All Tomorrow's Parties 2002: Under Sonic Youth's Watchful Wing

Chapter One

The night starts like any other night, in the way that there is a sunset, and it gets dark. But we, we friends, lovers, friends of music, lovers of music, we don't stick around for that. We are in Ackerman Ballroom of UCLA by 5:30, ready to attack the night from inside the safe shelter of a large concert hall, from under Sonic Youth's watchful wing. Oh how naive we are. We are never safe. Nothing... is safe. Or is it?

It is Friday, so our plan is to stay in Ackerman Ballroom for the evening—we, in this paragraph, being my friend Daniel and I. Our friend Max is going to stick around for the first three acts and then head over to Royce Hall. The crowd is fairly thin, especially for such a huge room. The capacity is at least 2500, and there are no more than 100 at first, although that will change (slightly). The first three acts in Ackerman are White Out, Erase Errata, and the infamous US Maple. I remark to Daniel, "I hope the bands are timely. They have a tight schedule to work with." I ask him what time it is, and he says 5:45—the time scheduled for White Out to begin their set. "So they should start," I say.

And with that, there is a synthesizer blip, and with that, White Out make themselves heard. Lin Culbertson and Tom Surgal form the improvisational unit at first, with Jim O'Rourke sitting on the side playing some atmospheric keyboards which are difficult to hear for most of the set. Their music isn't exciting, but it is just enjoyable enough. Surgal's drumming is not rhythmic; it simply keeps the sound going and occasionally building. Culbertson is the focus, playing analog synthesizers with a volume pedal, as well as indulging in the occasional pluck/strum of a zither, or a few lyricless moans on the mic. She seems as if she is truly "FEELIN [sic] IT!", as my eloquent notes describe it. Melodies are not present, just a mellow noise. After their first "song," they call Mike Watt out to join them. He seems to muddle things up at first, but eventually the mood is maintained. By the end of their set, nothing is lost, nothing is gained. Simply a diversion.

(During the set I go to throw something away, and when I return, Daniel informs me that he had heard someone say, "That's Spencer Owen!" I then spend the last ten minutes of the set trying to figure out who could have said that. I figure out it is someone I have met before, but just once or twice. I wait for him to talk to me. He doesn't.)

Next up is Erase Errata, a "four piece grrlrocker blacklight fluorescent clothing noisy (ANGULAR!) tight" band. Once again my notes say it all. They play short art-punk songs, like the Ex, like Wire, or as Daniel puts it, "like Wire fronted by Debbie Harry." They wear neon pink and green fluorescent clothing and they are bathed in blacklights; they each have at least one piece of similarly colored tape on their outfit somewhere. The lead singer, "Jenny," has Xs over her nipples on her shirt and a piece of tape across the zipper of her extremely short shorts. Their songs are exciting, energetic, and interesting. Jenny has an odd, estranged presence. She occasionally breaks out a trumpet for some sporadic, appropriate bursts. She says one thing in the middle of half of the silences between the songs. "This song is for... Oakland." "Two more songs. I feel like we've been here all night. Just kidding." Pointing to the divider between the stage and the crowd: "This is so people don't stagedive." Pause. "Sad." It's strange, and somehow endearing.

Then comes the powerhouse of the night in my humble opinion, the group that will stand out the most among the rest. US Maple takes the stage with just one guitarist, flanking stage right, rapidly playing some gentle hammer-ons, indicating a song from their third album, Talker. Then the rest of the band takes the stage one by one. The stage left guitarist is a tall man with a suit that's slightly too big for him. The stage right guitarist plays bass and guitar parts on the same instrument. Al, the lead singer, wanders around the stage, sporadically yelling when he's not on mic, and characteristically wheezing and moaning when he is. He occasionally leans against one of the two guitarists. The suited guitarist does high kicks and small steps across the stage, and during a solo moment, he does an awkward, brilliant, Irish-flavored jig while playing. The stage right guitarist gets smacked on the ass by Al; later, he sticks his pick on his sweaty forehead and manically bangs and plucks the strings with his fingers. The music is insane, and the band is tight, as tight as orchestrated anarchy can be. They play the songs from the records almost note by note, but they bring them to life. I am blown away, and I feel I can safely assume that we all are.

(NOTE: Later, upon reading this, Daniel argues my point about the ass-smack incident. "I'm almost positive the singer got booty slapped [by the guitarist instead]," he says. My memory is unwavering, however. The point is moot.)

