Notes from Freak Valley 2024: Day 2

I got to the AWO grounds where Freak Valley is held in time to pound a cup of coffee, fill my water bottle and head to the small stage where The Mad Hatter played yesterday evening to do some Doom Yoga. If I was a completely different kind of person, I would study and teach heavy yoga classes tied in with sonic-led meditation. There’s so much room in so much of this music that you could close your eyes and shavasana yourself into oblivion. The stretch and a few quiet minutes were appreciated in the moment, and I suspect that as the day wears on, they will only be more so.

There was a mulch delivery overnight that should cut down on some of the mud factor today, at least at the start, but the weather this far is also better; warmer, some sun but not too much. This makes my intended Saturn-logo hoodie purchase less mandatory, but I’ll get one anyway. Speaking of money, I texted that cab driver who drove me from the train station yesterday and asked if I could PayPal him or something since even after I found a cash machine — not at a gas station, as they commonly are where I come from — I couldn’t take out any money, I assume because I already spent it all existing in 2024, for which there are uncounted ‘premium’-style charges.

But Doom Yoga — which also happens tomorrow; I will hope to be there again — ruled, and finished just as Volker was doing the introduction for Dead Air; his baritone “liebe freunde” was an answer to the gong that finished the yoga session, in its way. Okay, time for the next thing. I didn’t even have the batteries in my camera yet. Welcome to day two.

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Dead Air

I had listened and written a bit about Dead Air ahead of coming here, and they were both younger and less punk — new song “Three Quarters” notwithstanding– in their presentation than I’d been expecting, so clearly my research skills need some work. Today is kind of all over the place sound-wise — not a complaint — but clearly the intention was to kick it off with, well, a kick, and Dead Air provided that without question. They’re a new-ish band, not too much out, etc., and you could get a sense of onstage as well, but that’s also a specific kind of electricity that a more established act can’t really offer, because even when they’re new to you, they’re not new to themselves, and that was part of enjoying their set too. You can’t fake that, and it is a moment that doesn’t come again in the life of any band. Given the potential in their sound, it will be interesting to hear what the next few years bring from them and how the punk (which is there, just not the sum-total of what they have to offer) and the heavy balance each other out as they take on tasks like a debut full-length and go on from there. But that they were a pleasant surprise despite the fact that I’d heard them before I take as a deeply positive sign of things to come.

Demonauta

Demonauta’s first time in Europe, apparently? I would have thought they’d made the trip sometime in the last 16 years, but I guess not. Either way, the Chilean three-piece were greeted warmly and by that I mean both people and the sun came out to celebrate the start of their set. I had been sitting for a few minutes in a little grove backstage with benches and a table where I’ve done a good bit of this writing that I’ll call Lulu’s Garden, because when I went there yesterday and asked if she minded my presence since it was just the two of us — private moments are rare at these things; sometimes you need or even just want one — herbanswe was a joking claim on it, “come, sit in my garden,” but the desert-style tone of Demonauta’s soundcheck was fuzzy and full enough to serve as clarion, and I wasn’t going to miss a chance that might not come again to catch them live. They manifest a bit of psychedelia along with all the groove-of-riff, which I took as a reminder to chill the fuck out. That was welcome and well-timed, as I had found myself restless in the shade of the smoking tent — too early in the day to smell that terrible; had to go — and needing a spot to breathe. I ended up watching the end of their set as Demonauta told the crowd they loved them before digging into mellow bassy fluidity and finding Kyussian push in an instrumental capper with bonus-extra proggy soloing, from a bench in the back, where it would have been easy to pass the rest of the day since I could see, hear and write all at once. Can’t do that on the swing set, you know. Genuine appreciation from the audience and band alike when they were done. It seemed to be, and I hope it was, worth the trip. For me, the takeaway is I have homework to do in getting to know 2022’s Low Melodies About Chaos better.

