RSS FeedSo, I promised Robert I'd “cover” Bitchpork, and no matter how haphazard my attendance or compromised by drink my critical faculties may have been over the course of the weekend I intend to keep that promise—fortunately, the laws under which journalists usually operate are rather lax when it comes to music festivals. Festivals are by their nature feats of endurance, and asking a participant to describe one is a little like asking a boxer to describe the pounding he just took—dazed, thrashed and bleeding out both ears, he is what they call an unreliable narrator.
Anyway, I talked some shit on this 'blog a short while back that was a smidge disparaging of the city's undie music scene, suggesting that it was overrun by pseudo-psych noodlers; I hope this (highly incomplete) recap of Bitchpork, the city's preeminent different-music festival, will fill some of the gaping holes in that snarky little essay. 'Cuz, there actually is an extremely vibrant thing going on in Chicago, fleeting and sporadic as it might sometimes seem, for which Bitchpork is a pretty epic showcase.
Here, then, are a few highlights and lowlights from three days of peace, music and drug-sweat, unreliably narrated and with some borrowed photos (Gonzo Chicago, alley-oop):
1.
My first day onsite is pretty much a wash. I arrive very much on the late end, already a touch soused and rapidly getting more so. I've missed, in fact, about 80 percent of the evening's acts, arriving just in time for the much-hyped reunion of whiz-drummer/racetrack aficionado Marc Arcuri and his English Softhearts—I remember this band from my f-ing teenage years, and I hate to say it but that was a REALLY long time ago. For a bunch of dudes who are even older than I am, they play with considerable snarl—you don't hear so much in the snot-punk vein these days, but as long as we have beer and hormones it will never really go out of style, either.
The rooftop has been blocked off, due to people being dumb and attracting the five-oh, and for the next hour or so I somehow end up manning the door to the roof—I'm too trashed by now to properly stand, but I am able to fold my arms and keep saying no to would-be outdoor revelers. By the time I'm relieved of my drunken post, the headlinin' act is on, reformed Columbia, MO psych-grungers Warhammer 48K. I'm pretty sure they rule, and I seem to recall some rippin' axe-work, but this portion of the evening remains stubbornly hazy. It's 3:00, I feel pretty well-whooped, and there are two long days of this shit ahead.
2.
Reporting for duty much earlier in the night, the place is already bonkers—still no roof, and people are squeezing out of every hole, the narrow back-lot by now an open sewer. There's a brutal twilight set from local skull-damagers Lechuguillas, intensified by the urgency of nightfall, and then the jammin' + jivin' of clearly-from-Brooklyn boys Cloud Becomes Your Hand—weird robes, weird gear and the sort of hyperactive musicianship that hints at a year or two at Juilliard--but for all that, they still throw down some crafty grooves with e-marimba and that sine-wave synth sound from old-school Dre.
I miss a couple of acts—there's just such an ocean of people, and so many long-forgotten faces, people who slid off to Oakland or New Orleans half-decades ago but are making their li'l summer swing thru Chicago, that a person is swept into marathon bull sessions, smoking endless cigarettes out back—but I make a point of finding my way back for the almighty ONO. ONO, if you're not familiar with the group, has been performing in various permutations since the early 80s, but while their first incarnation fell on a lot of deaf ears—the early Chicago punk scene was not that keen on musical exploration or singers in wedding gowns—their ever-evolving marriage of gospel + noise has found enthusiastic support in today's much more art-minded climate. This belated respect has spurred them on to new vistas, and with the recent addition of singer-drummer Mimi Wallman they've hit on this weird, sublime strain of R+B—punked out, chopped+screwed 'n turned upside-down, but still rhythm&blues in the most fundamental sense. Like 'most any other R+B band they do a boatload of covers, but very much ONOize whatever comes their way—thus tonight's splintered versions of the Minutemen's Jesus and Tequila and Prince's The Beautiful Ones, the latter of which seems to send a cute boy at stage-center into fits of orgasmic rapture:
Anyway, I talked some shit on this 'blog a short while back that was a smidge disparaging of the city's undie music scene, suggesting that it was overrun by pseudo-psych noodlers; I hope this (highly incomplete) recap of Bitchpork, the city's preeminent different-music festival, will fill some of the gaping holes in that snarky little essay. 'Cuz, there actually is an extremely vibrant thing going on in Chicago, fleeting and sporadic as it might sometimes seem, for which Bitchpork is a pretty epic showcase.
Here, then, are a few highlights and lowlights from three days of peace, music and drug-sweat, unreliably narrated and with some borrowed photos (Gonzo Chicago, alley-oop):
1.