The night could end there and my money would be well spent. But there are four more acts in Ackerman, and four more in Royce Hall. Max departs to watch Eddie Vedder, Cat Power, Television, and Stephen Malkmus. Daniel and I stick around for Bardo Pond, Neil Michael Hagerty, Unwound, and the half-reformed "mini-Stooges," Asheton, Mascis, and Watt. It would not be a good decision for us to make if we were not pumped up to see Unwound. Bardo Pond and Neil Michael Hagerty each begin decently, then quickly grow intolerable. I shall rely on my notes for these two. Bardo Pond: "crunching/droney psych-space-BORING. Snack break." Neil Michael Hagerty: "trio trad-rock—noisy guitar solo showcase! TIRING!"

(The snack, by the way, as indicated by the "snack break," is simply some M&Ms and a Sprite. However, we leave Bardo early to check out Royce, and while there's a massive line to get in to the actual venue, where we see Max waiting, there's also a lobby and an outdoor patio where they're BBQing burgers and chicken sandwiches. This is a godsend. The hamburgers are outstanding. We also run into my friend Sam and his friend Andrew. They have been in Royce all night save for US Maple in Ackerman, who, they also think, are "fucking awesome." They'll be here all weekend and we might run into them again. We return to Mr. Hagerty after he's begun, but no matter. We should have stayed out.)

Unwound, who are breaking up and playing one of their final shows, are in good spirits; it doesn't seem to be a bitter split. Justin and Vern are onstage ready to start while drummer Sara is out. Justin wisecracks to save time. "So... how many of you GO to UCLA?" Smattering of applause. "How many of you are going to skip out on our set to see Television?" One person lets out an enthusiastic "boo!" "Well, Sara's gone to see them." Crowd laughs; Sara emerges, and crowd applauds. An audience member shouts "1-2-3-4!" and Justin replies, "No, man, this has a complicated time signature. Come on, this is All Tomorrow's Parties." With that they launch into their first song, and they rarely speak again. Their energy is up, but for the first few they're not very tight. They play my favorite song from Leaves Turn Inside You but they screw up a bit. However, in the middle of their set, which ends up 15 minutes shorter than the hour allotted for them, they suddenly start to click and their skills catch up with their energy. They play an exciting and extremely dynamic 45 minute set. They don't energize and revitalize me like US Maple had, but it could be that I am sore and a bit tired from standing and tapping my feet and walking for five hours. Daniel appreciates them just a bit more than US Maple, but we agree they are the two best acts of the night.

Now the crowd is at its largest—half the room is full, and most of them weren't even there for Unwound. Asheton, Mascis and Watt deserve as much attention as we give them, especially after the excellence witnessed just previously: we wander out into the exit area and sit on the stairs, waiting for them to finish. They are truly irritating. Daniel loves the Stooges and he finds it pathetic. I am not a Stooges fan, and I find it grating. The experience is like again witnessing the noisy, unremarkable, indulgent guitar interludes of Neil Michael Hagerty, while listening to it backwards on headphones at the same time, with enthusiastic, annoying shouting from Mike Watt laid on top. Two Sonic Youth highlights: Thurston Moore comes out to sing a song, and he is charismatic. Kim Gordon comes out to sing "I Wanna Be Your Dog" and is... well, charismatic, but in a different, not pleasing way.

When the night is over, and the darkness has set upon the land, we stand in the Los Angeles night "cold" waiting for Max to return to the parking structure. He does, and he regales us with stories of his experiences. Television were supposedly fantastic, and Cat Power, as usual, a mess. "At one point she said, 'I'd now like to bring out my friends from the UCLA gymnastics team,'" he tells us. "She looked offstage. And nothing happened!" He says that Malkmus' songs were decent, but he was having a lot of fun with his band, so it was enjoyable. I feel slight regret for missing those acts, but Unwound are undoubtedly worth it, especially for one of their last shows.

I sit in Daniel's car and he drives us each home. Relieved that I can actually relax for the night, I lay in bed wondering what tomorrow will bring. "Oh yes," I remember, "the Boredoms." My favorite band. But will it be more consistently excellent than the previous night? Will the highs be so damn high? Will the lows be so damn low? Who will use my extra ticket? Have I left my tickets in Daniel's backseat? Will they be recovered? Will we be able to brave the lines at Royce Hall? Will there be delicious hamburgers again? Will I bring a jacket this time? Will there actually be band merchandise? Will the safety of my musical awareness be threatened in new and exciting ways? We shall see when the story continues.

