous racket (but i’m ahead of myself again.) Apparently Medicine Ball was supposed to be the next band in the batting order, but for some reason, they got bumped to the midnight slot and the Azusa Plane got bumped into the 5:00 slot. Very few people were happy about this (especially those who had friends coming to see this set). Didn’t bother me, as there was no way that i was going to have the energy to see them at midnight. For those of you who’ve heard the Azusa Plane’s first album, the titanic soundscapes that they created on that disc are dwarfed by their live show. Primarily because of the addition of a second guitarist and a drummer. Last year they blew me away, and the album took some getting used to after that. After their first piece (which was too “rock”, for lack of a better word), they pretty much ripped the room apart. Their sound was too big for the room, basically. The second stage was not the best room for them, due to the sheer scale that they work in live. If memory
serves me right (and it might falter here, having had my brains scrambled
on a fairly regular basis over the weekend), Roy Montgomery took the stage
next. Anyone who has talked to me for more than five minutes has probably
figured out that i’m utterly captivated by Montgomery’s music.
Hailing from New Zealand, U.S. performances from him are about as rare
as hen’s teeth and at least twice as precious. I’d describe
his music, but you’re probably going to see a review of his latest
in this very issue, so watch me struggle with verbal inadequacy there,
please. This time, he was joined by one Darren Mock, playing an E-Bow
through a couple of boxes, providing the underpinning drone. Roy himself
played an Eko guitar (his “latest acquisition”) through tastefully
restrained echo. It was quite stunningly beautiful, the rolling of notes
and minimal drone. He even stepped out from behind the guitar to sing
a piece acapella (a Bowie song that i didn’t recognize; which he
exhorted the crowd to sing along with). Really, really wonderful. And
the day wasn’t even half over. People filed in early to get choice seats for the next performer. Kendra Smith is something of a legend in this world. Originally a founding member of the Dream Syndicate (though ask her about the Suspects sometime), she went on to play in Opal and finally ended up putting together The Guild of Temporal Adventurers. Under that name, she released a really stellar 10” in 1992 or so, followed by a lackluster release on 4AD (lackluster sonically, particularly in the choice of arrangements on the majority of the album). After that, she disappeared again. The last time she performed on the west coast (and likely anywhere) was in 1994 or so, and before that she wasn’t on-stage all that frequently. There was a great deal of expectation in the audience, obviously (one might say that it bordered on the reverent). She went through an assortment of songs, even including one that was originally performed with Opal (“Northern Line”), which was something of a surprise. Though when someone called out for “Magick Power” (another Opal tune), she laughed and answered “I don’t need to play that song. I lived it.” There were some shaky moments, to be sure, but i was certainly glad to have had the chance to see her play. I must admit, she did much better working from behind the antique pump organ, playing later material, which has been described as “bohemian court music”, a description with which i can’t really argue. Perhaps the best moment of her performance was her rendition of the June Tabor song, “Graveyard,” which was easily as haunting as anything she put down on record. There were moments of shakiness, but nothing that was really unexpected, knowing her own reticence about performing. Yes folks, your heroes are human. Learn to love them anyway. Major stars
followed. I can’t think of anything more different in tenor and
sound, between them and Kendra Smith. Wayne Rogers and Kate Biggar have
been in just about every Twisted Village band that ever was (The Crystallized
Movements, Vermonster, B.O.R.B., Wormdoom). Dave Lynch and Tom Leonard
have been in their share of huge bands themselves. Between them, they’ve
released enough records to choke your average record collector. At Terrastock
I, they played an abortive set marked by technical troubles. It only hinted
at the greatness and enormity of sound that they could generate. This
year, they lived up to it. I just wish that we’d been able to see
more of Rogers’ song writing side (which was always a major component
of his solo material and previous group efforts) instead of focusing almost
exclusively on the insane freak-out side of things. That said, they were
still great. All of them are hugely talented musicians, enough so that
the “rock star posturing” (not my words, though i know what
the speaker was trying to say) wasn’t a distraction for me as it
was for some. Wish they’d played the big room and really had a chance
to move some air around. Last year,
the Bevis Frond pulled off perhaps the most spectacular single moment
of the festival. Armed only with an electric dulcimer and a titanic rhythm
section, Nick Saloman annihilated everyone standing in their path while
performing Love’s “Signed, D.C.” as an encore to their
set. They went on for fifteen minutes or more, simply crushing the audience.
It was wonderful, the perfect capper to seeing a band that i’ve
wanted to see for a long, long time. This year, they had a lot to live
up to, and they had a few things working against them. The first of which
was their show the night before, which was a full set and went a little
late; the second of which was that Nick had performed a 3-hour set on
KFJC that afternoon. Lesser men would have been puddles on the stage.