Stinking Lizaveta

They moved Cheshire Augusta’s drum riser — and at least while Stinking Lizaveta played, it was most definitely hers, despite Yanni Papadopoulos making an appearance up there once or twice, once with a flying leap off — to the front of the stage, and it was but the first of many “shit yeah” moments while they played. There’s no wrong answer for where to stand during a Stinking Lizaveta set except “anywhere else” but I was up front on the rail at stage left and Alexei Papadopoulos’ bass came through gorgeously. The likewise stalwart, brilliant and weird instrumental trio have been on tour over here for a bit, did the UK with Darsombra and I think are playing with Acid Mothers Temple next or in a couple days, but god damn, what a joy they are to watch and to hear. The sincerity of what they do, how much it’s theirs and how much they own it and embrace it and offer the crowd the chance to share in it — offer accepted, as regards the freaks in the valley — from the dizzying virtuoso twists to the punker spirit underlying it, they’re among the most positive extant outcomes of radical individualism I can’t think of in my mind, and creative with character and breadth that not only doesn’t let you down when they play, but that actively feels uplifting whether a given moment is loud, quiet, fast, slow, whatever. Alexei’s bass solo alone, never mind Yanni hopping off the stage to run his strings over the monitor and the guard rail. I’ve probably said this before and I can only hope to have the chance to say it again, but every festival needs Stinking Lizaveta, and before you start with, “really? even such-and-such?” the answer is still yes. You want to believe in the power of art to enrich your life? Listen to this fucking band.

Fuzzy Grass

All-smiles French heavy stoner blues seemed to hit just right with the crowd and the sunshine, and the first theremin of the festival felt like a thanks-for-showing-up bonus to give the boogie a bit of edge. Their 2023 album, The Revenge of the Blue Nut (review here) stood out, but the vibrancy that came from the stage was a different level entirely, and infectious, whether you were dancing or not. I bought some maybe-vegan sans-rice goulash and hung back for a while — I had scrambled eggs and some cheese with at the hotel, but it’s a long day and protein-plus-peppers didn’t seem like a terrible idea; served me well last year, and so on — as Fuzzy Grass headed toward wrapping up, and sat at one of the shared picnic tables over by the food truck area for a few restorative-despite-the-sauce-in-my-beard (also my shirt; someday I’ll learn how to be a person) moments, but I guess not much more than that in real-time since I made it back up before Fuzzy Grass were actually done. I feel like “spirited” isn’t a word often associated with any kind of heavy music or culture, but Fuzzy Grass’ take was at least that, with soulful vocals, metered groove and a friendly vibe that came across as organic I think mostly because it was.

Tō Yō

A deep dive into languid classic prog and psych, Tō Yō were among my most anticipated bands of the festival, and they did not disappoint. More subdued than not on average, they found a bit of push at the end of the set — briefly, right at the finish — but it was the exploration getting there that was the real highlight. Their debut album, Stray Birds From the Far East (review here), came out last year on King Volume Records, which is ears you can trust even if you don’t know what you’re getting, and was a soothing next-generation extrapolation on Japanese heavy psychedelia, patient and encompassing without overwhelming with their wash or getting lost in the purposeful meander. They drew — I don’t know if there are actually more people here today or if it’s just that the weather is nicer so there are more around — and rightfully so, not only because they trekked from Tokyo to play, but because of the places they went in terms of sound, whether it was that (still relative) blowout or the atmospheric breadth of the material from the album. They sounded like they could’ve played for four more hours and been fine. Might be fun sometime.

Dÿse

Specifically German thrills a-plenty from Berlin two-piece Dÿse, who had the biggest audience since Slomosa last night and treated said assembled masses to a noise rock so laden with quirk and intensity of thrust that you can only really call it progressive. They’ve been at it 20 years or so, and were obviously a known commodity to the singing-along throngs, but it was my first time seeing them and even not speaking the language I could tell they were a blast, if maybe not my thing. They reminded of the Melvins — who played here last year and also tore the place to shreds — in terms of the energy level, which yes, I think of as a compliment, and though I’m thoroughly ignorant of their work, there’s no stopping fun once it starts. It seemed likely that the intention behind putting them after Tō Yō was to lean into the contrast, if not outright shove it over — at one point I’m pretty sure I heard meowing? — and it worked because Dÿse owned the stage while they stood on it, had the crowd with them the whole time. Literal bouncing, like a video from Lollapalooza ’92 or something. It was a thing to see. And between you and me, I’m not gonna go chase down the entire Dÿse catalog and new Mr. Superfan from here on out, but I’m glad to have seen them. At least now I feel like I have some sense of what I’ve missed. Seriously. People went fucking nuts.

