an epic journey into the funfunfun of a festival

THERE’S NOTHING LIKE A GREAT FESTIVAL TO RUIN A PERFECTLY GOOD WEEKEND
Fun Fun Fun fest.

by illson

A good number of days have passed, and all the predictable reviews have now been written and read. This is my story.

It was a dark, wet afternoon in Austin, Texas, and to improve it I’ve volunteered to walk into a morass of mud. It was the weekend of Fun Fun Fun fest and I found myself right in the tail end of it, running on fumes. I always thought that with a name like that you’re setting yourself up for disaster. ‘My ticket explicitly says Fun Fun FUN – whaddya mean I can’t take my Ol’ E in?’ The fact that it was also raining cats and dogs did not bode well.

Things could have been better, of course. I had the opportunity to come in as a journalist; to apply for a press pass, walk in for free, have designated areas of relative comfort and have the added bonus of access to the artists. Then I came up with the bright idea to experience the festival as a civilian. I was wary of this so called ‘access,’ of being seduced by the machine into thinking that things are hunky-dory because things went fairly smoothly for me. ‘Hey, I didn’t have to cough up the dough, deal with the riff-raff, and here I am rubbin’ shoulders with Kevin Barnes! This is the SHIT!’ Well, fuck that – I ain’t no shill. There’s nothing I hate more than the velvet rope; this need to buttress a suffering ego with the trappings of privilege. The grass might be greener on the other side, but that grass is still on planet Earth, and the sooner we figure out that we’re in this together and we do this together, the better it’ll be. So through the rain and to the gate I came; no pull, no list, just myself, and just like so many.

So what did it mean to come just as myself? For one thing, it meant missing one day of the festival because I couldn’t afford it. It meant pinning my wishes on Friday and Saturday night at the bar and hoping that by some miracle people would deal with the 10% unemployment rate by drinking heavily and tipping well, and cursing my luck when they didn’t. It meant catching the 7:30 AM Greyhound from Houston in order to make it to the beginning of the fest on Sunday in Austin. It meant watching the fog over the city, the rain on the windshield, and the grey deepening as I fell in and out of exhausted sleep on my way to Fun Fun Fun.

Fun Fun Fun meant going to Waterloo Park. Bordered on the east and west by Red River Street and Trinity, respectively, and 15th and 12th on the north and south, Waterloo Park is just a bit over two square city blocks of old, run-down green space. It does have the privilege of having neglected old Waller Creek running through it, and the bad luck of being stuck in the middle of an industrial zone and being bordered by parking garages and the Brackenridge Hospital helicopter landing-pad. In its normal days, its a place of rest and solace for the city’s downtrodden; the drug addicts, drunks, and panhandlers. On that wet Sunday, it also harbored money-changers of all sorts.

But why cry? Being in Austin is like being a kid around an uncle’s record collection – music is never far away. Just as I used to tentatively put on my uncle’s records (when he wasn’t home) by virtue of their covers (Sgt. Peppers), I was tentatively gonna try this Fun Fun Fun thing. I’ve sworn off festivals, you see, ever since I looked back at that empty field in Coachella of ‘99 and saw a vast dumping ground. I promised myself I wouldn’t participate in something that resembled the self-indulgent, environment-raping, ‘just drop my litter right here for the janitor’ woodstock bullshit if I could help it. It’s a harrowing sight when multiplied by a couple of thousand people, one that makes me feel just too much closer to the apocalypse. Don’t get me wrong, I too am a self-indulgent, environmentally-unconscious, cigarette-butt-out-the-window kind of asshole you’re all familiar with – but now that I’m older and wiser, I do that crap in private. When I intentionally dive into a mob for whatever reason, I now try to raise my consciousness and not dim it, ’cause a mob can run away with you in the blink of an eye. ‘Where are we going, and why are we in this hand-basket?’ And just as I missed getting my tube socks rocked off by my uncles’ better albums because of their lackluster covers (Outlandos d’Amour), I sometimes find myself in shows by virtue of a witty band name or a great poster – lured in with the rest of the mob. When that happens, I can’t help but keep my eyes open.