Chapter Two: In Which I Get Out Of The Habit Of Taking Even The Most Minimal Of Notes Because I Have A Pretty Good Memory And It Was A Lame Thing To Do To Begin With.

By the end of Saturday night I am sure that this report will be less detailed than Friday's. Not because of the notes, necessarily, although that might contribute, but simply because I am getting more tired, more worn out, a little more lazy, a little more sore, and a little more deaf in my right ear. This seems to be the most experimentally-focused day of the festival, in extremely good ways, and in a couple of ways that are about as bad as the good ways are good.

Daniel and I have our friend Morgan with us today. He is not a fan of noisy and/or free improvisational music, so he will have some trouble with some of the acts today. But he is here for the Boredoms, just as Daniel is here for the Boredoms, and I am here for the Boredoms. I do not hide this fact. I would try to be an unbiased reporter if it were not for the fact that it really doesn't matter. I will be seeing the Boredoms play not to be able to say that I've seen them; rather, I will be seeing them play just in case they ever stop playing. But wait, reader; there is much that precedes.

Oh fellow adventurers, our plan is as such: Ackerman Ballroom features Bride of No No and an improvisational set with Thurston Moore, Nels Cline, Mats Gustaffson, and William Winant. Then, it is to Royce Hall, to see Destroy All Monsters; Califone; another improv set, this time with Kevin Drumm and Lee Ranaldo, and Leah Singer's films; and Jackie-O Motherfucker. Finally, we return to Ackerman for a triple whammy of a closer: Sleater-Kinney, the Boredoms, and Aphex Twin. This is the supposed plan.

Bride of No No emerge in white outfits that are a cross between the Klan, the Residents, and a squadron of EMT members. Naturally, then, their faces are obscured. Their music is a cross between Sonic Youth, the Residents, and Rush. Daniel is convinced that the lead singer and bassist is Geddy Lee. Morgan believes they are the members of Missing Persons in disguise, for the sole reason that he hates Missing Persons, and he hates them. It is truly awful music. Like most of the awful music at this festival thus far, it begins tolerable; we imagine, "Well, it's SUPPOSED to sound like that." Then we realize that no matter how it's supposed to sound, it doesn't sound interesting, just bad. The singer gets on our nerves. The music gets tedious. By the end of a song, they stop, and we think they're done, and it sounds like the end of a song, but apparently a string is broken, and they inform us that they just need to wait and get it fixed and THEN finish the song. The lead singer makes lame jokes from behind her white face mask, which ruins their "mystique," the only thing I am enjoying about them in the first place. I feel embarrassed for them.

Thurston Moore, Nels Cline, Mats Gustaffson, and William Winant take the stage next. Moore has a guitar, Cline has a guitar with some effects pedals, Gustaffson has a saxophone, a clarinet and a flute, and Winant has a drum kit, a vibraphone, and some various percussion. Moore asks backstage, "Should I introduce them or should we just rock out? I think we're ready to turn on." Various audience members shout, "Rock out! Turn on!" Moore introduces the players, their origins, and then they turn on. It's a half hour of dynamic improvised noise from here on out. What makes this more interesting than White Out is that they are listening to each other, playing off of each other, looking at each other (probably the most important part), and doing fascinating things with their instruments. Nels Cline breaks out an eggbeater and turns his guitar's signal backwards with effects. Moore uses his guitar for drone purposes as much as for blasting the fuck out of his amp; he swings it around and pounds it on the stage at one point. Winant's percussion ranges from soft and textural to powerful and crashing to shimmering, dissonant vibes. Gustaffson uses his saxophone in perhaps the most interesting way; using short bursts of breath, he plays it like a rhythm instrument, alternating between clicks and wails, and simply the sound of his frantic breathing through the instrument. The sound goes up, down, up, down, up, down, and stops. Morgan leaves about ten minutes in. Daniel and I enjoy it thoroughly. I ask Morgan if he respects what just took place, and he says absolutely; he just can't stand it. I would have agreed with him a few years ago, and I understand his place, but by now I feel like I can appreciate the sounds.