My first day onsite is pretty much a wash. I arrive very much on the late end, already a touch soused and rapidly getting more so. I've missed, in fact, about 80 percent of the evening's acts, arriving just in time for the much-hyped reunion of whiz-drummer/racetrack aficionado Marc Arcuri and his English Softhearts—I remember this band from my f-ing teenage years, and I hate to say it but that was a REALLY long time ago. For a bunch of dudes who are even older than I am, they play with considerable snarl—you don't hear so much in the snot-punk vein these days, but as long as we have beer and hormones it will never really go out of style, either.
The rooftop has been blocked off, due to people being dumb and attracting the five-oh, and for the next hour or so I somehow end up manning the door to the roof—I'm too trashed by now to properly stand, but I am able to fold my arms and keep saying no to would-be outdoor revelers. By the time I'm relieved of my drunken post, the headlinin' act is on, reformed Columbia, MO psych-grungers Warhammer 48K. I'm pretty sure they rule, and I seem to recall some rippin' axe-work, but this portion of the evening remains stubbornly hazy. It's 3:00, I feel pretty well-whooped, and there are two long days of this shit ahead.
2.
Reporting for duty much earlier in the night, the place is already bonkers—still no roof, and people are squeezing out of every hole, the narrow back-lot by now an open sewer. There's a brutal twilight set from local skull-damagers Lechuguillas, intensified by the urgency of nightfall, and then the jammin' + jivin' of clearly-from-Brooklyn boys Cloud Becomes Your Hand—weird robes, weird gear and the sort of hyperactive musicianship that hints at a year or two at Juilliard--but for all that, they still throw down some crafty grooves with e-marimba and that sine-wave synth sound from old-school Dre.
I miss a couple of acts—there's just such an ocean of people, and so many long-forgotten faces, people who slid off to Oakland or New Orleans half-decades ago but are making their li'l summer swing thru Chicago, that a person is swept into marathon bull sessions, smoking endless cigarettes out back—but I make a point of finding my way back for the almighty ONO. ONO, if you're not familiar with the group, has been performing in various permutations since the early 80s, but while their first incarnation fell on a lot of deaf ears—the early Chicago punk scene was not that keen on musical exploration or singers in wedding gowns—their ever-evolving marriage of gospel + noise has found enthusiastic support in today's much more art-minded climate. This belated respect has spurred them on to new vistas, and with the recent addition of singer-drummer Mimi Wallman they've hit on this weird, sublime strain of R+B—punked out, chopped+screwed 'n turned upside-down, but still rhythm&blues in the most fundamental sense. Like 'most any other R+B band they do a boatload of covers, but very much ONOize whatever comes their way—thus tonight's splintered versions of the Minutemen's Jesus and Tequila and Prince's The Beautiful Ones, the latter of which seems to send a cute boy at stage-center into fits of orgasmic rapture:
Then a short set from former Chicagoan Castle Freak, long a standard-bearer for downer-damaged eccentricity, whose playground-chant rapping sounds like it was left out in the rain and starting sprouting poisonous spores. And over in the west wing, the incomparable Mayor Daley, who, of course, slay, pretty much harder than they've ever slayed before. There's never any doubt that the language they're speaking is Daley-ese--the tense moan and merciless rhythms that the city itself seems often to emit, an abstracted and almost mournful take on metal—but within that language they manage to say some startling things, eliciting from audience-members what might be described as contemplative headbanging, and their brand-new nine-minute epic (short, by their recent standards) is the loosest, freest I've heard them in a while.
Then, once again, several bands are lost to my record—it's just so stupidly hot on the third floor that one is prone to drunken wandering, searching for pockets of fresh air. Mahjongg starts to play but once again I'm totally wiped and I have to wake up at 7:00 tomorrow morning for work.
3.
By dusk on Sunday I'm fully in the vortex, starting to seriously consider the possibility that this Bitchpork might never end, that us coupla-hundred festivalgoers might be condemned to an eternity of this, millions of years of synthesizers, heat-stroke and low-grade drunkenness. Things onstage get righteous early on, though, with flags-flying performances from ReDeMeR, whose palette of glitter, neon and fierce metal is perfect for the setting-sun atmospherics of building's west wing; Shree Shrine, at their gentle, spooky best, with special guest Rollin Hunt on clarinet + dream-narration; and the amazing avant-primitive dancercise of Forced into Femininity. Significantly, the rooftop has re-opened tonight, a desperately-needed pressure-valve as the warehouse is starting to really cook—like, 90+degrees—and people are generally getting kind of flipped. I miss a bunch of bands in favor of some roof-time, taking in what passes for an evening breeze, but am eventually sucked back into the flames by the drum wizardry of Wumme, the mutant disco of Xina Xurner, and the escalating, Kubrickesque comedy of one Frog Clock, whose night-long performance—introducing bands from inside his “Frog Clock Box”—makes him hands-down today's endurance-champion:
Then, once again, several bands are lost to my record—it's just so stupidly hot on the third floor that one is prone to drunken wandering, searching for pockets of fresh air. Mahjongg starts to play but once again I'm totally wiped and I have to wake up at 7:00 tomorrow morning for work.
