By Gene Wagendorf III
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Ferris Wheel | Photo Credit: Gene Wagendorf III |
The 2012 incarnation of Riot Fest saved its best for last with an
absolutely loaded Sunday lineup. Before I get into who I saw and what I
thought, I want to take a moment to say this: do it again. As I
mentioned in
part one
of my recap, I came away from Riot Fest blown away by the execution of
the festival. The grounds were clean, the weather excellent, Humboldt
Park as beautiful as ever and the sound, for the most part, spot on.
Does Chicago have a lot of outdoor music in the summer? Sure. But I
welcome the Riot Fest addition with open arms, assuming there are no
plans to add an electronic music stage.
Reverend Horton Heat
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Reverend Horton Heat | Photo Credit: Tara Griffin |
While The Reverend and crew have been kicking around for
decades (almost three of them, actually), the trio showed no signs of
bland maturity or geriatric complacency. Kicking their set off with
"Psychobilly Freakout," from 1990's
Smoke 'Em If You Got 'Em,
gave the band the chance to quickly acquaint the unacquainted. The
Reverend's big, sizzling guitar shreds skittered across heavy bass and
Scott Churilla's slam dance percussion, promptly knocking the hangovers
out of the afternoon crowd. The rest of the set was a cohesive blend of
slick lounge pop and more rollicking jams. "Drinkin' and Smokin'
Cigarettes" offered the crowd a moment of cool respite (as well as an
unofficial theme song for the weekend); its elastic jangle met with the
click of a hundred Zippos. While I still believe
Reverend Horton Heat
are best enjoyed in a dark club at a later hour, the group did well out
of their comfort zone. The band rode out on "Big Red Rocket of Love,"
giving festival goers one last helping Jimbo Wallace's punchy bass to
boogie on.
Japanther
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Japanther | Photo Credit: Gene Wagendorf III |
While my inner,
whiny high school self was tempted to go gawk at Less Than Jake, the
allure of Brooklyn art project/lo-fi punks
Japanther was too much to
pass up. Thankfully so, as they didn't disappoint. Where Reverend Horton
Heat did well outside their natural habitat, Japanther simply said
"fuck it" and turned their little corner of Humboldt Park into a cramped
basement show. The band's short, playful romps seemed to tumble over
themselves like a flurry of sugar-high kids on a jungle gym. The temper
of Matt Reilly's grumbling bass was kept in check by the levity of his
goofy lyrics and the occasional confectionery Casio melody. Trying to
create a hippy-friendly mosh pit seems like an impossible task, but
Japanther did just that during "Stolen Flowers." The song found the duo
meshing fuzzy riffs and charmingly simple lyrics with catchy pop
drumming and a winding, oooh-ing crescendo. By the end of their time on
the Rebel Stage, the band had nearly doubled the size of their audience.
I submit this as proof that glee is contagious, and evidence that
Japanther ought to be airlifted into war zone after war zone. You know,
just to see what happens.
White Mystery
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White Mystery | Photo Credit: Gene Wagendorf III |
It's no secret at this point that Windy City Rock loves it some
White Mystery. Can you blame us though?
The crimson coiffed siblings offered up their crunchy, booming brand of
garage on the Rebel Stage, and as was the case with Japanther, the crowd
just kept getting bigger. Apparently not satisfied with being allotted
only 25 minutes to rock, Alex White stole an extra five by launching
into "White Mystery" early, drowning out the stage music and getting the party started. Alex's molten guitar licks
scorched over Francis' bedlam for the duration, rolling one two-minute
rocker into the next. Looking like a couple of punk Muppets onstage, the
duo frolicked through the beginning of "Birthday," from 2011's
Blood & Venom.
The tune showed off the siblings' chemistry- drums holding down the
fort during Alex's vibrant joy cry, guitar twanging in exclamation after
Francis' toppling vocals. One of the few local acts on the Riot Fest bill, White Mystery made a
strong case for more Chicago bands being invited to the party. When the
anthemic rumble of "Take A Walk" blasted from the speakers I had to
check my watch. Was it already time for the Whites to be leaving?
