All Tomorrow's Parties 2002: Kim Gordon is yr mom

While waiting in line to get into UCLA's Ackerman Grand Ballroom, where Merzbow was set to perform, I overheard someone behind me muse, regarding the large crowd waiting to get in, whether all these people knew what they were in for. This is an understandable sentiment. After all, when one considers Merzbow, one does not imagine a sizable selection of the general populace lining up to be aurally punished. But this was not the general public, exactly. This was a group of people who had paid hundreds of dollars and, in some case, traveled thousands of miles, to participate in a music festival in which the roster of musicians had been hand picked by Sonic Youth. Thus, it is entirely likely that they did, in fact, know exactly what they were in for.

It is also likely that, though they may not know precisely what to expect, it would be, at very least, interesting. Or, perhaps they had a vague idea of what to expect and were curious to check it out. Or, maybe they were showing up early to secure a spot to watch Sleater-Kinney, who was slated to play after Merzow (and before the Boredoms, in an act of scheduling that was either genius or madness). What is unlikely is that those who sought admittance to the Ackerman Grand Ballroom had no idea that, upon entrance, they may be assaulted by tremendously harsh sounds, the shear volume of which would drive the timid from the room. These were, after all, Sonic Youth fans, and many of them (yours truly included) had just raced over from Royce Hall where Lee Renaldo and Kevin Drumm had just completed a improvised noise set, and, shortly before that, Destroy All Monsters had unleashed a cacophonous maelstrom. So, in addition to knowing exactly what they were in for, many of these people where actively seeking it out.

The 2002 All Tomorrow's Parties music festival, as curated by Sonic Youth, was, in various regards, a typical festival, a sub-par festival, and an exceptional festival. It was typical in that it was marked by compromise and disappointment. There is simply no way to see everything, so one must determine whether one wants to, say, see Television, whom they have never seen, or see Unwound, who, though one has seen them several times, may never be seen again due to an impending breakup. Occasionally one gets lucky and is able to watch Cannibal Ox for 15 minutes or so, getting to see the DJ demonstrate his mad skills on the ones and twos but leaving after the MCs stilted and awkward flow quickly grows tiresome, bolting over to the other location to catch the last part of Destroy All Monsters, only to find that Destroy All Monsters was running late and one got to see the whole set. This is exacerbated by going with one's friends, who may want to see boring Cat Power. Does one go with them, or stick around and sink even deeper into Bardo Pond's swamp?

Normally conundrums such as these are par for the course, the bitter to be taken with the sweet of a music festival. At the Los Angeles All Tomorrow's Parties, however, they may be fatal decisions. Unlike your typical festival, which is held outdoors, with ample room for all, All Tomorrow's Parties 1.1 was set on the UCLA campus in three facilities with fixed capacity levels. Thus, the promoters add the capacity numbers together and sell that sum number of tickets. The result is, because everyone in the entire world showed up to see Eddie Vedder's solo set in Royce Hall, and decided to stick around for Cat Power, when one goes with one's friends to see Cat Power, one does not actually see Cat Power. One spends 40 minutes standing in line, outside in the cold, waiting to get in, until it is time to ditch one's friends and go catch Unwound. So instead of seeing the slightly less interesting of two competing performers, one sees nothing.

Even worse is the result of the Merzbow, Sleater-Kinney, Boredoms scheduling. Though it was easy enough to hotfoot it from Royce Hall after the Lee Renaldo/Kevin Drumm set in time to catch Merzbow in the Ackerman Grand Ballroom, and even easier to slip back into Royce Hall for Papa M's wonderfully intimate set (though slightly weird being in such a big room) after Merzbow, getting back into Ackerman for the Boredoms proved a bit more difficult. During and after Merzbow, Ackerman was pretty full, but there were still people going out, people coming in, and no line waiting. So, one may assume, getting back in for the Boredoms should be AOK. Imagine the surprise, then, of coming back to Ackerman a over a half hour before the Boredoms' scheduled set time to encounter a line of several hundred people awaiting entrance, none of whom appear to be getting in.

All up and down the line, attendees expressed their astonishment that so many would be descending upon the Boredoms, coupled with extreme disappointment and anger that the band which was for so many was a motivating reason in purchasing tickets and traveling to the event (one from as far as Chicago) may be beyond their reach. It was a moment when many concluded that this may be the most retarded festival ever. Fortunately, though, after Sleater-Kinney, Ackerman hemorrhaged audience members (who appeared to not be able to make it to Royce Hall for Big Star fast enough). I would like to believe that everyone who wanted to see the Boredom's remarkable set (three drummers and one Eye with a crazy piece of electronics) made it in, but it did seem that by the time I slid through the door, the staff was preparing to shut the doors once again. If this indeed did happen, those left out in the night have my deepest sympathies.

