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http://www.laweekly.com/ink/05/42/live-payne.phpsee article for pictures
SEPTEMBER 9 - 15, 2005
Live in L.A.
Arthurfest
by JOHN PAYNE
(Photos by Wild Don Lewis)
ARTHURFEST
at Barnsdall Park, September 4-5
Well, well, well, looks like we’ve got an instant, de rigueur classic
on our hands. The swelling throngs at last weekend’s two-day Arthurfest
at Barnsdall Park proved a major point: For many progressive (i.e.,
uncomplacent and independently minded) L.A. music and art lovers,
there’ve been huge gaps unfilled by the plethora of rockbiz-as-usual
events guided by the now ludicrously corporate mainstream media’s
strictly enforced separation between the spheres of electronic dance,
filigreed new folk, deep-listening laptop noise, authentic Delta blues,
ultra-black metal and the avant-garde poets and filmmakers that mirror
the exploratory leanings of all of the above.
Yet Arthurfest, the brainchild of Jay Babcock, brazenly idiosyncratic
music and culture mag Arthur editor/founder, brought it all together
with resounding success at Barnsdall Park, high on a hill in the middle
of Hollywood. In a sort of very broad form of Arthur-style
narrowcasting, the ingeniously conceived lineup featured a chaotic and
very punky Sonic Youth, hindered unfortunately by a booming, mid-rangey
sound mix that obliterated the many fine points the band was making
with its essentially microtonal rock — though, as usual, a humorously
humorless Thurston Moore (dumping water on himself and pulling agonized
art-suffering faces) and the icily beautiful bassist Kim Gordon at
least made them fun to watch. Politically direct thrash courtesy the
newly psychedelicized Sleater-Kinney also suffered a bit from sound-mix
blahs, but not enough to prevent the crowds from pumping their fists;
Electric Ladyland–type slide blues from the Black Keys had the hairy
old rockers in attendance grinning and shaking their jowls; the
gut-churning low frequencies of Berlin’s Pole and the brain-shearing
highs of Japanese noise kingpin Merzbow’s laptop ruminations were
enthusiastically received. (Merzbow’s incredibly focused and
near-physically painful locomotions through an industrial landscape —
at once exhilarating and the most extreme and demanding music heard at
the fest — also produced the only standing ovation I witnessed, which
says a lot.)
Aside from the sight of a 75-year-old woman with purple hair flashing
the devil’s sign at the severely thumping electro of a peaking Juan
Maclean, other highlights (for at least substantial portions of the
attendees) included a buncha Hawkwindy neck-vein bulging from a rabid
Comets on Fire; somber musings from a reticent, beer-sipping Cat Power,
tension-soaked indie-pop stylings courtesy Spoon and a tuba- and
saw-enhanced set by a re-formed Olivia Tremor Control; trance-blues
kingpin T-Model Ford and his almost absurdly true-grooving drummer
provided real sweaty heat and a lotta connecting musical DNA. There was
extremely radical sonic Sabbathery from SUNN O))); Six Organs of
Admittance, a Devendra Banhart–aided Vetiver, Marissa Nadier & Jack
Rose and Winter Flowers provided a post-post-hippie-post-irony-whatever
heartfeltness with their forthright acoustical strains. Other acts
included an inspired, potent solo set by Medicine/Electric Company
laptop/guitarist/videomaker Brad Laner, Josephine Foster, Sunburned
Hand of the Man, Wolfmother, Circle, Radar Bros., Earth, Magik Markers,
Future Pigeon, Becky Stark & the Lavender Diamond. The second day’s
events were capped by a good-humored and lovingly received Yoko Ono,
who distributed flashlights among the crowd for their participation in
Onochord, wherein all concerned dared signal in visual Morse code “I –
LOVE – YOU” at any and all of our fellow well-wishers. Yes, her son
Sean was there, leading her young, tough band, and, yes, he’s the
spittin’ image...
About 2,000 (are you listening, media “tastemakers”?) apparently very
happy people also enjoyed screenings of little-seen art films, and
booths offering food, drinks both alcoholic and healthful, clothing,
jewelry, super-underground indie records and mags, and Arthur columnist
T-Model Ford’s own booth, where he dispensed “wisdom and kisses, for a
small price.” No one in attendance seemed to think that this weird
jumble of events was anything other than the way things ought to be,
and are. Sorta makes you think, doesn’t it?
two weeks pass...
nine years pass...
two years pass...