Feverish riffage backed the singer's husky yawp before her brother completely
took over, leaning into his kit like he was trying to demolish the
whole damn park. Sonically impressive, but I'm glad he didn't succeed.
The Jesus and Mary Chain
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The Jesus and Mary Chain | Photo Credit: Gene Wagendorf III |
Glasgow
alt-rockers
The Jesus and Mary Chain played the role of wallflowers at
this big punk party, never really cutting loose, but never making any
missteps either. The band's stonergaze was the perfect soundtrack for
those looking to find a bit of shade and chill out before a night of
Gogol Bordello and The Stooges. Jim Reid's vocals were as sweet and
smoky as a clove cigarette, drifting out into the crowd and casually
lingering. The dichotomy between that calm effortlessness and his band's
screeching, distorted guitar swirls was truly mesmerizing, never once
slipping into redundant sludge. The poppier college radio rock (am I
showing my age?) of "Between Planets," from
Automatic, was a refreshing choice, standing out from the psychedelic grunge and Velvet Underground aping/influenced aural wandering.
Elvis Costello & The Imposters
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Elvis Costello | Photo Credit: Tara Griffin |
Being
the elder statesman of punk/new wave that he is, it's no surprise that
Elvis Costello knows how to work a festival crowd. Yeah, he came packed
with a set list of hits, but one of the evening's real treats was his
faithful-yet-organ-enhanced cover of Nick Lowe's "Heart of the City." If
Costello
was in fact "looking for a love in the heart of the
city," he didn't have to go far, as a sizeable chunk of the 30,000+
person crowd showed up to take in his show. The Imposters slathered "Watching the Detectives" with even more reggae grooviness than it had on
My Aim Is True
(produced by none other than Nick Lowe), a dazzling twist that had me
immediately clamoring for a solid recording of their performance.
Conversely, a lengthened and bloated take on "Pump It Up" felt
tragically limp, as if Costello didn't have enough faith in the hit's
own energy. The iconic organ twirls and puddle splashing riff accomplish
all they need to in three minutes, and watching the band try to milk it
a bit longer fizzled its magic. Redemption was found in "(What's So
Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love & Understanding," whose ironically purely
punk thesis was one of Riot Fest's most satisfying moments, as well as
one of its best group sing-alongs.
Gogol Bordello
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Gogol Bordello | Photo Credit: Eric Kolkey |
Hobgoblin
scrunch, shivering fiddle and maniacal vocals. That's how "Sally"
started, and thus began the bacchanalian ear-orgy that is
Gogol Bordello
live. The Lower East Side Gypsy punks have spent the last 13 years
harnessing the energy of a cornered wolverine and spitting it from mics
and amps with giddy exuberance. Borrowing elements from reggae, polka,
mariachi, punk, hip hop and, well, you name it, Gogol had a little
something for everyone, which is saying a lot with a crowd that size.
The snake-like rhythm of "Not A Crime" buzzed through the audience,
inspiring mosh pits, jigs and even one big stupid conga line. In a
moment of perfect festival divination, festival organizers had set up
small stages throughout the Humboldt fields for fire dancers and
jugglers. Chicago's clear black sky was lit in front of me by the
hardcore smash of "Immigraniada (We Comin' Rougher)," to my left by a
Mardi Gras reject clown twirling flaming chains, and to my back by a
giant neon Ferris Wheel. Not bad Riot Fest, not bad. The spectacle moved
me to take in more of the carnival weirdness around me, so I bought a
ticket to the Mystery Machine Fun House and took in the end of Gogol
Bordello from there. The fun house proved to be a low rent death trap
from carnie hell, but it did make for an interesting spot to watch the
band party through their biggest hit, "Start Wearing Purple." The
joyfully spastic debaucher's theme song reverberated through the Mystery
Machine's aluminum walls; even the kids navigating the gauntlet of
deflated punching bags were singing along and dancing.
