Getting a press pass delivered a warm and fuzzy feeling at Bumbershoot. Being special came with its privileges: water, instant coffee, chip remnants, and eight ounce sodas. Not to mention access to the main stage ramp where I would walk up and down, up and down just because I could.
Exciting times.
Much love to the the iconic fest who celebrated forty years of existence this past Labor Day weekend.
Now to the heart of the matter: Saturday.
Entering Bumbershoot foreshadowed an ongoing motif for the day/night: someone wanted me dead. Why? The first blood thirsty cadre manifested at the will call line where I snagged a ticket for my lovely wife. Oblivious to the world, I entered through a small opening, right by a security guard mind you, and took my place at the ticket stall. Promptly, I received my ticket. Turning around, my unheeding gaze witnessed the ghastly, massive line of unfortunate will call customers. It must have been at least a thirty minute wait and I think that estimate is quite low.
Like Kurt Vonnegut once wrote, "So it goes."
The Raveonettes | Photo by Nik Christofferson
Inside, we witnessed some incredible bands.
We sat in on the KEXP live recording of the Raveonettes. I enjoyed their set. Everything seemed ultra polite and creepy. I tried breathing softly in fear of angering the stoneyfaced crowd who watched. A tint of wrath decorated the day and precaution seemed necessary.
These people might want me dead. Maybe, possibly, they witnessed my egregious line cut. Feelings were hurt. Long memories for such offenses seem the norm.
To the beer garden where one could embrace the illusion of safety.
I'm sounding like a Warning: Danger! song.
Later, Balkan Beat Box graced the stage. This was my second time seeing B.B.B. live and they certainly bring it. In fact, Balkan Beat Box might be one of the best live acts around. The ladies bum rushed the stage and nearly trampled me.
Balkan Beat Box | Photo by Nik Christofferson
They want me dead I tell ya.
The mighty Ozomatli followed and delivered their usual bad ass set. Over the years, I have been fortunate to see Ozo several times and never once have the boys from L.A. disappointed. Truly one of the great bands of the last twenty years.
Ozomatli | Photo by Nik Christofferson
Dylan played during Ozo, so I buggered off to catch the legendary singer/songwriter. After two songs, I felt sleepy, checked the "See Bob Dylan live" box, and bounced over to the Cute Lepers.
Yeah, I said it. I bounced over to The Cute Lepers. They're better than Bob Dylan. The BD crowd looked like Dawn of the Dead - the original, not the remake. Slow, prodding, never ending the hunt for something, anything. Each glassy eyed patron stared vacantly, drooling, pining for brains.
More Braaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiinsssss!
The Cute Lepers seemed handcuffed by the powers that be. The Cute Lepers still rocked, but the EMP reeked of Footloose - no dancing allowed. Only one logical course of action could be taken: escape to the Funhouse. Earlier, I received word that "Dokken" would destroy the Funhouse.
The Cute Lepers | Photo by Nik Christofferson
"Dokken" ended up being played by The Spits, who proceeded to annihilate every act I had witnessed so far and that proves no easy task. The Funhouse crowd went wild and I have the bruises to prove it. The Spits didn't stop, blasting into song after song with reckless abandon. It ruled and proved The Spits remain the coolest fucking band on the planet.
And thanks to the ladies pelting me with cold beer. That felt good.
Jeers to the asshole who kept yanking on my hoody. Another prick wanting to see me corpse flung into the pit.
The Spits | Photo by Nik Christofferson
Bastards! You'll never take me alive, not on this night! Throne of Bone was due to come out during the small hours. Time to wipe the blood dripping from my ears and stagger to see one of the coolest young bands in Seattle.
Throne of Bone proceeded to finish off the job of destroying my hearing and delivered a ferocious onslaught of metal goodness that shook my very foundation. After the show, my battered fingers accidentally formatted all video I had of the show.
Throne of Bone | Photo by Nik Christofferson
So it goes.
A grin had been permanently chiseled into my face and I looked like a trippin' Mr. Rushmore. There is no substitute for the underground and Bumberfuck and the Funhouse proved it. The State Farm Coors Dill Pickle stage just kind of leaves a bad taste in one's mouth. I needed to be cleansed by the sheer brutality of two of the baddest bands dwelling below: The Spits and Throne of Bone.
Ah, thank you!
Happy anniversary to Brian Foss and his lovely wife.
Speaking of underground, the head wreckin' force Throne of Bone teams up with the legendary Dirty Rotten Imbeciles this Saturday at El Corazon. It's not to be missed!!!
Words, Video by Jerry Howard
All Photos by Nik Christofferson
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