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One musician who drank too much and saw all of
his friends’ bands. One writer who missed everything
she wanted to see. And a total shithead with the gall
to write about a festival he didn’t even attend.
Yes. it’s Flagpole's impeccable coverage of...
AthFest '98
JASON SLATTON (Frontman for The Lures. Guitar player for
Randall Bramblctt Band.)
Thursday, July 16: I must be honest here. Due to the fact that a
goodly portion of my friends from beautiful Pensacola, Fla., and
scenic, panoramic Central, S.C., were playing at the Engine Room on
this, the first night of the second annual AthFest, most of my actions
werf confined to Washington Street and the surrounding environs
(the Manhattan and... the Manhattan). I figured thusly: these people
let me sleep on their floors and couches when I play in their towns,
so I only felt it fair... This Bike Is A Pipe Bomb, sort of a healthy
vegan combination of Woody Guthrie and the Modern Lovers, pulled
off a typically tumultuous set full of whimsy and childlike! wonder!
culminating in primary songwriter Rymodee (he of the Wolverine-
esque sideburns) actually breathing fire! No Gene Simmons he, but I
digress. All hyperbole aside, they achieved transcendence. I then, on
a tip from a friend, lurched (like a listing galleon, indeed) to the
Manhattan for icy PBRs and an impromptu living room-esque set Dy
Vic Chesnutt, previewing songs off of his latest opus The Salesman
And Bernadette. The room was saturated, sweltering and almost alive
in the gothic heat, and Vic was, well, amazing. In addition to the
newly recorded tracks that Capitol sure as shit won't release, Vic wan
dered through fragments of ideas and pieces of songs like he was
rummaging through a long-forgotten chest of drawers. Easily the best
performance I witnessed at this year's festival. Back to the Engine
Room to bum more beer money off of my compatriots, and to see
Drip, with whom I share a drummer — one Clayton Leverette III.
Drip wove a rich, mean, harsh tapestry of noise (sorry, Andy) plus a
handful of new songs. Worthwhile, but sleep was calling me...
Friday, July 17:1 had to linger around the outdoor stage, as I had
to perform on it later that evening, but in the course of greeting
well-wishers and placating my visiting parents who were inquiring
about the strangely-dressed denizens of Washington Street (not to
mention Amber Valentine, who had served them earlier at the Grit),
I saw Todd McBride rage through "Just Like Gerinomo" and some new
stuff off Sketchy , his brand-new solo album. Excellent, although I
couldn't help but wonder why the solo acoustic stage was smack-dab
behind a small sapling that prohibited all but the most up-close
patrons to view whoever was playing on it. Later Alex Marquez and
band raged through a swell, albeit slightly funky set with some well-
known numbers ("Brand New Love") and some newer, more ragged
tracks. My dad winced and said it was "too damn loud." Jackpot City
(sans my favorite opener "I Want To Tell You") were plagued with
unfortunate sound problems but were nonetheless wonderful and
once again played what seemed to be a completely different set than
the last time I saw them. Still growing, still changing — this Dand is
damn vital. And damn loud. I play, send the family off to bed. Depart
the outdoor stage, slugging back gallons of ice water.
I later retire to the Engine Room (more ice water) to witness the
mighty Pen To Plough (sans flannel, right?) pummel through their
set with rickety abandon and close with an oddly familiar, hypnotic
instrumental that it seems I heard years before at a Sunbrain show.
Wcodenhorse follow, (featuring members of the Flatwheelers, in
addition to Smell Of Dead Fish publisher Skott "Rowdy" Cowgill) and
literally attack their instruments, beating them into shiny bits of
shrapnel. Having seen Fugazi only once in my life I have no reference
point for you (and Woodenhorse are comparable to so much more),
but this was brutal wonderful stuff. Thanks, boys. Somewhat inspired
and drained, my band The Lures play fast make noise, have lots of
fun. Take me, sleep, till tomorrow. •
Saturday, July 18: I hit bed at dawn, and awake like a ghost,
barely alive, not breathing, mo r e pulsing. Brunch with parents at Grit
and then leisurely stroll/drive around Athens/Madison/Watkinsville.
Not dead yet. Yet. Spend afternoon having toenails painted by a
member of This Bike Is A Pipe Bomb. Convince parents to join me to
see The Collector (Dave Barbe's new project — or is it?) at outdoor
stage. Once again, dad grimaces, "Too damn loud!" He'll get it.
Barbe's voice is crystal clear; songs are tight, concise. Send parents
off to bed. Race to Engine Room, for ti e Flatwheelers. Is David
Dondero the best songwriter I know? Yes. Flatwheelers bare do./n and
play harder set than I've ever seen. David's songs are like postcards.