We head to Royce Hall to meet Max and there are plenty of seats and no lines. Destroy All Monsters are the worst act of the evening and one of the worst of the festival thus far. After setting up for longer than anyone else, they play irritating "experimental rock" music with high pitched sounds that threaten to cut our ears off for 20 minutes. Each member of the band definitely seems to be untalented interacting with others, untalented musicians, or both. The last 10 minutes of their set features a song introduced with, "This one's for the [UCLA] Bruins!" The leadman sings a terrible rendition of some sort of fight cheer for Michigan and some gophers, and then begins to interrupt it with chants of "ass-crackin', lip-smackin', by cracky!, ass-cracky." The latter part is, at least, funny. They also break into brief, seemingly impromptu, a cappella renditions of Laurie Anderson's "O Superman" (featuring frantic hyperventilating) and perhaps the only live performance of Steve Reich's legendary tape loop piece, "Come Out." It is amusing stuff, but these are brief things. Their set is generally terrible. Their setup includes a lot of squeeze-toys including a huge one that seems to be shaped like a scrotum, complete with testicles, and yet they barely use them.

Califone are extraordinary in a way that it doesn't require a lot of description. Simple, back porch folk rock, with a banjo player, a lead singer/electric guitarist, a bassist, and two drummers/percussionists. One of the best parts of their set is the vocals and their sporadic but always effective use of harmony. Another of the best parts is the interplay between the percussionists. And their music is not entirely straightforward; they feature lots of focus on hypnotic groove, atmosphere, and build, qualities that folk rock bands do not normally feature. I have heard their records before and knew what to expect, and Morgan has seen them live before; everyone else is pleasantly surprised.

(By the end of Califone's set Daniel and Max have gone to grab a bite to eat in the Royce concession/lounge/bar/patio area. Morgan and I are almost too hungry to wait, but they return quickly. Califone are finished by now, so we go and decide to brave the line for the barbeque. My suspicions are confirmed—the delicious hamburgers have returned. We miss the entirety of Kevin Drumm and Lee Ranaldo's set waiting for this food and then eating this food, although we can hear some sporadic noise from the speakers outside. Morgan is naturally glad he's missing this. We return when the set is finished and Max and Daniel describe; Drumm had a "series of noise making toys" which they cannot describe well, and Ranaldo has his guitar, which he plays in traditional free-improv form and also unplugs to "play" the cord that is connected to the amp. Then Mats Gustaffson returns to play the saxophone. They say it was fascinating, and I can't say I wouldn't have thought so as well, but for some reason I barely regret missing it.)

I find Jackie-O Motherfucker hypnotic, but the rest of the crew finds them boring, although we all agree that their video is enjoyable. It's just six or seven people on guitars, banjo, violin, bass, turntables, drums, and so forth. They seem to specialize in a sort of busy drone, switching between arrhythmic mood and lazy grooves. But we are looking forward to Sleater-Kinney, especially so we can get a good spot for the Boredoms. So we leave Royce in the middle of their set and as we approach Ackerman, we hear a huge rumbling sound coming from inside the hall. "What the hell is that?" we all wonder, until we remember almost simultaneously: "Merzbow." Naturally. Masami Akita is the mad scientist of the night and we catch the tail end of his set. Lights blaze on the stage and THUNDEROUS electronic noise—with a beat, almost—blazes even stronger from the PA. The entire audience is crowded around the stage in such a way that we, in the back, cannot see Akita at his laptop. It ends and the crowd roars. Morgan wonders what someone from the 50's would have thought. Daniel wishes he could have seen the whole set. I have a feeling that it was enough for me.

(Just before he finishes, I entertain the concept of Merzbow and David Bowie collaborating to create a set by Merzbowie. Someone suggests they should collaborate with Sleater-Kinney, and I dub this Sleater-Kerzbowie. I then consider bowing my head in shame.)

Sleater-Kinney play a lot of new songs and they sound like the old songs. I enjoy their sound but I am satisfied by only owning one album and then watching this festival performance. They are a fun band. The end. THE BOREDOMS. They play next and they fucking blow the house away before the roof even gets a chance to detach. Exactly what I expect, exactly what we want. Yamatsuka Eye has some turntables and a CD-DJ device as well as some other sound/pitch manipulators. This and his voice are his instruments for the night. Yamamotor and Hila have not come on this tour, so the unit is dubbed the VooooRe!!!!!!!Doms and it is Eye, Yoshimi, ATR, and Yo-Chan—three of whom are at drumsets the entire time. (I learn later that someone named Izumi, who pops out occasionally to fix mics and such, plays some "hidden electronics.") Yoshimi has a headset and occasionally contributes vocals. This may be one of the loudest shows I have ever seen but the intensity is so alluring that I barely bother to cover my ears. Eye takes his electronics and dances around with them. He yells "yeah yeah yeah!" and "vision creation newsun!" into the mic. The drummers are so spot on and locked together and yet there is constant life and spontaneity as Eye conducts them and they evolve into different rhythms. I would give anyone a pair of earplugs and dare them to not enjoy this set. It is probably one of the best live sets by any band that I have ever seen. The Boredoms continue to be one of the most vital bands of the last 15 years. Their energy is unparalleled.