I was met in the streets of downtown Austin by the slow trickle of damp girls with boots over their jeans, black clad hipsters looking like wet kittens, and the occasional nu-goth/raver. I had a great gal on my side who had rain-coats for both of us so I was spared the ignominy of being wet AND sullen. I was still exhausted from work and lack of sleep, and my friend and I were both broke so my mood was less than stellar. The sound creeping over the streets wasn’t encouraging either; all I could hear was punk of the 90’s variety. We found the gate and as she headed for will call I went to the deserted cash line. “$60.” Fuck. I forked over the money and got my wristband, got through the painless search and into … a soggy, slippery, muddy park. The vendor’s area was like a village market circa 1600; streams of people navigating the gigantic puddles and clinging wet earth in tentative, searching lines like lemmings. We find friends who point us to where DJ Numark was playing, and I had to hand it to the guy – despite the crummy weather, he served up fun, tasty tunes that had my head bobbing. His technique was nothing to shake a stick at either, as he switched songs rapidly and seamlessly like nobody’s business. He gave a light-hearted set that brought the house-party to our sad, wet souls.

I dragged my friend away to catch The Strange Boys in the other side of the park, a band that came to my attention thanks to the nervy, jangling single ‘Poem Party.’ Singer Ryan Sambol’s voice struck me immediately with its distinctive indecipherability, high nasal whine, and snottiness — the unholy union of Ray Davies and early Bob Dylan in some back-alley genetic lab, and delivered to your basement party. It didn’t hurt that there were a number of great singles from the album ‘…And Girls Club’ (on the epic label In the Red) that evoked a criminally ignored 60’s garage rock band who’s records you quest for the rest of your life. I was looking forward to seeing them in action. We were greeted by a small crowd and four tired looking boys in polo shirts who wore them sloppily and with no irony, as well as a girl on saxophone and vocal duties. I couldn’t remember seeing a homelier meeting of minds calling themselves a band. They played a shambling set with no enthusiasm, seemingly worn down by something invisible to us. Present throughout was a distinct looseness and lack of technical proficiency that blesses all really good rock & roll, which could have been better served if they turned up the volume on singer Ryan Sambol’s microphone. There were flashes of the their true spirit; the occasional raucous jangle of a gutsy guitar riff, or Sambol’s voice piercing through the foggy mix, or a glimpse of their new saxophone player’s cat-like smile. It was a disappointing set, but I still recommend the reader to grab ‘This Girl Taught Me To Dance,’ ‘Heard You Want To Beat Me Up,’ and ‘Poem Party’ — mighty singles all. They closed their set with a reminder that ‘King Khan & BBQ Show’ were next, which was precisely what I was hoping for. My friend and I took the opportunity to forage for food. When we returned, a man announced that the stage was being closed and that King Khan & BBQ show was playing at a club in the city later that night. I was sorely, sorely disappointed.

The rain kept coming in spurts, keeping the mud in prime condition. The nearby stages were emitting all sorts of over-wrought, mechanically precise wanking that effectively kept me away, and seeing Health involved trekking across the crowded muddy park. We hunkered down under a tree facing the large, central ‘Orange’ stage to wait for Crystal Castles. At some point Mission of Burma began playing. Mission of Burma is a band who’s reputation I’ve encountering. Various friends and strangers have brought their name up in discussions of hard-rocking music from the (gasp!) 80’s, but somehow I’ve never gotten to going down their road. I found myself slowly gravitating to the stage, braving the crowd to get a bigger earful of the music. It was angular, odd, hard. It suffered from weak vocals at certain moments, and soared on incredibly hook-y sing-along teeth-kickers at others (the indelible ‘That’s How I Escape My Certain Fate’). Though some songs didn’t appear to have aged well, some were unmistakably powerful and infectious. I turned to my friend and said, ‘it’s nice to see some dinosaurs who still have their teeth.’ What struck me was the intended oddness of their arrangements and rhythms that spared their music the vanilla quality of so many timid, by-the-numbers ‘punk’  (oh that poor, dead horse) and post-punk songsters. They had energy, but spared enough of their energy to invest some adventurousness in their song-making. They ended their set in the halo of smoke and rain-drops illuminated by the stage lights. I was pleased.