Sorry. Too obtuse, opaque. Run to Mean Mike's to see Victory Bowl,
but alas, only catch Bob Rising leading the band through Billy
Squier's "My Kind Of Lover" (I shoulda done those backgrounds), and
a wildly abbreviated version of Journey's "Lovin', Touchin' Squeezin'".
He and I hug, I leave. Thank you. Bob. Wunderkind at Five Star Day
are dramatic and tense, kinda raw, and, okay, Til give you some of
those Superchunk comparisons, but I liked it. Cadge earplugs off of a
friend. Then off to Lunch Faper for Jucifer. I'm sucked into this loud-
er-than-God vacuum and stand transfixed: this was like seeing (and
hearing) the end of the world. Did the festival belong to Ed and
Amber? Yep. So did the world. Lose earplugs in the crowd. Big mis
take. Run back down to the 40 Watt to see the Drive-By Truckers
and am amazed, taken aback, almost driven to actual tears during
one a capella break in "Bulldozers & Dirt." I could access the same
old tired "I understand this band intrinsically because I am from the
South" song-and-dance, but I won't. What Patterson, Mike, Adam and
Matt were doing on that stage was beyond all of us (Southerners and
Northerners alike) and was more akin to what Dave Marsh would call
'"rock and roll transcendence": the ability to suspend time and place,
your very world, with a few loud guitars and a handful of from-the-
gut songs. I owe Mr. Hood and Donna Jane a
hug and a cold beer the next time I see them.
Depart. Watch sun come up with David Dondero
and Te r ry Johnston, sleep.
FUNKE SANGODEYI
After working the free-stuff table at Pong for
twe hours while watching two die-hard electron-
ica fans sweat it out in the 100 degree heat of
the Quality Building and giving away Pimp
Daddy Nash CDs to hicks in acid wash jeans, I
went to the Manhattan to get a drink because I
had missed the Flatwheelers (possibly the only
band to start on time all weekend). Empire
State had started an hour early so I stayed for a
half hour of their cozy, meandering art rock.
Getting a little anxious about the other bands I
wanted to see, I left and ran around town to no
less than five clubs to find out that I was either
too late or too early for everything. Later I
watched Deonna Mann and her cronies put on a
weird performance complete with burning coffin,
vinegar aromatherapy, and Deonna dancing-
with-the-devil-in-the-pale-moonlight to the
cacophanous grooves of four horned instruments
and other stuff. In awe of the weird pagan-ritu
al scene, I got to Lunch Paper too late for any
of Jucifer. Went back to the Manhattan to com
miserate with other frustrated types and then spent some hours get
ting down to the whirlwind grooves of Pong's DJ-O-Rama.
RICHARD FAUSSET
Family obligations took me away for the weekend; all I really saw
was Deonna Mann put sliced fruit near the crack of some guy's butt.
Time on the freeway allowed me to think about AthFest strategy on
paper. However, that big fruity moon eclipsed my thoughts rather
often, so apologies for any poor logic that follows.
On one hand, featuring 150-plus bands who are normally playing
out on any given weekend night gives an excellent idea of what
Athens is about. Its the thrown-together bands, the small bands, the
struggling bands, the lower-key oddballs and phenomenal shambling
surprises that make for the best nights on the town, and I've heard
from bands, critics, cynics and fans that whether or not it was a
financial success, AthFest '98 was an undeniably good time. On the
other hand, AthFest needs a big headliner to draw the big crowds and
provide the fitting punctuation to such an ambitious weekend. I'm
talking, of course, about Widespread Panic.
Panic should take AthFest under its wing, and close the thing the
way the Neville Brothers close the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage
Festival every year. The Fabulous Thunderbirds do (used to do?)
something similar in Austin — the "T-Bird Riverfest," I think they
(rather unfortunately) named it. Like those two bands. Widespread's
members are civic-minded homeboys with deen roots in the town and
the barroom culture that gave them their start. Panic fans support
music from the grassroots up. This spring, 100,000 of them came.
They didn't riot, they traveled from the comers of the globe, and they
drank lots of beer in the local bars. If the second annual Athens
Music Day could coincide with the third annual AthFest, they'd be
here for three or four days, you'd have a serious fest on your hands,
and the bars could keep the rent paid until things pick up in the fall.
Jared Bailey has made less fathomable things happen. O
JULY 29,
: With Special Guest
Get.Your Copy of SLACKDADDY 5
Debut CD "IS" Available at:
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