Not Nick. He played on. And really, it was quite a nice set, but not the
revelation that had taken place the year before. Things seemed a little
flat, and there was still the spectre of getting the sound right in the
big room right (which would rear up again from time to time.) Still, it
was great to get another chance to see the Frond again. Of course, by
this time, i was just about dead on my feet. Two Gentlemen
from a small chain of islands setting the world on its ear, redux; or
“Brains, sunny side up.” I can’t say too much about V Majestic, as i didn’t catch their set, spending most of the time propped up in a booth in the darkened room, chatting while Windy and Carl set up for their show. Having seen them a few days before, i thought i knew what to expect. A few cuts from the older albums, a few from their new one, Depths. I was right until about halfway into their set. They then proceeded to set up a bass drone that could best be described as “mighty.” Working off of that for the following fifteen minutes, Windy and Carl created an atmosphere in which the audience was being not-so-gently massaged by gigantic standing waves that moved through the room as if physical laws did not apply to them. Truly huge, and caught me totally off-guard. All i could do was sit back and bliss-out, defenses smashed like a anvil going through a plate-glass window. During the course of the show, they jumped up at least a notch in my estimation, showing that they’re not afraid to throw a generous dollop of noise into the mixture and still come out with something breathtaking. When you see them, bring a pillow and don’t even try to stand. Listened to the bulk of the Young Fresh Fellows while pawing through some more records. Noted their choice to cover “Psycho” by the Sonics and listened a little more closely for a couple of minutes, but didn’t follow along too much more after that. Not that they were bad, per se, but not what i had come to see. The crowd certainly seemed to receive them enthusiastically. Got away from the Father Yod table after spending only $6 that day, as opposed to my companion dropping $100 on two records there over the weekend. Me, i got pedals to buy. Damon and Naomi followed. Last year, they were a perfect tonic on a Sunday morning after being out until nearly two. Just a wonderful way to ease into the rest of the day. This year, they brought a couple of friends with them. These friends were none other than Masaki Batoh (Ghost and a handful of other bands) and Michio Kurihara (White Heaven, Ghost and a couple of others). Damon and Naomi focused primarily on their newer material, Damon on guitar and Naomi on either bass or harmonium as the situation called for it. They were quite nice, but adding Batoh and Kurihara to the mix was even better. They ended up throwing in a couple of covers, including a great Batoh-sung rendition of “Yoo Doo Right” and “Baby Blue” sung beautifully by Naomi. I’d be remiss if i didn’t note the nearly perfect guitar touches added by Kurihara, not overwhelming or spotlight grabbing at any time, but exactly what the song needed when it was needed and nothing more. There was a short break, ended by the return of Batoh and Kurihara as well as Damon filling in on drums. Their set started with nearly-inaudible hurdy-gurdy run through a mess of electronics (nearly inaudible due to some problems with sound which only made themselves apparent in talking with people who’d seen them in other venues on this tour). Batoh, trance-like, then began to growl (like those Tuvan throat-singers you’ve heard so much about) and sway from side to side, moved by forces unseen to the spectator. Kurihara filled the empty spaces with guitar heavy on the vibrato and string-bending. Damon added touches of percussion, though nothing overwhelming just yet. Over the course of the next twenty-five minutes, Batoh grew more mesmerized with the hurdy-gurdy (though still not getting the sound he was after, i imagine) and everything began to build into a huge sound that just took a life of its own and threw my brain around the room. Damon (who isn’t any slouch at the drums; just check out those Magic Hour albums if you don’t believe me) began just pummeling the skins, driving Kurihara (or was it vice versa) into more and more elevated realms of sound. It really was a peak experience, one that i can’t formulate the words for effectively. Time came to a crushing halt while the sound filled the room and the audience. Slowly it ended, the sound forming itself into something recognizable and very beautiful (perhaps the most Ghost-like moment of the performance) and then it too-soon ended. Very few people i spoke with were unmoved by the performance. After that, all the other acts that day were superfluous. Not to slam them or anything, but talk about your hard acts to follow. That one was a monster. Bambi versus Godzilla and bring a sponge to clean up with. Tom Rapp and Stone’s Breath both played on the smaller stage, but i was in no frame of mind to give them an objective listen. I staggered out to the sunlight and fresh air and stayed out there for a long time. I did, however, stick around long enough to see Neutral Milk Hotel’s set. Their show last year was the first that i’d heard of them and i immediately connected with the music, so i had some desire to see them. They didn’t disappoint, but they were still dwarfed by the sound that had come before. True to form, they ran through their songs at about double speed (which Jeff Magnum attributed to nervousness as much as anything), making for a different listening experience than the album. This is all fine by me. I’m not wild about bands who just run through material without being willing to shake some things up. We headed back home, marveling at the Batoh/Kurihara set still. It would resonate in my skull all the way home, no matter what we were listening to on the tape player. I think it was the last thing that i’d heard on my way to sleep. Terrastock takes round two. Will it be a sweep? Bet your bottom dollar on that one.Part 3: Sunday The Band
