Ten Things About Terrastock 5
- It rocked. Well, duh, you say, before telling me to go home before I demonstrate my skills as ninja of the obvious even further. But we all know that these days "to rock" can mean a lot of different things. So let's say you're up front while Ben Chasny is looking down over his acoustic guitar and singing with that wonderful intensity he has, that sheer sense of performance not as exorcism but as live-wire channeling of something indescribable. Or the way that Charalambides call up visions of something like a haunted mansion of infinite space where half the walls are missing and you're always just seeing a glimpse of something ghostly but nothing else is clear. Or what the Spacious Mind did with the quiet parts of their constant, evolving flow of a song that made most of the crowd then instant believers. Or how Ghost could step between careening chaos to bring in acoustic guitar, bells, and little else. All that rocks, and damn well.
- It really, really, REALLY did rock. After the final night I compared notes with a friend who said that Subarachnoid Space were so extreme he had to step outside the venue. I was right up near the stage, and I have to admit that when the volume caused my whole body to uncontrollably shudder. Sonic Youth finally realized after all these years what they really could do if they put their mind to it, played nothing but Murray Street songs and really did just about rip my head off. Kinski... let me say it again, KINSKI. Surface of Eceon and Paik both demonstrating how well they know their shoegaze roots and how there is always a way to crank the volume even higher. Major Stars stepping away from the Twisted Village voice to bring the goddamn noise and then go back to selling rereleases of Haphash and the Coloured Coat with a gentle grace. Damn, that all rocked.
- Boston itself. Okay, let me make it clear—the locals I met were all friendly, Joe Turner is a prince among men, the bar staff at the venue were cool, the volunteers all ruled, etc. And the set-up of the Axis and Avalon itself was pretty good, though it was a pity about the claustrophobia of the third day when only the Axis could be used. But you know, that "Big Dig" thing I had to encounter from the airport and back that added to the taxi rates, the grey pallor of not-quite-rain and not-quite-dew that lasted all three days of the fest itself, the fact that on Saturday night a slew of us were wandering around the North End after a good Italian dinner but wondering why in God's name there wasn't an open bar anywhere, the fact that the nearest record store to the venue was a Tower—ah, Boston, the Hub indeed. Bless you for trying, at least.
- Food or the lack thereof. This actually deserves its own particular notification. See, past Terrastock vets have had worse situations, to be sure. The first one, I gather, was limited to a burger place and that's it. The second one was in the warehouse by San Francisco Bay, but happily there were some good sandwiches brought down for sale. But then things hit a better run—while the third one I don't know about, attendees of the fourth one were spoiled for choices in the immediate vicinity (and that tapas place nearby was heaven!). But here we're wandering around the area to get our bearings and even though we're across the street from Fenway Park—which I was under the impression was holy, consecrated ground and therefore should be attended all day and night by people who would indeed need sustenance—there's really nothing much in the area, and so expeditions went further afield for their needs. Except for the great Italian deli a little ways away, that was perfect! The coffee, grand. The pizza, excellent. The sandwiches, brilliant, on wonderful bread. So logically they were closed on Saturday and Sunday, the second and third day of the fest. D'OH!
- Those videos. God love that collective who brought them all along and spliced, chopped, and channeled them to often brilliant effect as the bands played. Sometimes it was seemingly disconnected to what was on the stage—Charalambides and their quiet dark visions set against a montage of the American war machine circa 2002. Other times it was right on—the sunbursts that ended up coming from behind Derek of Paik's head as his band launched into the stratosphere. Then there was the way the performances themselves were used, and in one picture I have from it all, Adrienne of Landing can be seen as a blurred visage on a screen while Dick and Daron played their guitars with due entrancement. The moments go on.
- Marianne Nowottny. No, she wasn't performing, but the second I saw her set up her stuff for sale on the second day, I realized that something cool was up. The publications! The dolls! The gentle riot of color and creativity! I was utterly fascinated by it all, and she was a gently friendly soul to boot, and so I did not pass go and picked up some music, which was there for sale as well. Currently I'm listening to her double disc Manmade Girl as I type and I'm thinking that more bands and acts should just do this in general, if the inclination and creativity is there, to put just about anything on sale. Special mentions, therefore, for Bardo Pond's pillowcases, Stone Breath's publications, the crew selling the mighty fine Broken Face fanzine...
- Cotton Casino. Seriously, what the hell? This was the first time I had ever seen Acid Mothers Temple, see, and while I figured they would end the whole thing on this amazing explosion of sound and joy (and they did), I hadn't realized how inspired it was for her to be the frontwoman of the band. Out walks this J-pop imp with an athletic jersey with rude and suspect words printed on it, she keeps this deranged smile on her face for most of the performance, chain smokes like a fiend throughout, plays all sorts of noises on her keyboard and more. At one point she just... looks... like... she's going... to... spill... her... beer!—and then doesn't. In looking through the credits to the Electric Heavyland album, I realize she is in fact credited with "beer and cigarettes" among other instruments. She plays them to perfection.
- All the discs I ended up buying. Oh lord, did I share the wealth. And I don't regret it—I'm glad, I tells ya, GLAD! Damn glad I brought my backpack with me, damn glad the Howard Johnson's was in simple walking distance so I could offload things as desired. Just about everybody expressed kind thanks for any purchase, however small, but I have to call attention to the Iditarod—I had heard some of their songs before the festival and decided to splurge a bit at their table, and Jeffrey was especially charged up and happy about it. And later they confirmed my hunch about their quality by performing one of my favorite sets of the weekend, bless them!
- Old friends, new friends, and other friends. Folks I'd met before—heya Doug Orleans! Greetings Landing! How are ya, Windy and Carl!—once again showed why I thought they were cool to begin with. Others I had only known through the Net or elsewhere—stand up, Nick Ring, Chris Scofield, Geeta, Zac, and all those who I met (or met again!) elsewhere during the weekend away from the shows. And most of the time I was hanging around with my fellow hotel room denizens Chris Barrus and Mike Daddino, both princes among men. The conversations could have lasted all night into the following day and once or twice threatened to do just that—but then again, conversation somehow just comes naturally when you can spend time laughing at a bad direct to DVD movie featuring a bloated Billy Dee Williams and Lorenzo Lamas utterly inexplicably made up to look like Joe Walsh, droopy mustache and all.
- Wondering, when, and where the next one will be. Austin, Texas? Bilbao, Spain? Maybe even Tokyo? Who knows? But I'll be there.
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