Aphex Twin is supposed to be next and last. Morgan, Daniel and I leave for the night. We cannot imagine anything following this up. Even a rare live performance from Mr. James can't do it. An L.A. Times review says his set consisted of "capering around in a mask and white cape to some pre-recorded tracks." While this may have been enjoyable, I do not regret leaving. Max and his friend Jon, who arrived at Royce by the time Jackie-O was playing, had apparently wandered off to the back because the Boredoms had been too intense, despite enjoying their set; they then went straight to see Wilco, got in, and enjoyed it immensely. As much as I love their new album, even that couldn't have followed. By 10 AM the next day, my right ear is just beginning to heal, and the pain has been worth it. Yet I will use earplugs at the next show. For the next and final day, Sunday, features festival curators Sonic Youth. The members of Sonic Youth have been making themselves known one by one during various guest sets and watching other acts on the side of the stage, and Sunday night is their night. If they aren't the other loudest band at the festival, we will all be disappointed. It shall take place in its entirety at Ackerman Ballroom. Stay tuned.

Chapter Three

Hey kids, it's time for Sunday's ATP. This time there are no choices. It's Ackerman Ballroom or bust. Seven acts, no more, no less; okay, maybe less, if you feel like going down to Ackerman Union for a frozen yogurt during... well, more on that later. We are presented with the somewhat mind-blowing lineup of: Black Dice, Saccharine Trust, Dead C, Peaches, Mike Watt & The Secondmen, Stereolab, and the grandaddy of 'em all, Sonic Youth. If it weren't for Sonic Youth, those other 50 bands would have the weekend off. Our party today consists of Max, Daniel, and Wayne, a guy Daniel and I have spoken to in the chatroom at David Lynch's website. He's a rock veteran. He saw Sonic Youth on their Sister tour. You don't mess with that.

Black Dice take the stage and provide an enjoyable 40 minute set. They're a quartet with a drummer, two guys at electronics, and a guy who we think is playing guitar but is sitting down on the stage and therefore nearly impossible to see over the heads in front of us. They play half-noisy, half-propulsive rhythm music, with the occasional chord progression. Everyone on stage but the guitarist has a microphone, either a wireless Britney-esque mic (for the drummer) or a regular handheld, and they use them to incorporate staccato vocal expressions and beatbox rhythms into the mix. Overall, nothing amazing by any stretch, but a thoroughly enjoyable set.

Saccharine Trust are next. Daniel, Max and I are all wondering how this is going to turn out; we've never actually heard them, although of course we've heard OF them. Wayne knows about them. They were one of the classic SST bands. They used to open for Sonic Youth in the 80's. They broke up. Now they're here. We don't know what to expect and, so it is with any enjoyable act for which one has no expectations, they pleasantly surprise. They're a fun, tight mix of jazz flair and Minutemen-esque rock energy, with guitar, bass, drums, and vibes. The lead vocalist is practically a modern beat poet. He seemingly arbitrarily decides when to wear his beret, and he launches into strange stories in between songs. He tells a story about a dream in which he is given a choice to say his last words, but he wouldn't die until he chose what those last words would be—"and that is the plight... of a pompous man." In the middle of a song he says, "I'd do anything to you," and shortly afterwards he attempts to stop the song: "Wait wait wait, hold on. I didn't mean to say 'I'd do anything TO you...' What I meant was, 'I'd do anything... FOR you.'" Clearly it's planned; it's part of the art, if you will. It's a lot of fun.

(During their set they toss out a weird variety of stuffed animals. I get one of Tigger in a Pooh costume, oddly enough. I still have it; there's an extra tag on it that says three website addresses, which are saccharinetrust.com, sstsuperstore.com, and trueclassicalcds.com. Another one is tossed in our general direction, and Max goes for it, as well as the guy in front of him. Max grabs it, they tussle for about two seconds, and then, as if it is a moment of divine intervention, they both get up, look each other in the eye, simultaneously make the same bizarre pose involving a fight stance and shaking their fists, and turn away from each other just as quickly. Maybe you had to be there.)