That Ate Philadelphia, Indeed; or “You should have your jaw wired
shut.” Slogged our way back from the East Bay over the bridge, which moved at about the speed of a pack of snails on Mandrax (not very fast, for those of you keeping score.) Miracle of miracles, we actually made it to the venue without getting lost once (and they say that monkeys are stupid.) Thinking that we would be late for the Primordial Undermind, we moved with due haste. In their current incarnation, Primordial Undermind (or “PU!” as only their most devoted fans are allowed to call them) is a six-man outfit, three of those being guitars. It was revealed to me that there was a careful strategy at work in having six rather than four players, but the technicalities and heavy numerological theory behind the lineup went right over my head. PU proved themselves to be about sound. Just that the equipment wasn’t quite up to the challenge. The keys were totally out of the mix for almost the whole set and the vocals were not far above that. Not that it slowed these guys down at all. Good, solid rock that was far enough out (way out for a couple of moments) to keep my interest. Totally boss rhythm section too, especially given that it was their first show with the new drummer and bass player. A good kick start for the morning. Alva came
up next. They failed to really impress me last year, though i can’t
totally deny their charm. But that charm doesn’t extend to a second
viewing. Especially since the sound in the main room was cranked up significantly
from the day before. I don’t know if they were trying to fight the
sound problems with more volume or what the strategy was, but it would
snakebite a few of the performances that day. The volume was so high that
later on in the day, standing in the entryway without earplugs was quite
painful. Don’t even think about talking at anything under a shout.
I knew it was too loud when a friend of mine (who started attending punk
shows back in ‘85 and has seen more concerts than i have records)
said that he wished he had earplugs. The next
act that i caught was Pelt. I’d been looking forward to this after
repeated listening to a recent album of theirs, and favorable reports
from the road about their other live shows. I wasn’t really sure
what to expect, however. Tonight, Pelt was comprised of one violin, one
guitar (bowed), one guitar (electric, unbowed), keys (sounding suspiciously
like a Vox organ of some kind) and a traditional Japanese instrument which
i wasn’t familiar with, serving as the bass vibration source. When
i say that you could walk on the sound, i exaggerate not. It was huge,
vast, yet still active enough (within a particular dynamic range) to hold
my interest. There were occasional vocalizings, but nothing so gross as
to even resemble words. The whole feeling was that of temple music, with
oriental leanings (though that may be due to a complete rejection of melody
more than anything else). Granted, this sort of fare is not for everyone,
but god damn! it was certainly bread and meat for me. Tones and overtones
galore, though little rhythm (you certainly had to dig for it). But then
again, they just spent an evening in La Monte Young’s Dream House,
so who can blame them? Certainly not me. Boy was i wrong. Bardo Pond had energy to spare. They could have lit the city. About the only time that i smiled at the emcee over the course of the whole festival was when he called Bardo Pond “the band that ate Philadelphia”. About that, he was spot-on. I’ve seen them twice before, once at last year’s Terrastock, so i had a good idea of what to expect; that they would be at least pretty good, maybe even great. Wrong. They were totally enormous. Michael and John Gibbons’ guitars filled the room instantly, propelled by the thunderous bass of Clint Takeda and Joe Culver’s pummeling skins. It was heavy. It was huge. They were as big as Godzilla and twice as mean. The skin was ripped right off of my skull and the sound cut right through anything that was left. This is a compliment, by the way. Unfortunately,
it was nearly impossible to hear Isobel’s singing. No human sound
could stand up to the combination of Bardo Pond operating at full power
and the soundman turning things to 11. By the time that her vocals were
turned up enough that her voice could be heard at all, there was feedback
anytime she got within a foot of the microphone. The cries of “More
vocals!” from the crowd between songs didn’t help one bit.
It even got to the point where Michael’s guitar was feeding back
more than a little bit due to the overall volume (something that hadn’t
happened in the times i saw them.) These problems were probably about
the only things that prevented Bardo Pond from ripping the roof off of
the building. As a working band, they were really outstanding. Suffice
it to say that Batoh/Kurihara’s mind-blowing set had very nearly
met it’s match. I left the
venue absolutely giddy, and it wasn’t from the multitude of pipes
being furtively lit the instant that Bardo Pond took the stage, either.
This is what live shows are all about. To take the audience and elevate
it, infusion of your energy (‘your’ meaning the band as a
unit, o’course) into their own. There can be no greater aim for
the performer, and these five people from the city of Brotherly Love hit
the mark and then some. |