3.
By dusk on Sunday I'm fully in the vortex, starting to seriously consider the possibility that this Bitchpork might never end, that us coupla-hundred festivalgoers might be condemned to an eternity of this, millions of years of synthesizers, heat-stroke and low-grade drunkenness. Things onstage get righteous early on, though, with flags-flying performances from ReDeMeR, whose palette of glitter, neon and fierce metal is perfect for the setting-sun atmospherics of building's west wing; Shree Shrine, at their gentle, spooky best, with special guest Rollin Hunt on clarinet + dream-narration; and the amazing avant-primitive dancercise of Forced into Femininity. Significantly, the rooftop has re-opened tonight, a desperately-needed pressure-valve as the warehouse is starting to really cook—like, 90+degrees—and people are generally getting kind of flipped. I miss a bunch of bands in favor of some roof-time, taking in what passes for an evening breeze, but am eventually sucked back into the flames by the drum wizardry of Wumme, the mutant disco of Xina Xurner, and the escalating, Kubrickesque comedy of one Frog Clock, whose night-long performance—introducing bands from inside his “Frog Clock Box”—makes him hands-down today's endurance-champion:
A buddy of mine practically force-feeds me a weed brownie as the evening approaches, I can only hope, some sort of climax—just one bite!, I meekly protest, as he stuffs a huge hunk into my mouth. And from there on my journalistic integrity declines sharply. I can state with some confidence that Bobby Conn played, wearing naught but synthetic briefs and his trademark grimace, and that the band delighted with a rousing run-through of Passover, Conn's 1998 gypsy-metal ode to the great Jewish holiday—that much I remember. I can also vouch for Tracey Trance, subject of a recent Secret Beach profile, who put in a good ten minutes of his inimitable casio-mashing before succumbing to heat-induced entropy--kicking over his ailing gear, lighting up a joint and basically declaring fuck it. And I can recall vaguely the dudely riffage of Akhkhazu, making all the Pilsen prog-dweebs creamy in their jean-shorts.
And then—the all-out, house-burning spectacle of Turtle Powder, aka Randall and Drew, Bitchpork's undisputed kings of apocalyptic grandeur, whose 2009 festival-closer, a massive, slime-drenched, chicken-fucking orgy of human devolution, like Double Dare on DMT, rightly became local legend (that same year, I saw them out-freak some of New Orleans' freakiest freaks at the Krewe de Poux ball, not a minor coup). Happily for my fast-declining sanity, this was a moderately toned-down outing for the gang, which of course is like calling the neutron bomb a chilled-out version of its hydrogen predecessor. The performance featured noise elder Andy Ortmann as a creepy club-dude who's strapped to a large, evil-looking device and mentally raped by a duo of grotesque, oversized creatures from the future, hailing from a place called Count Dracula, Africa--
And then—the all-out, house-burning spectacle of Turtle Powder, aka Randall and Drew, Bitchpork's undisputed kings of apocalyptic grandeur, whose 2009 festival-closer, a massive, slime-drenched, chicken-fucking orgy of human devolution, like Double Dare on DMT, rightly became local legend (that same year, I saw them out-freak some of New Orleans' freakiest freaks at the Krewe de Poux ball, not a minor coup). Happily for my fast-declining sanity, this was a moderately toned-down outing for the gang, which of course is like calling the neutron bomb a chilled-out version of its hydrogen predecessor. The performance featured noise elder Andy Ortmann as a creepy club-dude who's strapped to a large, evil-looking device and mentally raped by a duo of grotesque, oversized creatures from the future, hailing from a place called Count Dracula, Africa--
--followed by thirty minutes of Maximum Techno and mayhem throughout the room; I, for one, am practically assaulted in the 'pit by this short girl who keeps grinding me like a rabid dog, in the throes of some weird sexual delirium that after about ten minutes starts to really freak me out—I try to escape but she keeps grabbing me and swallowing me with her legs. I'm kind of relieved when the show ends, cuz I'm a thousand kinds of fucked up and I do not want to pass out on the toxic floors of Mortville.
When I finally make it home (thanks to a huge vehicular assist from Shree Shrine) I find myself quietly humming, all of things, a Gordon Lightfoot song, which amuses me greatly; it's as if the music-processing part of my brain has fried completely, blown like an overloaded transformer, and I've gone into some default emergency-power mode where the chorus of Sundown plays on repeat--basically, I've had far too much of a good thing, and am in need of some serious rest.
When I finally make it home (thanks to a huge vehicular assist from Shree Shrine) I find myself quietly humming, all of things, a Gordon Lightfoot song, which amuses me greatly; it's as if the music-processing part of my brain has fried completely, blown like an overloaded transformer, and I've gone into some default emergency-power mode where the chorus of Sundown plays on repeat--basically, I've had far too much of a good thing, and am in need of some serious rest.
©2012 Moniker