We don't see most of the Dead C's set. We are interested in... I can't remember what, actually. We just decide to leave at that point to look for something else. We also grab some frozen yogurt with Sam and Andrew, with whom we have been keeping in touch all weekend as I have neglected to mention since Friday's writeup. A lot of this time is spent asking each other what we have thought of the various groups so far. The rest of this time is spent making fun of Peaches. We all agree that it's Kim Gordon's fault that Peaches is there, and that we have to see it, if only to witness the female-white-rapper equivalent of a train wreck. We are naive fools.

We wander in to see the last few minutes of the Dead C's performance, which is seemingly unremarkable—noisy with rhythm, once again. We get up to the front for Peaches and she promptly fucking blows us away. She dances around on stage, shouting, moaning, and deadpanning her endearing obscenities and commands. There is a new backdrop on stage onto which an overhead projector displays huge instant paintings of strange female creatures with claws, cutout silhouettes of men and women in various hardcore sexual positions, and, during one song, a lifesized boxing ring into which Peaches pretends to step, prompting her lyric, "Gonna knock you out like Rocky Balboa." She puts her arms in the air and the projectionist gives her some transparent, oversized boxing gloves. The entire show features this kind of manic absurdity and it's really brilliant. After one particularly rocking song entitled "Rock Show," she shouts at the crowd, "Yes, I DO play the fucking electric guitar, and I also make my own beats! Thank you!" She seems particularly focused on getting the crowd to move or something, requesting to get everyone some drinks in here. Regardless, everyone in the room seems to be enjoying the show as much as we are. It's hard to even describe how excellent it was; reading back my description, it doesn't even sound as awesome as it really is. C'est la vie.

Mike Watt's Secondmen are pretty fun. They're a trio, with Watt, guitar, and drums. (Sadly I forget the names of the other players. This is where the lack of notes fails me.) They're just a bunch of fun-loving guys who are there to play some of their favorite songs; that is, they're up there to be a cover band. They do Television ("Venus"), Lou Reed ("Caroline Says"), and even the Minutemen. It's just... fun. Wayne is disappointed, but the rest of us have an almost forgettable good time. Nothing more to say on them.

Stereolab are pretty goddamn awesome as always. This is my third time seeing them and they're just as good as ever. They open with a retooled, upbeat version of the last track on Cobra and Phases..., and the majority of their set is drawn from Emperor Tomato Ketchup and Sound-Dust, with the obligatory "John Cage Bubblegum" and "Parsec" appearances. Daniel saw them play an almost identical set with me a few months ago, and he did not like it; this time, he says, they are "so much better." I don't understand the discrepancy. They seem pretty much exactly the same to me. Max remarks that he never thought of Stereolab as "the party band." With the kind of live energy they always have, songs like "Captain Easychord" and especially "Cybele's Reverie" take on a movable, danceable life of their own, off the record and onto the grooving concert-goers. (An amusing moment: People consistently request "The Noise of Carpet," and Mary remarks, "Wow, 'The Noise of Carpet' is big here tonight." Laetitia notices a strange mutated buzzing coming out of one of the amps and comments, "That's the noise of carpet right there.") They're in good shape, and they're crowd pleasers, like almost everyone else has been this evening; nobody doesn't dig this one.

Finally: the band of the hour, the night, the weekend. Thurston, Kim, Lee, Jim, and Steve finally appear on stage together, and they play a surprising set. The set is surprising in the way that most of the songs are unfamiliar. It turns out, during their 90 minute set, they play the entirety of their new record, due out on June 4. NYC Ghosts & Flowers may have disappointed some, but this one will bring a lot of people back, I guarantee. We've got a mixture of sounds from every single phase of the band's career here and they all work—maelstroms of noise, art-punk rockers, and some beautifully melodic jams. Songtitles include "Plastic Sun," "The Empty Page," and "Radical Adults Lick Godhead Style" (after a false start of which, Thurston proclaims, "Hold on; radical adults are extremely out of tune tonight"). The only oldie they play at first is "White Cross" from Sister, but as an encore (the only band of the weekend to have an encore), they play "She is Not Alone," a tune from the band's out-of-print eponymous debut. Thurston is in good humor in general; when Kim remarks that she used to watch UCLA basketball on TV as a little girl, Thurston replies, "When I was a little girl, I used to watch... Get Smart." And more than once throughout the set, Thurston thanks everyone in the audience and all of the bands who played the festival for one of the best rock weekends ever. The whole band seems to be genuinely thankful, and the audience is thankful for them. In over an hour and under two hours, they capture every facet of the entire festival—dynamics, power, beauty, chaos, humor, sincerity, and anything that might fall in between.

It has been a great rock weekend indeed.