Daily Thompson

Snuck in a short changeover set on the small stage, which would’ve been awesome even if their new record, Chuparosa (review here), wasn’t so fresh in mind. I had seen the band show up a couple hours before, and I guess since they weren’t on the bill I assumed they were just here hanging out, but you’ve got 1000mods on the big stage line-checking, Dÿse just finished and here comes Daily Thompson to play “I’m Free Tonight” at the same spot where Doom Yoga when the doors opened. It was of course packed by the time I walked over, so I contented myself to listen to most of it from Lulu’s Garden, where the ladybug larvae have hatched, and to catch my breath before the final three acts of the night. Still, a happy surprise they’re here at all.

1000mods

A week and a half from now, when I still have 1000mods songs stuck in my head, you won’t hear me complain about it. They’re kind of an odd one for me to be sentimental about — they’re from Greece and I’m from New Jersey; it’s not like we hang out — but, well, I’ve been listening to them for about 14 years, and the way they’ve become such a landmark act, whether it’s here or when I saw them at Desertfest NYC last year (review here) or when I’ll see them again this summer at Bear Stone Festival in Croatia, they deliver, and I’ve yet to encounter them in a live setting where it was anything other than a pleasure to do so. As their last record hit during the pandemic, I’m dying to know what they’ll do next and where their ongoing progression will take them — because they’ve never put out the same record twice and never seemed like they wanted to — but for today it was just great to stand and watch them run through the set, to see people get into it, hands in the air, crowdsurfing, all that stuff. They’re one of very few acts I’d play for somebody who knows nothing about heavy rock and roll, and not just because the songs are catchy, but because they’re driven by and delivered with a passion that is unmistakable, as they were at Freak Valley. Sure bet and in a league of their own for what they do.

Alex Henry Foster

Including Foster himself, Alex Henry Foster played as a full six-piece band, The Long Shadows, featuring one drummer and a second kit, a keyboardist/saxophonist/laptopist/vocalist, two guitars in addition to Foster’s own, and a lone bassist. Clearly the former Your Favorite Enemies frontman puts texture into consideration in his work. After the first song, which featured the first bowed guitar of the weekend, Foster explained that he was supposed to play last year but had a medical crisis, then talked about being nervous and the community of the festival making him feel at home, and so on, and was very much the bandleader with a music stand, a shaker and other elements coming and going, keyed for resonance. A depth of arrangement was fair enough for material with such breadth, and the heavy-adjacent-but-not-beholden-to-genre post-emo progressivism was fluid in its reach and various builds, had a density of vibe, was expressive, but in the interest of honesty, something about it rubbed me the wrong way, whether it was too much or I was just tired. So I didn’t stick around long. Dude’s got a career, and I won’t talk shit (not that doing so would affect that career in any way) or belittle the complicated path that brought him to the Freak Valley stage, but I guess I wasn’t looking to be convinced. I went in back and sat for a bit, watched the campers coming and going, and that was fine. Fine. I went back out toward the end of the set and it had picked up, and Foster seemed like he meant every thank you he said, but I was still hearing 1000mods songs, so maybe I’m just too much the stoner rock blogger. Story of my life, to some degree.

Osees

It had been a long day well before Osees went on, but no denying the heavy psych rager that got underway as soon as they got started. I couldn’t hope to keep up with that kind of energy, but it was fun to watch. As will happen, the crowd thinned out some between front and back, but the John Dwyer-led, doubly-drummed troupe supernovaed through the set regardless, bombast and sharp turns and a feel that might’ve been madcap were it not so intentional. It was easier to find a place to sit, but I’ll really admit to being done before they were. I huddled in a corner and closed my eyes for a bit. I won’t call it sleep, but my phone was low in battery and I was more than spent in my limited social engagement resources — I was right to eat those eggs this morning — so with nothing but time until my ride back to the hotel in Siegen, I listened as Osees wove through effects-laced sprawl and intermittent out-the-airlock shove, ebbs, flows, ups, downs, more than a few sideways pivots. To my detriment I’m sure, I’ve never dug into their catalog and with 20-someodd LPs, I recognize I’d be about 18 records late in so doing, but I did my best to hang in as much as I could in the way I could when what I really needed was to be in bed. I’m not gonna complain. I’m here. I’m doing my best. I’m trying. Osees were fucking cool regardless, and Castle Face Records puts out awesome shit. There. I said a thing.

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Gonna leave it there, but I promise you I’m having a good time, even if I’m feeling somewhat obliterated by it all. I’ll hope to put up a wrap when it’s all over. I’m just trying to live it while I’m here as best I can. More pics after the jump. Thanks for reading.