The smoke was from the adjacent stage, where Crystal Castle’s gear was slowly being assembled. An overly-eager crowd had grown and stuck on us. Glowsticks were flying through the air. Conversations were being yelled into our ears, bodies were teetering over us, and like water atoms freezing we all began to get closer and closer to each other. Redundant microphone and keyboard checks continued on as the crowd began to noisily wonder when the show would start. Again a mic. Again the keyboard. Back to the mic, ‘please.’ The light trees scattered on the stage twinkled and flickered in tandem, ramping up the sense of anticipation. Finally Ethan Kath steps onto the stage in his iconic hoodie and black leather jacket, the stage grows dim, their lights burst in color and Alice Glass pounces on the stage like a hopped-up jaguar, stabbing the crowd with her flood-light. The mob erupts and a roiling tsunami of rabid kids begins to pound the metal stage front like storm-breakers. I struggle to keep my footing as my friend and I are swept up against the people in front of us, the crazed people around us seemingly blind to the madness and the danger. My friend immediately says, ‘I’ve got to get out of her.’ She’s echoed by other women behind and around me, and we swam desperately for a way out — but the crowd had us in its jaws like an unseeing rip-tide. We slowly and painfully make it to the front barriers, shoving people aside when we could, only to get pinned against them. Panicked girls followed in our wake, but we could not make any progress. Finally my friend asks someone for a boost and a tiny girl gives her hand, on which she places her muddy boot, hoisting herself over and into air. Security men stood impassively by. Seeing her safe, I tried to make my way out. I began making eye contact to whoever was in my way to ask them to let me pass, and once our eyes locked they stepped aside as best they could. I finally made it out, but I had enough. I looked back on a sea of waving glowsticks, disgusted.

My friend and I made our way up onto a rise where we could see the crowd. I thought aloud that I was looking at a post-rave generation trying to catch a glimpse of what they missed, with the glow-sticks and the synthetic music, the remnants of a scene they did not see. I talked about going to raves in the deserts of southern California and the warehouses of downtown L.A., where the dj’s were on the floor with no barriers and everybody left everybody room to dance. I talked about how the most vital idea of that time was the end of the stage, the end of stardom and adulation and access and the other trappings of hero-worship that ruined so much music. The dj’s were anonymous and at arm’s length, the entertainment provided by ourselves for each other, the music ground-breaking. That crush woke up these things in me, of a time when I went underground away from MTV and the glitter and the stars and the names – because I’ve learned that faith in something outside yourself was from lost faith in yourself. To see glowsticks and half-ass electronic music typically leaves a bad taste in my mouth, but worse still is the metallic tang of fanaticism.

I turned to my friend and asked her if she wanted to go, and she agreed – back to the house, the dog, and a bit of rest. I wanted to go because I found no love there, no compassion, especially for the poor.

We went home, collected ourselves and chilled for a couple of hours until the time came to see King Khan & BBQ show at a club called Red 7. The line was long but we got in swiftly, into a packed and cheerful room. They were already playing when we got in, and the energy was unmistakeable. They were rough, tuneful, energetic. The crowd began to bop, then dance, then mosh – joyfully and lovingly we rocked with the band. I looked up and I saw my friend crowd-surfing. After a few close brushes to the floor, the hands as if with one mind delivered her onto the stage. Her hands up, she gave a couple of cute, happy hops and dove back into the crowd. It was a beautiful party; a keeper.

Fun Fun Fun fest is another example of the economy of scale applied to music. By putting on large festivals one can justify higher ticket prices. This looks good on paper, but you only see a handful of the artists that you want to see, often in environments that are none too kind to the fan. It’s a payday for promoters and artists that tax us, the music lovers.

These artists, I have to forgive. For in their hearts they are innocents; they throw themselves on the stage because for most of them it is the only place where they could be magic, the only place where they are undeniably some good. They are failures elsewhere, but when they are performing they cannot deny to themselves that the stage is the one place they shine. They are there because if we saw them anywhere else, we wouldn’t be too impressed – they too are timid, mundane, unexceptional.

It’s a real thing that they give – that’s why someone found it and is selling it to us.

So at Fun Fun Fun fest I had my fill of this kind of swindle. I’ll see you at the bars.