Perhaps I complain too much. After all, I did get into every set that I had intended (Cat Power not counting, because I never intended to see that set to begin with), and a few that I hadn't (Califone deserves a special mention here as putting on a fantastic set of wonderful country-fried tunes: I stayed and watched only because I was too lazy and comfortable in the plush balcony seats in Royce Hall to go check out the Fred Anderson Trio over at the other place—and now I know why all those Eddie Vedder people stayed parked for Cat Power). Nearly everything that I saw was at least as good as I had anticipated. The one exception was Aphex Twin, who I do not particularly care for, but I expected to at least be interesting: all it was (or at least all it was for the half hour I stuck around) was Mr. James in a funny mask doing stupid dance to a prerecorded set. A bizarre case is that of Peaches, the startlingly unsexy sex rapper, whom I had expected to be bad, and was actually much worse musically, but who did employ an artist creating live illustrations on an overhead projector, which were quite interesting.

That said, All Tomorrow's Parties was loaded with exceptional moments. The final night, for instance, was fantastic (Peaches notwithstanding). The Dead C created intense waves of feedback over driving rock drums, Mike Watt's Secondmen proved that punks could rock with exceptional skill, and, of course, Sonic Youth put on the kind of exciting and entertaining show that they have done consistently for the last few years. Perhaps a bit heavy on new material (7 of the 13 songs were from their forthcoming album) and only a couple of pre-DGC numbers ("White Cross" and "She is Not Alone"), they nonetheless demonstrated why they continue to remain one of the most vital rock combos of the last twenty years: their pop rocks, and their rock tears apart. Sharing the stage with those they have influenced emphasizes the long shadow they have cast over the independent, post- and fake-rock scenes. And performing among those who have influenced them only increases their stature.

The most exceptional moment by far, however, was the presence of Ron and Scott Asheton, drummer and guitarist from the original Stooges lineup who performed songs from The Stooges and Funhouse with Mike Watt on bass (the real star of the festival, as his performance with the Secondmen was similarly astonishing) and J. Mascis extraneously noodling along on a second guitar. Despite a collective age of nearly 200 years, these madre putos rocked with an intensity the likes of which is rare in this 21st Century. Watt in particular looked variously either on the cusp of, or in the midst of, a cardiac infarction through most of his performance, such was the effort being expended. This was not wasted on the audience: in a city infamous for its inattentive audiences, the whole crowd was bouncing, bobbing, and hopping (there must have been a lot of out-of-towners). He set a very high standard indeed during the first number, during which he repeatedly approached the microphone as if to begin the first verse, only to bark out an emphatic "HOWA!" and quickly jump away again, ratcheting up the tension each time. Their set proved that if you can discover the secret power of rock, nothing can top the simple, straightforward riff, no matter how many Marshalls you have stacked behind you. And just when you though it couldn't get any hotter, Kim Gordon, looking like the Connecticut-living, Volvo-driving mom that she is, joined the boys for "I Wanna Be Your Dog" and set the place on fucking fire.

The overriding theme of the Sonic Youth's handpicked lineup is that the old folks still got it. Not even addressing the increasing irony of Sonic Youth's own name, many of the major acts present were three decades into their careers, which completely upends the old rock and roll notion of not trusting anyone over 30 (the original adherents who are now likely twice that). The fogies which I saw personally (I watched Unwound, in one of their last ever performances, instead of Television, and the Boredoms instead of Big Star), acquitted themselves admirably, and, in large part, blew the young turks off the stage. In particular, Destroy All Monsters' free form sonic assault was enthralling, despite having been generated by gray-haired, paunchy guys in gunny-sack-like XL t-shirts (one looked eerily like my dad). Sonic Youth themselves, well into their forties, proved that they can play as loud, as fast, and create as big of a racket as they ever could, even when playing a set half full of newer, less challenging songs. Though not so old, but hardly new or young, Merzbow prompted more hands clamped tightly over ears than any other act (though why he flew thousands of miles to sit motionless behind a PowerBook is a bit perplexing—he could have literally phoned his set in), and the Boredoms, well over ten years into the game, roused the crowd with a typically energetic and striking polyrhythmic set.

Despite the venue problems, since I saw everything I wanted to see, its hard not to label the festival a success. The All Tomorrow's Parties folks obviously agree as they have already announced its return to UCLA in the summer of 2003 (start planning your vacation time now). So, griping notwithstanding, I know that I'll be there next time. And, unless you are a sucker, you will be too.