Iggy and The Stooges
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Iggy and The Stooges | Photo Credit: Eric Kolkey |
Folks,
I gotta be honest, this is the reason I came to Riot Fest. When the
show's revamped, 2012 incarnation was first announced, lot's of things
had my interest piqued, but none more so than a chance to catch this
band live again. Every time they roll though I keep thinking, "I've got
to go. Iggy's bound to die soon." No such evidence Sunday in Humboldt
Park.
The opening chords of "Raw Power" let everyone in attendance know right off the bat that
The Stooges hadn't lost a thing to Father Time. Mr. Pop, clad in nothing but his six-pack and skinny jeans,
tore across the stage and through his lyrics, showing up every other
band's attempt at energy. Mid-way through, the first three rows seemed
to crowd surf at once, propelling the rest of the Riot Stage crowd 20 feet
forward. When the hell spawn squeal of James Williamson's lead guitar
kicked in on "Search and Destroy," even my goosebumps got goosebumps. Call it cliche, I contend
it pure truth. The Stooges channeled 43 years worth of angst and
brutality into every note, pushing the stage, the sound system and the
crowd towards breaking point. The result was an immensely cathartic squalor; one that ended with Iggy gyrating in a ball onstage, howling
like a man condemned. Even The Stooges can't maintain that pace for an
hour, so they deftly shifted gears into the ominous plod of "Gimme
Danger." The madness level ratcheted back up when Iggy invited a pack of
fans onstage to dance through an unhinged rendition of "Shake Appeal,"
though the gimmick didn't come close to matching the mayhem when he
pulled that trick at Lolla a few years ago and half of Grant Park
stormed the stage. Steve Mackay's sax sounded appropriately filthy,
especially on "Fun House." His presence helped dispel any notion that
The Stooges were just going to make noise for an hour, grounding a few
songs and giving the rest of the band another layer to play off of.
The highlights of the set came during The Stooge's encore. "Penetration," from the 1973 masterpiece
Raw Power, panzered over the crowd; a gnarled beast of a tune that hissed and bent with devilish precision. When Pop dove into the monotone groan of "No Fun," the group's entire set was put into perspective, and I thought of Andrew W.K. again. The Stooges are, without the schlock and the gimmick, everything he strives to be. They're records gave a voice and an outlet to a disenfranchised, bitter generation. Gave their disdain and their aggression a focus. They rocked hard, and still do, but beneath the brazen sexuality and confrontational barbarism, there's poetry and creativity and a lot of fucking fun. Not merely hollow chest thumping and keg stands. I
wrote about Andrew W.K. being basically a Cro-Magnon Peter Pan, and against truly timeless figures like The Stooges, his charade is all the more obvious.
Iggy and company ended their encore with a pair of unexpected tunes: a subdued jaunt through "The Passenger," and the hilariously base "Cock In My Pocket." Seeing the group perform an Iggy Pop solo number was unexpected, but despite the crowd's enthusiasm the band didn't deliver it with much punch. Not their wheelhouse. They made up for it on the second number, using up ever last drop of adrenaline before exiting the stage to a hard-earned explosion of adoration.
It'll be hard for Riot Fest to top the lineup they unleashed on Humboldt Park Sunday night, but they've got the formula. Drop a legend and some old school masters in to play with newer bands, pack the park with sideshows, and mix in a couple non-punk acts to taste. The result: a dish best served outdoors.
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Riot Fest wrestlers | Photo Credit: Gene Wagendorf III |
Best Flavor: Bacon sausage on a stick with horseradish mustard.
Best Sight: Taking in the whole park from atop the Ferris Wheel.
Best Sound: White Mystery drowning out the between acts music to start their set early.
Best Odor: Funnel cake. Didn't even eat any, but getting a whiff was perfect.
Best Feel: Sitting on the metal bleacher next to the wrestling ring, eating my above mention bacon sausage and watching two spandex-clad wrestlers kick the crap out of each other.
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